I'M CARRIE

Hi, I’m Carrie Holladay. I’m a mom to four incredible kids who manage to bring me both joy and stress—because, well, that’s parenting. I grew up in Florida but have spent my entire adult life in Utah. I was raised in a home that looked very secure and happy on the outside, but on the inside it was anything but.

My first experience with betrayal was with my father and siblings; then later with my best friend that left me dissociated with minimal memories for 2 years. I was betrayed by every boyfriend and assaulted by an acquaintance in college. Before I even got married I was no stranger to the pain of broken trust.

Then, for the first 10 years of my marriage, I didn’t feel at home in the one place that should’ve mattered most—myself.

I was drowning in betrayal trauma, though I didn’t have the language for it at the time. All I knew was that something inside me felt shattered. My husband’s porn addiction wasn’t just an isolated struggle—it was a web of lies, emotional manipulation, and gaslighting that slowly eroded my sense of reality. It’s a kind of abuse that’s hard to explain because it’s not always visible from the outside. There were no bruises, but the invisible wounds ran deep.

The person I had been slowly disappeared. I learned to survive by abandoning myself—suppressing my needs, silencing my voice, and contorting myself into whatever version of me felt safest in the moment. I became an expert people-pleaser, convinced that if I could just be “enough,” I could somehow fix what was broken. I stayed busy—constantly busy—because slowing down meant feeling, and feeling meant facing the unbearable truth that my reality was crumbling.

Anxiety became my baseline. It lived in my chest, in the pit of my stomach, woven into my every thought. I’d wake up already exhausted, heart racing before my feet even hit the floor. I smiled when I was supposed to, performed the role of “good wife” and “good mom,” but underneath, I was numb—disconnected from myself, from joy, from any sense of safety.

Eventually, the weight of it all felt too heavy to carry. I reached a point where the darkness wasn’t just emotional; it was existential. Suicidal thoughts crept in, not because I wanted to die, but because I couldn’t see another way to escape the pain.

Then my husband took his betrayals a step further and hat was my rock bottom—the moment I realized it was either keep going like this and lose myself completely, or try something different, even though I didn’t know what that was.

That’s when I discovered somatic mindfulness and nervous system regulation. Up until that point, I’d tried to think my way out of the pain—through logic, through talking, through analyzing. But healing didn’t come from my mind; it came from my body. For the first time, I started to feel the truth of what I had been carrying—not just emotionally, but physically. The tightness in my chest, the pit in my stomach, the constant tension—I began to understand that these weren’t signs of being broken. They were my body’s way of protecting me.

I wasn’t flawed. I wasn’t weak. My body had been doing exactly what it was designed to do in the face of trauma.

As I learned to listen to my body’s signals, everything started to shift. The dark cloud that had consumed me for a decade began to lift. I felt moments of calm—tiny at first, but undeniable. I found my voice again, not the one shaped by fear and survival, but the authentic voice I thought I’d lost.

And everything changed.

My relationship with my husband changed, too, as he began his own healing journey. I showed up differently with my kids—not just physically present, but emotionally attuned. I stopped living on autopilot and started feeling alive again. I felt safe in my own skin, perhaps for the first time ever. I was becoming me again—not the version shaped by trauma, but the version rooted in truth.

I’ll never forget the moment I realized I wanted to help others find this kind of freedom. I was on a walk with a friend who had just discovered her own husband’s betrayal. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I’m so glad I saw you go through this because it gives me hope that I can get through it too.”

That was it. That was the moment I knew my pain had a purpose.

Now, I have the incredible honor of walking alongside people from all over the world as they navigate their own journey back to themselves. It’s not just my work—it’s my calling. Because healing isn’t just possible; it’s powerful. And you deserve it.