Curious from the very beginning, hungry for justice.

As a child, I was a whirlwind of energy – full of questions and an insatiable desire to truly understand people in their depth.

I wanted to know what moved them, what they felt, why they did what they did.

Justice was my compass – even then, I could hardly bear it when something felt unfair.

That led to many discussions and clashes. In school, I was the one who always asked “Why?” and wouldn’t just believe what the teacher said.

But I also learned something painful: belonging doesn’t always come naturally.

Sometimes you have to adapt, quiet yourself, be witty enough, smart enough, careful enough –

so that people like you,

so that you’re allowed to belong.

That’s how I began to master the game of adaptation –

a game that gave me safety,

but slowly pulled me away from my original self.

When rage lived quietly inside me.

My teenage years were stormy.

I grew up mostly with my mother, who was fighting her own inner battles – and I often felt painfully alone.

On the outside, I seemed composed, strong, mature.

But beneath that surface lived anger, fear, and a burning longing for connection.

I wanted to be seen – not for my achievements, but for my heart.

What kept me grounded back then were the things that gave me rhythm:

Sports – giving me a sense of control.

Music – letting me feel without having to explain.

And friendships – people who kept reaching out their hands, even when I didn’t yet quite know how to hold them.

In my twenties, I devoted myself completely to success.

I worked almost full-time while completing my Master’s degree – driven by a fire that promised long-awaited belonging once I finally “became someone.”

That fire took me far, but at some point, it began to overheat my nervous system.

I kept performing, but inside I was becoming more and more exhausted.

Later, I began to travel, not just to see the world, but to rediscover myself.

I wanted to move beyond my social anxiety, my feelings of worthlessness,

and to find out whether the world might actually be kinder than I had believed.

And it was.

I found generosity in strangers,

warmth in faraway places, and the quiet truth that openness makes loneliness impossible.

Feeling connected.

Now, in my thirties, my life is shaped by a growing love for connection, for real experiences, and for people. My world brightened up.

Somatic trauma therapy became something of a lifeline for me – it showed me that healing isn’t an endgame, but a constantly shifting dance between body, mind, and presence.

At times, I dove deeply into spirituality and the subtle energetic truths shimmering beneath the surface of daily life.

Today, working with reality means including all its layers – the visible and the unseen.

Of course, there are still intense days – moments when fear flares up, panic rises, or shame burns.

The difference is: With everything I’ve learned to embody and rediscover,

I now find my way back to hope, clraity and trust – sooner or later.