Mission

Systems — healthcare, academic, legal, digital — carry enormous power over individual lives. Most were not designed with the most vulnerable people in mind, and few have meaningful accountability mechanisms when they fail. I work at the intersection of data science and public health because I believe that rigorous, transparent research is one of the most effective tools for holding institutions to account.

That shows up differently across my work: statistical methods that make neuroimaging research more reproducible; educational resources that demystify data for people navigating complex institutions; consulting that helps organizations understand what their data actually says rather than what they hoped it would. The thread running through all of it is that information asymmetry is a form of power — and closing that gap matters.

One consistent feature of my career has been a willingness to name what others prefer to leave unnamed. In government, that meant pushing for transparency in systems that had developed a preference for opacity. In academia, it means treating methodological rigor as an ethical commitment, not merely a technical one. In my research on coercive control, institutional betrayal, and psychological harm, it means taking the evidence seriously — wherever it leads.

I am not interested in comfortable conclusions. I am interested in accurate ones — and in ensuring that accuracy reaches the people who need it most, not only those who commission the research.

I move between roles — researcher, analyst, educator, writer — depending on what a problem requires. My technical training is in biostatistics and data engineering; my research interests span psychopathology, public health, and the structural conditions that produce harm. I try to bring the same standards to both: define the question clearly, gather the best available evidence, and be honest about the limits of what the data can tell you.

I believe in making my work legible — to collaborators, to clients, and to the people whose lives it concerns. Opacity protects bad systems. Transparency is how individuals protect themselves, and how communities hold institutions accountable.

The ouroboros is one of the oldest symbols in recorded human history — a serpent consuming its own tail, forming an unbroken circle. It appears in ancient Egyptian iconography, in Greek alchemical texts, in Gnostic cosmology, and in Carl Jung's writing on the psychology of individuation, where he read it as an image of the self that destroys and regenerates itself in the same act. The word is Ancient Greek: οὐροβόρος — tail-devourer.

What the symbol captures, and why it names this firm, is the idea that endings and beginnings are not opposite states but the same moment viewed from different angles. The work I do — with survivors rebuilding after coercive control, with institutions asked to account for failures they would prefer to forget, with data made to speak clearly about systems designed to obscure — is predicated on exactly this: that what consumed something can become the condition for its renewal. That the record of harm is also the instrument of remedy.

The logo renders this as a figure-eight — the lemniscate, the mathematical symbol for infinity — which adds a dimension the circle alone does not carry. Not just cyclical, but continuous and infinite. Not just renewal, but persistence. The loop does not collapse, but keeps moving ad infinitum.