OptiCore Health & Wellness: Supporting Mental Health, Inspiring Change

OptiCore officially opened on May 15, 2026 — but honestly, it had been building in my mind for years before that. I kept seeing the same thing over and over: someone finally works up the courage to ask for help, and then they’re told the next available appointment is four months out. Four months. A lot can happen in four months. A lot can go wrong. I couldn’t keep watching that and doing nothing. So I built the practice I wished existed — one where you call, you get seen, and you actually feel like someone gave a damn about you showing up.

I want to close the gap. Not shrink it — close it. Mental healthcare in this country is broken in ways that hurt the people who need it most, and I started OptiCore because I refuse to be part of that problem. Every decision I make — the cash-pay model, the telehealth setup, the same-week appointments — is intentional. I want patients to refer their mom, their brother, their best friend to OptiCore without hesitation. That’s the bar I hold myself to every single day.

I never want a patient to leave a session feeling like a number. That sounds simple, but it’s actually really hard to maintain as a practice grows — and I’m committed to protecting it. I got into psychiatry because I believe people deserve to be truly heard, not just assessed and medicated. So yes, I use evidence-based treatment. Yes, I prescribe when it’s appropriate. But I also ask how you’re sleeping, how work is going, how your relationships are. Mental health doesn’t live in a vacuum, and I don’t treat it like it does.

QbCheck changed the way I approach ADHD entirely. It’s an FDA-cleared test that actually measures attention, impulsivity, and activity level — objectively, with data, not just a questionnaire. For so many of my patients — especially adults — they’ve spent their whole life being told they’re lazy, or scattered, or “just anxious.” And then we run QbCheck and suddenly there’s a report that says, no — this is real, here’s what’s happening in your brain. That moment matters. It validates years of struggle. I’m really proud to offer that.

I don’t answer to an insurance company. That’s not me being dismissive of the system — that’s me being completely honest about what it means for your care. When I’m not chasing prior authorizations or fitting your diagnosis into a billing code, I can just focus on you. And you see me every visit. Not a different provider, not a rotating staff — me. Because continuity matters in psychiatry more than almost any other specialty. You shouldn’t have to re-explain your trauma every three months.

I’m usually logged on by 7 AM. The first thing I do is go through patient messages — someone might have had a rough night, a medication question, a refill that’s urgent. I take that seriously before the day even starts. Then appointments begin — evaluations, follow-ups, ADHD assessments, medication checks, sexual health consultations. In between, I’m in the chart, documenting, reviewing labs, coordinating with pharmacies, following up on anything that fell through the cracks the day before. Afternoons sometimes bring group therapy, which honestly feeds my soul in a different way than one-on-one work does. I close at 6 PM — but I won’t pretend the brain fully shuts off. I care about these patients. That doesn’t have an end time.

You will never be rushed here. I built this practice for the people who felt like the system wasn’t built for them — and if that’s you, you’re exactly who I want to see. You belong here.

Opening our doors. On May 15, 2026, OptiCore became real — not just a dream or a business plan, but an actual place where people in this community could come and get help. As an immigrant who built this from nothing, in a field that is still fighting for the respect and resources it deserves, opening those doors felt enormous. We are brand new and I am already proud of what we’re becoming. The best moments haven’t happened yet — and that excites me more than anything.

Warm. Intentional. Empowering.

I think trust starts before we even meet. The pricing is on the website. The process is clear. There are no surprise bills, no confusing hoops. When patients know what to expect, they show up more open — and that openness is where real care happens. In session, I try to follow the patient’s lead. I’m not rushing to a diagnosis in the first fifteen minutes. I ask questions. I listen more than I talk. And I follow up — because nothing builds trust faster than showing someone you actually remembered what they told you last time.

My younger sister struggles with depression. And like so many people I now see in my practice, she refuses medication. Watching someone you love suffer — someone you share a home with, a history with, a language with — and feeling powerless to help them, that stays with you. It shaped everything about how I practice. I never push. I never shame. I understand that the decision to start medication is deeply personal and sometimes terrifying, and I meet every patient exactly where they are. My sister may not be ready yet. But I show up for my patients the way I wish someone could show up for her.

One of the most meaningful things I’ve done outside the clinic walls was volunteering at my church to help patients understand their medications. Not prescribing, not diagnosing — just explaining. Sitting with people and helping them understand what a medication does, why a doctor recommended it, what the side effects actually mean, and why consistency matters. You’d be surprised how many people stop taking something important simply because nobody ever took the time to explain it to them in plain language. That experience reminded me that education is care. It reinforced why I practice the way I do — because informed patients are empowered patients.

I’m an immigrant. I came from Haiti, and I saw mental health suffering there that nobody talked about, nobody named, and nobody treated. In Haiti — and in so many immigrant communities — mental illness isn’t a diagnosis, it’s a secret. It’s shame. It’s something you pray away or push down or pretend doesn’t exist. I watched people suffer in silence because there was no language for what they were going through and no system to catch them if they fell. Coming to this country and seeing that even here, with all its resources, people still can’t access care — that lit something in me that has never gone out. I became a psychiatric nurse practitioner because I know what it looks like when a community is left behind. I’m not willing to be a bystander to that.

I don’t have any publications at this time — but that’s something I’m open to as the practice grows and I have more clinical data and patient outcomes to share.

Not currently a member of a formal professional organization, though staying current through continuing education and clinical training is a non-negotiable part of how I practice.

No formal awards yet — but OptiCore is brand new, and we’re just getting started. The work is the achievement right now.

As a young child. I don’t remember a specific moment — it was more like a knowing that was always there. Growing up in Haiti, watching people struggle without access to care, I think part of me decided very early that helping people was going to be my life’s work. The specialty came later. The calling came early.

Helping people. It really is that simple — and that profound. Not the title, not the credentials, not the letters after my name. The moment when someone walks in carrying something heavy and walks out feeling even a little lighter — that’s it. That’s the whole reason. Everything else is just details.

• Board-Certified Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner (PMHNP-BC)
• Master of Science in Nursing (MSN)
• Bachelor of Science in Nursing (BSN)
• Registered Nurse (RN)
• Founder & Clinical Director, OptiCore Health & Wellness
• Neuro‑Optimization Specialist