Educational Background
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PhD in Communication Sciences and Disorders from the University of Pittsburgh -
MS in Speech and Hearing Science from Arizona State University
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BA in Speech and Hearing Science from the University of North Texas with a Minor in Psychology
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Google AI Fundamentals Course Completion
I always knew my brain and body processed the world a bit differently. Long before I understood the mechanics of neurodivergence, I was the quiet kid sitting in a classic ‘W-sit’ on the edge of the dock, staring out at the data of the world and wondering how the pieces fit together.
In 1982, I was tested for ADHD and learning disabilities. Because my spelling didn’t fit standard profiles, I spent two years grinding through Alphabetic Phonics—an Orton-Gillingham (OG) based structured literacy program. I struggled to learn mathematics—unless someone had the insight to teach it the way my brain actually computed. I survived school in gifted classes, but make no mistake: I struggled.
I was the kid who always asked WHY? I completely dominated the Science Fair because I understood practical, functional systems. But put a standardized test in front of me? Forget it. I quickly learned to call them “multiple guess” tests—because calling them “multiple choice” was a clinical fiction.
My mother was a brilliant dyslexia specialist in Texas and founder of Nixon Education Services (now Nixon Education Supplies, a dba of Nixon Speech and Language). By the 8th grade, I looked at her work and asked a fundamental policy question: “Mom, if every child can learn to read using Alphabetic Phonics, why on earth aren’t we using this in Kindergarten classrooms?” She went on to work at a Region Service Center in Texas, developing a groundbreaking structured literacy program rooted firmly in OG principles. Advocacy was in my blood before I even had a name for it.
But while my mother was providing the architectural blueprint for how I analyze language, my dad and step-mom—the ultimate systems and data pioneers—were building the foundation for my computational and narrative precision. My dad held a Master’s degree in Business Computing, and my step-mom was a CPA with an intensely creative mind who sat down with me and explicitly taught me the mechanics of how to format and tell compelling stories. Growing up in a cutting-edge, tech-forward household, I was navigating an IBM PCjr in 1983 before most people even knew what a home computer was. I was quietly trained to see the world not just as a collection of random ideas, but as a series of complex, interconnected data systems—while simultaneously learning how to weave that raw data into an undeniable human narrative. I learned to think like an analyst and a storyteller long before I ever modeled a line of code. My brain was running a dual engine: one half dedicated to systemic data precision, the other to the powerful weight of human expression.
Testing the System (And Speaking Truth to Power)
High school was a literal battlefield of cognitive processing and personal crisis. My mother’s health began to deteriorate from AIRE (autoimmune polyglandular syndrome) and autoimmune heart disease, compounding the daily weight of my own undiagnosed neurodivergence.
But there were formatting shifts along the way. My 10th-grade geometry teacher, Ms. Washington, saw my functional reality. She came to school an hour early just to let me take my tests in a quiet, un-timed space. I earned As. When I asked her why she sacrificed her mornings for me, she gave the simplest, most profound answer a data-driven advocate could ask for: “Because it helped you.”
The rest of the institutional machine wasn’t as accommodating:
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The 11th Grade Failure: I found myself sitting in a high-level Pre-Calculus class while simultaneously failing the math section of the standardized Texas TAAS test.
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The SAT Collapse: I literally fell asleep during the SATs. Reading “Put A if A > B, B if B > A” was an executive functioning nightmare.
After targeted tutoring, I retook the Math section of TAAS and missed only one question. Infuriated by the test administration flaw, I stood before the Texas Education Agency and told them the truth: forcing students to take that entire high-stakes exam in a single sitting was poor form. Of course kids like me would fall through the cracks.
The Dean’s List, the ADA, and “I Won”
When it came time for college, the stakes were made crystal clear: “Get a C, and you lose your car.” Knowing my ADHD brain struggled with traditional testing environments, I took control of my data. I voluntarily sought re-testing to document my learning disabilities and secure formal accommodations.
Armed with a roadmap for how my brain actually functioned, I didn’t just survive at the University of North Texas—I made the Dean’s List almost every single semester. I enrolled in the Classic Learning Core, completed two undergraduate theses, and unsuccessfully tried to convince my mother to let me major in Egyptology and the Philosophy of Religion.
By the time the GREs came around, I had cracked the code. I knew the tricks, I possessed the strategies, and I had my legal accommodations. I crushed them.
But my medical narrative was shifting alongside my academic one. Between my undergraduate and Master’s degrees, I underwent two separate laparoscopies for Stage IV extrapelvic endometriosis. Following the procedures, a provider casually informed me that I had been “underestimating or misperceiving” my own agonizing pain metrics, instructing me to warn future doctors about even “minor cramps.” It was my first stark introduction to clinical documentation bias.
I moved on to Arizona State University for my Master’s degree, where I wrote my thesis on ADHD and Distraction. When the Educational Testing Service (ETS) failed to process my legal accommodation requests for my clinical certification exam in a timely manner, they told me I could “just take it later in the year.”
