For most of my life, telling my story has felt impossibly hard. I think it's because I spent so many years chasing "normal"—trying to blend in, to be like everyone else. But my story was never normal. And for a long time, I fought it. I resisted my roots instead of celebrating them. I distanced myself from the very things that made me, me.
I was born in Berchtesgaden, Germany, in the shadow of the mystical Untersberg—a mountain whispered about in local legends and home to my childhood adventures. For the first 30 years of my life, it was my anchor. My mother, an American expat who moved to Germany in the '70s to work for Outward Bound, met my father—an Austrian alpine first responder—among those very peaks. Through their mountaineering connections, they leased a remote alpine hut, a hiker’s lodge tucked high into the Alps.
When I was just four months old, we began spending our summers there. And so began a life shaped by altitude, silence, and the raw pulse of nature.
There were no roads leading to our summer home. To get there, it was a three- to five-hour hike on foot. Supplies came by a tractor and a flying fox—an aerial cable car that occasionally carried us across deep ravines and high cliffs. Living up there felt like being perched on the edge of the world. At night, we’d gaze down at the valley towns, their lights twinkling like distant galaxies. By day, hikers would stop by for food, laughter, and rest. Some stayed the night. Others moved on. But the mountain was constant.
My little sister and I had what I now recognize as an enchanted childhood. We built forts, played in the meadows, explored secret caves, chased Chamois (our version of mountain goats), and helped milk cows. Our nearest neighbor, Dori, lived a 45-minute hike away. Every summer, she’d bring her cows up to graze in the high alpine meadows. She’d make cheese and butter by hand and treated her animals with herbs and poultices made from plants we foraged. This was my first brush with naturopathic medicine—gentle, intuitive, and rooted in tradition. My mother, too, is a lover of wild herbs. She taught us how to use the herbs along the trail to quench our thirst or heal stings or bruises and how to make tinctures, and I still remember how I loved making St. John’s Wort oil, watching it turn a rich red in the sun and then bottling it up for later use.
We lived by the rhythm of the seasons. What we cooked, how we moved, what we wore—all guided by nature. I could tell what time of summer it was by which flowers were blooming and where the sun sank behind the ridges.
I loved that world. I didn’t know anything else. But when we moved to Colorado and I started first grade, I began to realize my childhood had been different. Suddenly, I had a strange name ( at 6 years old I changed my name from Patrizia to Patricia), different clothes, and stories no one could relate to. I hadn’t gone to summer camp—I *was* the summer camp. All I wanted was to fit in. I didn’t want to be the odd one out. And so began a lifelong yearning for normalcy.
For years, I dimmed my light to blend in. I shrank myself to fit someone else’s mold. And slowly, the wild, magical mountain child I had been began to fade.
Still, something inside me resisted. Even as I tried to conform, I always sensed I was different—and part of me knew that this difference wasn’t something to be ashamed of. But I lacked the confidence to fully embrace it. I lived a tempered version of who I was, afraid of being questioned, afraid of standing out.
My parents continued to run the hut through my teenage years, and we split our time between Winter Park, Colorado and Bavaria. While my friends were going to concerts or summer camps and on vacation, I was hiking alpine trails and serving Kaiserschmarrn to weary hikers. Part of me loved it. Part of me longed to be a "regular" teenager.
Everything shifted during my sophomore year of high school. I wanted more—more meaning, more challenge, more of *something*. I applied for a scholarship to a boarding school in Austria. To my surprise, I got in. The International Baccalaureate program at the American International School in Salzburg became a turning point. For the first time, I was surrounded by peers from around the world—each with unique stories and backgrounds. I wasn’t weird there. I was interesting. I belonged.
It was the first time I was academically challenged in a way that felt exciting rather than limiting. I began to believe that my dreams mattered. That my story mattered. That maybe there was space in the world for someone like me.
After graduating, I took a gap year and ran my mother’s bed and breakfast in Colorado. At 18, I was juggling cooking, cleaning, guest relations, and the weight of adulthood. It was hard. And it was formative. The next fall, I moved to Washington State to attend The Evergreen State College and pursue a degree in Environmental Science.
I loved nature and wanted to make a difference. Medicine had always fascinated me, but my grandmother—our family matriarch—warned me there was "no money in medicine." I listened and that degree path made sense, at least for a while.
