There Was Nikki.

I grew up in religion.

I learned how to judge others before I learned self-awareness.

I learned how to be perfect before I learned my identity.

I was taught to love Jesus more than I was taught to love myself.

I was praised and told I was the “best granddaughter.” I was made to feel like I was somehow better than other kids in the church, but underneath that praise was a girl struggling with low self-esteem who had no idea who she was.

At nine years old, I experienced sexual abuse that was swept under the rug. Later, I lost my mother. I carried grief, confusion, loneliness, and eventually depression into adulthood without understanding what was happening inside of me.

By 28, I had become suicidal.

In 2018, at 36, after my seventh suicide attempt, I finally stopped caring about what I’d been taught about depression and therapy.

I needed help.

So I got it.

Therapy saved my life—and became the beginning of me finally being willing to meet myself.

Therapy helped me understand what I had been carrying.

But rebuilding required something else: accountability.

I had to face my decisions, patterns, beliefs, reactions, and the ways I continued giving my power away.

I learned the difference between blame and responsibility.

I wasn’t responsible for everything that happened to me. But I was responsible for what I chose to do with my life next.

That realization didn’t make me feel guilty. It made me feel powerful.

I started questioning beliefs I’d inherited, learning my own thoughts, becoming more self-aware, and discovering who I actually was.

Strength training became part of that process too. I wasn’t just building muscle. I was building consistency, confidence, self-trust, and a different relationship with myself.

The more I learned myself, the differently I saw myself. And once I saw myself differently, I couldn’t keep living the same way.

On March 27, 2026, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

By then, I already knew I was strong. I knew what I was capable of. I knew I had purpose.

But there was still fear in me. I still cared too much about what people thought. I still played safe. I still shrunk myself when being fully myself might make someone else uncomfortable.

From the day I received my diagnosis, I decided this was happening for me, not to me.

Cancer changed my relationship with my health—but it also changed my relationship with fear.

I stopped waiting for everybody else to understand me. I stopped trying to be everybody’s version of “good.” I stopped shrinking.

Speaking opportunities came. Partnerships came. New rooms opened. And I was finally ready to walk into them as myself.

That’s when Nikki didn’t disappear—she finally became free enough to become Coach Nika.

Not a character. Not a fitness persona. Not a polished version of Nikki designed to be accepted. Me.