I picked up the phone, read them the fine print of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), and challenged their internal policies. They demanded a brand-new ADHD evaluation—as if neurodivergence magically disappears in adulthood. I held my ground. They opened the testing center for me one week after my peers. I won (after a behavioral neurologist verified my diagnosis).
But while I was diagnosing and treating the community’s children, my own health systems were quietly fracturing. Navigating a regional healthcare system that was becoming increasingly complex and adversarial forced me to become an expert in healthcare advocacy and health insurance navigation.
While navigating my many chronic health conditions, one more piece of the puzzle fell into place. Through the exact same forensic, data-driven lens I used to evaluate thousands of children, I looked back at my own lifelong data track.
I am a late-diagnosed Autistic woman.
The struggles of 1982, the geometry accommodations of high school, the computational mapping of my Ph.D., and the clinical battles with insurance companies weren’t separate chapters. They were the raw materials of a singular, lifelong mission.
The Architecture of Community Stewardship
A neurodivergent brain optimized for tracking systemic patterns cannot limit itself to the clinic. My deep commitment to structural data stewardship and policy translation naturally manifested as active, grassroots civic leadership.
While living in Washington, D.C., I watched administrative cracks swallow up community safety and neighborhood access. I refused to look away. I organized my immediate neighborhood to successfully secure Ward 6 residential parking protections, navigating local government bureaucracies to preserve resident rights.
Recognizing that systemic change requires structural positioning, I ran for office and was elected as a nonpartisan, non-paid Advisory Neighborhood Commission (ANC6A) Commissioner. In this role, alongside serving as the Patrol Service Area (PSA) 103 Co-Community Coordinator and the Public Safety Committee Chair, I forensically audited community security data. I actively collaborated with community stakeholders and local youth organizations, including Teens Against Violence in Northeast D.C., to organize strategic community interventions aimed at reducing local violence. For this structural advocacy, I was honored with consecutive Community Service Awards from the Metropolitan Police Department’s 1st District in 2006 and 2007.
This drive to organize chaotic systems naturally extended into the digital realm. As a lifelong gamer, I spent years executing high-level digital operations, ultimately building and running a highly competitive World of Warcraft Classic guild on the Westfall server through the intensive eras of The Burning Crusade and Wrath of the Lich King. Managing a competitive guild isn’t a passive hobby; it is a masterclass in decentralized logistics. It required me to direct real-time data analytics, manage complex roster mechanics, and navigate human conflict resolution across dozens of diverse individuals under high-stakes conditions.
This deep expertise in managing decentralized communication pipelines directly shaped my mastery of modern digital community spaces. It taught me how to architect, secure, and moderate advanced Discord servers from the ground up—balancing intricate role permissions, automated moderation bots, and structured channel hierarchies. Because online spaces can quickly become overwhelming, I have channeled these exact operational skills into building a dedicated, highly structured, and actively moderated Discord community for this platform. It is a space meticulously designed to provide an algorithmic-free, secure sanctuary where families, providers, and advocates can connect, share clean data, and communicate without noise. Whether a community is built of pixels, online channels, or people, my brain naturally builds the infrastructure to make it safe and functional.
Join our moderated discord community!
When I eventually relocated to Montgomery County, Maryland, my community service shifted outward to meet a profound personal turning point. Following the loss of my mother—the very woman who introduced me to structured literacy advocacy—I redirected my processing energy toward structural animal welfare.
Stumbling upon an unmanaged, vulnerable population of community cats, I worked with local groups to build an emergency intervention framework from the ground up. Utilizing systemic tracking, localized mapping, and local organizations (and amazing neighbors), my spouse and I spearheaded a massive Trap-Neuter-Vaccinate-Return (TNVR) initiative. With the coordination of regional animal welfare networks, we successfully processed, stabilized, and vetted over 120 community (feral) cats and kittens.
By establishing a clear pipeline with local rescues to safely adopt out socialized felines, our neighborhood was transformed into a verified success story for Montgomery County. This boots-on-the-ground operational victory led me to serve directly on the board of directors as both the Secretary and the Fundraising/Grants Chair for the Montgomery County Community Cat Coalition (MCC3).
Whether I am tracking the multi-generational genetic health of feline lineages, coordinating municipal public safety initiatives, mapping a child’s linguistic architecture, or auditing a toxic medical record for legal counsel, the underlying machinery remains identical. I organize the data. I locate the structural breakdown. I dismantle the barrier.
Today, I continue this lifespan-long work across fields—even serving on the Patient Advisory Board for Guava Health to review and refine patient-facing digital medical portals. I built Nixon Communication Strategies because I know exactly what it feels like to have your truth rewritten by a broken system. I have lived the data, I have written the policy, and I am here to build your bridge. Because in healthcare, education, law, and community logistics—#WordsHaveWeight.