In my second year, I got very sick and ended up in the school’s health clinic. There, I was treated by a naturopath. It changed everything. For the first time, I felt seen, nurtured, and understood. I’d been a sick kid—endless strep throats, mysterious rashes, strange symptoms doctors couldn’t explain. But this ND made sense of it all, she made feel feel seen and I felt nurtured. This was a feeling I wanted to be able to share with others.
I took time off to heal, returned home for the winter, and taught snowboarding at our local resort. That winter, I fell in love. By the next summer, I had chased loved and moved to New Zealand, I changed my major, and immersed myself in the academics of Alternative and Complementary Healing. I spent 4 wonderful years living and working in New Zealand. I had the privilege of learning from indigenous herbalists, earned an additional degree as a holistic health coach, and began dreaming of a future rooted in healing.
Then after a breakup, I left New Zealand and returned to Europe, where I spent the next five years searching for direction. Something deep inside still held me back—I couldn’t quite figure out how to turn my passion for health and wellness into a tangible career. Instead, I threw myself into the rhythms I knew: snowboarding in the Alps during the winters, where I became active in promoting women in board sports, and spending my summers working at the hut, high above the world, in the place that had always grounded me.
Eventually, I enrolled in a Heilpraktiker program in Munich—Germany’s version of a licensed naturopath. For three years, I immersed myself in a wide range of traditional healing modalities, including Traditional European Medicine, Homeopathy, Traditional Chinese Medicine, and other nature-based vitalist therapies. I loved every moment of it. But once again, I hit a wall. I remember one of my instructors bluntly telling me that, as a young, blonde, blue-eyed girl (I was 30), I wouldn’t be taken seriously—that no one would truly respect me until I looked older. It stung. I also began to realize that in such a deeply traditional and rigid system, dreaming outside the norm wasn’t just discouraged—it was dismissed. My vision didn’t fit the mold, and once again, I felt the weight of not belonging. The stress of trying to force myself into a system that didn’t support me began to take a toll, and not long after, I became chronically ill. My body, like my spirit, was asking for something different—something more aligned, more honest, more free.
I couldn’t imagine limiting my life to one community. I wanted to reach more. To do more. And just as I was finishing my program, my parents announced their retirement. My sister and I had the chance to take over the hut. But the timing wasn’t right.
So I moved back to Colorado, lost and unsure. That’s when the idea of med school surfaced—not for prestige, but for permission. I thought, Maybe if I’m a doctor, people will take me seriously.
In Colorado with no clear plans, I stumbled upon something that felt like a natural extension of my path: becoming a Licensed Massage Therapist (LMT). During this time I trained in various cranio-sacral modalities which honed my ability to hold space for healing. These teachings, in combination with my growing desire to apply to medical school, offered a unique support system along the way.
Ironically, it was my grandmother—the very one who once told me there was no money in medicine—who ultimately encouraged me to apply to medical school. A strong, outspoken feminist and the matriarch of our family, she had carved out her own place in a world that didn’t always welcome ambitious women. For years, her advice was shaped by practicality and the limiting beliefs of her generation and by the notion that she was an exception—beliefs that quietly lived inside me, too. But as she grew older, something shifted. She began to see that softness could be powerful, that I didn’t need to marry rich to be secure, and that I was capable in my own way. She saw that forging your own path—however unconventional—was its own kind of strength.
I was staying at her rustic teaching cabin, nestled deep in the Rockies, when I felt the ping—that quiet, undeniable nudge that said, Now. Send the application. I remember the moment clearly: making the move, leaving the stillness of the mountains, and driving down a seemingly endless 4x4 road in search of the nearest mailbox. It felt like a turning point—That moment felt like a quiet ‘yes’ from the universe. I didn’t know what would come of it—just that something deep inside had shifted. I had answered a call I didn’t yet fully understand.
I applied to just one school: NUNM in Portland. I got in. I loved the city and the Pacific Northwest. But school drained me. I was sick often. I doubted myself constantly. My shadow self thrived there—fed by pressure, perfectionism, and burnout. Still, there were glimmers of joy: working with some incredible doctors, treating underserved women, learning a wide variety of hands on modalities, and reconnecting with the lessons of Nature Cure. I also had the privilege of meeting so many wonderfully inspiring women in the broader Naturopathic community there. But the pressure to conform left me feeling hollow.
