04/18/2026
I don’t usually share much about my personal life on here, but I feel ready to talk about what’s been changing in mine. This is a long one—but it’s the story of how I fell in love with veterinary medicine… and how I found the strength to walk away after 21 years.
When I was 4 years old, I decided I wanted to become a veterinary technician after a visit to our vet (Adamston Veterinary Clinic). It didn’t feel like a passing childhood dream—it felt certain. I grew up surrounded by it. My mom and my grandmother both worked in shelter medicine, and our home was always filled with animals that needed help.
It was normal for my grandmother to have a litter of foster kittens in a spare bedroom. I can still picture myself standing on a chair, helping her comb fleas out of tiny kittens during Dawn baths. I remember the smell, the quiet focus, the feeling that what we were doing mattered.
I remember when my mom found a baby squirrel. We brought it to a wildlife rehabber, thinking we were dropping it off—but instead, we were handed formula and instructions and sent home to care for it ourselves. That was my childhood. Animals in need, and us figuring it out because we cared too much not to.
Every animal, every story, every tiny life we tried to save—it all rooted something deep in me. I didn’t just want to be a veterinary technician. I felt like I was meant to be one.
At 15, I met a girl named Jade who worked at a puppy store. You’re supposed to be 18 to work there—but she told me to just go in and ask anyway. So I did. And somehow, they hired me.
I worked there every day after school and on weekends. At first, I was just excited to be around puppies all the time. But that feeling didn’t last.
The shipments started coming in sicker and sicker. You could see it in their eyes. You could feel it. Customers came back constantly, angry and heartbroken because their new puppies were already sick.
That’s when I learned what a puppy mill was.
I cared too much, too quickly. I tried to help as much as I could—but I was still just a kid in a situation I didn’t fully understand. The owner didn’t care. Puppies would die, and he would barely react.
The first puppy I ever watched die was a German Shepherd. I called my boss because he wouldn’t eat and was clearly very sick. He told me, over the phone, how to give subcutaneous fluids. I did it, because I thought I was helping.
That puppy died that night. And I stayed with him. Alone. In that store. While he took his last breaths.
Looking back, I can see how much that moment changed me.
A few days later, the store was shut down. The remaining puppies were rescued, and the owner faced legal consequences. I was out of a job—but more than that, I was carrying something heavy that I didn’t yet have the words for.
Still, I convinced myself maybe that place was just an exception. So I applied to another puppy store.
It wasn’t.
It was worse.
When puppies died, their bodies were put in freezers so the store could get credit from the breeders. Their lives reduced to receipts—$50 to $100 each.
I remember one puppy in particular—a tiny, 1-pound Toy Fox Terrier. He had been returned four times because he wouldn’t eat. No one wanted him.
But when I held him and sang softly to him, he would eat.
That connection felt like everything.
I asked if I could buy him, and they gave me a discount. I took him home, brought him to the vet, and the medical bill cost more than he did. I never went back to that job. I didn’t care about the money—I just cared that he was safe.
My mom ended up keeping him, and he lived to be 17 years old.
Seventeen.
From a puppy no one wanted.
I only worked there a few weeks, but I’m grateful to say that store eventually closed too. Those experiences broke my heart—but they also gave me clarity. I didn’t want to be part of that side of things.
I wanted to be the one helping.
I just wasn’t old enough yet.
At 16, I tried to get a job at a pet store and didn’t get hired. My grandmother told me to keep calling until they gave in. So I did. I called. I showed up. I made myself impossible to ignore.
Eventually, they hired me.
That job brought some light back. I loved it. And I met one of my best friends there—someone who’s still in my life today.
At 18, I finally got my chance. I was hired as a veterinary technician at East Coast NJ Spay Clinic—for $7.25 an hour. I didn’t care about the pay. I was exactly where I had dreamed of being.
Then, just a few weeks in, the clinic closed for a vacation. When we came back, no one else returned. It was just me and the doctor.
I had no idea what I was doing—but there was no one else. Phones rang. Animals needed surgery prep. Patients needed monitoring. The day had to keep moving.
I was overwhelmed in a way I had never experienced before—but the doctor was patient, kind, and steady. Somehow, we got through it.
And I grew.
From there, I kept chasing that feeling of purpose. I moved to a corporate practice, hoping to grow into a technician role—but I got stuck at the front desk. I couldn’t do it. I needed to be hands-on. I needed to help.
So I left.
I found a position in Brick as a technician—and that’s where everything really took off. Seven doctors. An incredible team. Endless opportunities to learn.
I stayed there for 13 years.
Thirteen years of giving everything I had. Learning constantly. Growing into the technician I had dreamed of becoming as a kid. Drawing blood, placing catheters, monitoring anesthesia—doing the work that mattered to me.
I had my children during that time. Built a life. Even met my first husband there.
That hospital was more than a job—it was home.
Until it wasn’t.
When corporate took over, everything changed. I tried to stay hopeful. I was offered a supervisor role I wanted to accept, thinking I could help protect what we had built.
But it wasn’t the same. The heart of the place shifted.
I quit. And within six months, eight others left too.
Walking away from that chapter was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
After that, I focused on being a mo.. I stayed home with my kids, dabbled with the idea of making Tech Sitter full-time, picked up per diem shifts with Priority Vet and Furry Friends, and tried to balance everything. I rescued animals. Started a wildlife rehab apprenticeship. Took in rabbits, chickens—anything that needed help.
Then life hit me again.
I got divorced.
And suddenly, everything became about survival. How do I keep a roof over my kids’ heads? How do I rebuild?
That’s when I leaned in on Tech Sitter.
I worked constantly. I was exhausted. I barely saw my own home—but I kept going. My mom stepped in and helped me in ways I’ll never be able to fully repay.
And slowly, I rebuilt.
During that time, I also returned to where it all started—Adamston Veterinary Clinic. Getting that job felt like coming full circle. It wasn’t modern or fancy, but it felt right. It felt familiar.
I stayed there for four years.
Until, once again, corporate took over—and once again, everything unraveled. I left before it completely fell apart. Not long after, it closed for good.
That was the moment something really shifted in me.
I tried one more path—avian and exotic medicine. I was terrified of birds when I started. I told myself I’d give it one year.
I learned so much. Worked with incredible species. Even penguins. I pushed myself in ways I never expected.
But eventually, the burnout started creeping in.
And I knew that feeling. I had seen what compassion fatigue does to people in this field.
I didn’t want to wait until I was completely empty.
So at 39 years old, I asked myself a question I hadn’t asked in a long time:
What do I actually want my life to look like?
And the answer surprised me.
I had already built it.
Tech Sitter was never a side job. It was always the thing. The place where I felt appreciated. Where I could connect with clients. Where I could still help animals—without losing myself in the process.
I had just been too afraid to trust it.
Too afraid to trust myself.
Starting your own business is terrifying. There are no guarantees. No steady paycheck. No safety net.
Just faith.
But this time, I wasn’t alone. My husband believed in me—even when I wasn’t sure I believed in myself. He pushed me to take the leap I had been avoiding for years.
And I finally did.
Tech Sitter LLC is now fully registered, fully insured—and fully mine with my full attention.
After 21 years in veterinary medicine, I’m not walking away from helping animals.
I’m just choosing a way to do it that lets me keep my heart intact.
And for the first time in a long time, that feels right.
