One Year as an LLC — And Nothing Went According to Plan

March 11th marks one year since Restorative Healing Haven became an official LLC.

When I filed that paperwork, I thought I was organizing a side business.

I did not realize I was building the only stable structure I would have left a year later.

At the time, I was still working full-time as a corporate interior designer. Eight years in the field. NCIDQ certified. Corporate-level projects. Deadlines. Clients. Budgets. Long-term trajectory.

The wellness center was something I was building slowly and responsibly alongside that career. It was not a rebellion. It was not a secret. Corporate knew about my trauma-informed life coaching and long-term goals. It was something I did outside of work hours — a parallel thread, not a competing one.

My plan was steady:
Keep designing.
Build the wellness center gradually.
Transition when it made sense.

November 2024 interrupted that plan.

That was when I received my PTSD diagnosis.

PTSD was not a dramatic moment. It was a quiet confirmation of what my body had been carrying for years. Trauma disguised as productivity. Hyper-independence disguised as resilience. Over-functioning disguised as strength.

That diagnosis didn’t make me want to leave design.

It made me realize I needed to take my nervous system seriously.

I began leaning more intentionally into trauma-informed work because I needed it for myself. I needed language for pacing. I needed structure. I needed something that acknowledged that my body was not a machine.

But the diagnoses did not stop with PTSD.

By early 2025, something else was unraveling physically.

My joints were unstable in ways that felt unfamiliar.
My heart rate began doing things I could not “push through.”
Fatigue became systemic, not situational.

In March 2025, I formalized the LLC.

Part of that decision was healing.

Part of it was protection.

I could feel my health declining. I knew that if things continued this way, I would need clean records. I would need documentation. I would need structure for disability purposes. I did not know when or how — but I could sense that I needed to prepare.

In July 2025, I underwent evaluation for Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.
In August, hEDS was formally added to my chart.

The relief of having a name was immediately followed by the weight of what that name meant.

The list grew quickly after that:

POTS — currently being treated.
MCAS — being treated.
Chronic sciatica.
Chronic pain.
Chronic fatigue.

I am in PT and OT.
I have an upcoming pain clinic appointment.
I am seeing an internal specialist with possible referrals to university-level autonomic and genetic clinics.

In January, I began borrowing a wheelchair.

I am 30 years old and navigating insurance to secure a properly fitted mobility device.

That sentence alone feels surreal.

This year included going on short-term disability.
It included panic attacks that made driving feel impossible.
It included medication adjustments.
It included lawyers.
It included being labeled in ways that do not reflect my lived reality.
It included losing the corporate role I expected to carry for years.

It included watching income become uncertain.
It included housing instability fears.
It included calculating bills while calculating heart rate.

And in the middle of all of that, I am a mother.

Motherhood does not pause for connective tissue disorders.
Motherhood does not pause for autonomic dysfunction.
Motherhood does not pause for grief.

My daughter still needs breakfast.
Still needs stories.
Still needs steadiness.

And I have had to learn what steadiness looks like when you cannot stand for long periods of time.

This year also unfolded inside my second marriage.

I remarried after divorce, building something softer, safer, more grounded.

And then my body collapsed.

There is a specific grief in realizing that the version of yourself who entered a relationship is not the version who can sustain it the same way.

I am grieving the wife who could carry more.
The woman who could drive anywhere.
The version of me who could outwork exhaustion.

My husband has watched this happen in real time.

That kind of collapse inside a marriage is humbling.
It strips ego.
It strips illusion.
It forces vulnerability whether you are ready or not.

And somewhere inside this year, I also received my autism diagnosis.

Neurodivergence was not new to my lived experience, but having it formally recognized reframed decades of memory.

It reframed my sensory overwhelm.
My hyperfocus.
My rigid standards.
My obsession with universal design.
My exhaustion from masking.

Suddenly, the through-line made sense.

The CNA who once transferred patients and noticed how flooring affected balance.
The designer who fought for accessibility even when budgets resisted.
The woman now navigating EDS, POTS, PTSD, and fatigue.

They were never separate identities.

This year forced them into integration.

Restorative Healing Haven stopped being a “side project.”

It became documentation.
It became advocacy.
It became pacing education.
It became accessible design literacy.
It became sound baths and Reiki and regulated environments because intensity was no longer sustainable.

Nothing went according to plan.

The corporate career I thought would anchor me shifted.
My health accelerated in ways I did not expect.
Income became unstable.
Housing became uncertain.
Identity fractured and reassembled.

But the LLC survived.

Not because I was thriving.
But because I adapted.

One year as an LLC.
One year of diagnosis.
One year of disability paperwork.
One year of grief.
One year of motherhood under strain.
One year of remarriage under recalibration.
One year of autism reframing memory.
One year of watching my body redraw the rules of my life.

This is not a celebratory anniversary post.

It is an honest one.

I am 30 years old and living a life that feels older than it should.
I have worked in long term care facilities.
In retail.
In corporate offices.
In holistic healing spaces.

And many other odd jobs.

And now I am learning how to build something sustainable inside limits I did not choose.

The future is still uncertain.
Income decisions are still pending.
Medical answers are still unfolding.
Housing is still a real concern.

But integration has happened.

And that matters.

The caregiver.
The designer.
The disabled woman.
The mother.
The wife.
The autistic adult.
The trauma survivor.

They are no longer competing roles.

They are one person.

One year in.
Nothing went according to plan.
And somehow, I am still building.