By my third year of med school, I was deeply burned out—physically drained, emotionally numb, and completely disconnected from why I had started this journey in the first place. I was sick all the time, barely holding myself together, and ready to quit. On a solo drive to Mount Baker for a weekend of snowboarding, I had a serious conversation with myself: I mapped out how I’d tell my family, how I’d cope with the disappointment, and how I’d move on from what felt like failure.
But out on the mountain, something shifted.
Snowboarding—being in nature, moving my body, having fun—reminded me who I was. I felt free, strong, and alive again. The tension loosened, and for the first time in months, I could breathe.
On the drive home, I knew I wasn’t done. I didn’t have to quit—I just had to remember how to keep going in a way that nourished me. That weekend became a turning point, one I still return to whenever I lose my way. It reminded me that sometimes, the most powerful medicine isn’t found in a clinic—it’s found in play, movement, and reconnecting with joy.
So continued on and was set to graduate in May 2020—and then the world shut down.
COVID hit like a tidal wave. Clinics closed. Classes moved online. Residencies vanished. I graduated into an empty world. I felt isolated, disoriented, and far from the community I had worked so hard to be part of.
That spring, I returned to Colorado and threw myself into remodeling a house—a welcome distraction from the chaos. I’ve always loved creating peaceful, beautiful spaces. During my time at NUNM, I worked as an LMT in a handful of serene, intentionally designed spas, and those experiences stayed with me. I felt firsthand how much the energy of a space matters—how design, light, and intention can nurture the healing process.
Remodeling that home reminded me of this truth. It wasn’t just about paint colors or furniture—it was about crafting a sanctuary, a place where healing could unfold. That belief has become foundational to how I envision practicing medicine: where the environment is as supportive and calming as the treatment itself.
The summer of 2020 was also the worst wildfire season in my community. Everything felt like it was burning, inside and out. Amid the smoke and uncertainty, I began exploring my inner landscape. I found the To Be Magnetic community and began the deep, painful process of healing my inner child. Of unlearning the limiting beliefs I’d carried for years.
It’s been a long road—one I’m still on. But I’ve come to understand something essential: joy and authenticity are my compass. If I bend for others, I lose myself. My work must flow from my truth. I’ve learned I love one-on-one healing, but I also believe my voice is meant to reach further. I crave community—but not the kind bound by geography. My soul family is scattered across the globe.
I’ve learned that true health is found in the seemingly ordinary everyday moments: how we breathe, what we eat, the rituals we practice, the connections we make with ourselves, our community and the natural world. These small daily choices are the roots of vitality. This is what I teach in my work—and it’s the message I want this blog to carry.
My childhood home, the Untersberg, is not just a mountain—it’s a legend. Locals speak of its mystical energy, it’s been the subject of mysticism in books and documentaries, and even the Dalai Lama once called it a “heart chakra of the world.” It has long been regarded as a healing place, where time bends and ancient wisdom lingers in the air. I spent my formative years surrounded by this sacred energy, absorbing its rhythms, learning its plants, listening to the whispers in the wind. Looking back, I realize it was never just a backdrop—it was a teacher. A guide. A healer.
And now, I’ve come full circle.
I’m not the kind of doctor you see for five rushed minutes and leave with a prescription. I’m the kind who listens. Who slows down. Who holds space for healing that’s both scientific and sacred. I help people peel back the noise and return to the deep wisdom of their bodies.
At The Glow State, I offer one-on-one naturopathic consultations grounded in lived experience, evidence-based tools, and intuitive care. I specialize in chronic illness, burnout, hormonal health, fatigue, and the subtle imbalances that make you feel "off" but are too often dismissed by conventional care. My approach is practical, nurturing, and deeply individualized—drawing from both modern science and ancient traditions.
This isn’t just what I do. It’s who I am. Every twist in my journey—every illness, every detour, every return to the mountains—was part of my becoming. It’s why I can sit with others in their uncertainty and guide them toward clarity, vitality, and joy.
So if you’re ready to reconnect with your own inner glow, I’m here. And I’d be honored to walk that path with you.
