Thanks for visiting. While I wish we could be sitting across from one another with coffee or out on a hike, I’m grateful you’re here.
Most people encounter me through serious conversations — extremism, violence, polarization, and the breakdown of trust in our institutions. When we meet in person, they’re often surprised to discover that I’m more hopeful and joyful than they expected. That feels worth naming at the outset.
It’s true. I am intense. I care deeply about truth, about people, and about the ways our personal and collective choices shape the world our children inherit.
I’m also continually overwhelmed by God’s grace, struck by the beauty of creation, and humbled by the quiet courage I see in people who refuse to give up on their communities.
Most people encounter me through serious conversations — extremism, violence, polarization, and the breakdown of trust in our institutions. When we meet in person, they’re often surprised to discover that I’m more hopeful and joyful than they expected. That feels worth naming at the outset.
I am intense. I care deeply about truth, about people, and about the ways our personal and collective choices shape the world our children inherit. I’m also continually overwhelmed by God’s grace, struck by the beauty of creation, and humbled by the quiet courage I see in people who refuse to give up on their communities.
For more than two decades, my professional work has focused on public safety and counterterrorism. I entered government through politics, eventually serving on the inaugural staff of the White House Homeland Security Council under President George W. Bush, later advising the intelligence community, and serving in senior leadership roles at the Department of Homeland Security. That work exposed me to the real costs of fear, grievance, and dehumanization — and to the power of restraint, courage, and care.
But my work has never been just professional.
My most important roles are much closer to home: wife to a remarkably patient and kind husband, and mom to two incredible kids. We eventually left Washington, DC for Colorado, drawn by wide open spaces and the reminder that we are small — and that smallness can be good for the soul.
The past decade has been a stretching one. Frequent moves, young children, intense professional demands, a pandemic, and public disagreement with people I once considered “my tribe” all took their toll. Like many others, I’ve known loneliness and grief — and a deep longing for healthier, more honest community.
What has sustained me is a simple truth: my identity and hope are rooted in being a beloved daughter of God through Christ alone.
“Courageous faith refuses fear without denying reality — and chooses hope without surrendering truth.”
I love the Church, and I’m honest about the ways it currently grieves me — the harm done to the vulnerable, the distortion of faith in service of power, the ease with which fear replaces humility and love. And yet, I remain convinced that God brings beauty from ashes. I have seen it in my own life, and I continue to hope for it in our communities.
Kingdom of Rage emerged from that tension — from the intersection of my professional experience and my faith. It is not an endpoint, but part of a longer journey: naming hard truths without surrendering to fear, and insisting that people of faith can choose a better way.
This season of my work is focused on cultivating courageous faith — faith that resists cynicism, rejects political tribalism, and seeks the flourishing of our neighbors and communities. Renewal does not begin with platforms or institutions, but with people willing to do the slow, faithful work of rebuilding trust, practicing peace, and choosing hope.
I explore these questions more personally and regularly through my Substack, Courageous Faith, where I write reflections on faith, public life, and what renewal can look like in practice. If you’re asking similar questions, please consider subscribing so we can engage on these topics!
Weekly reflections on faith, public life, and the work of renewal.
Years ago, one of my counterterrorism mentors spoke often about being “happy warriors.” The work was dark, the stakes high — but how we carried ourselves mattered. This moment feels similar. There are few easy reasons for optimism, yet Christians are called to ground their hope not in circumstances, but in a person. Jesus is where my hope rests. That is how I continue to walk forward with both seriousness and joy.
If you’re here, I imagine you’re asking some of the same questions I am. I’m glad you found your way. I hope our paths cross — and that we have the chance to listen to one another’s stories along the way.