About me

At 19, I came to Germany alone. No family. No friends. No language skills. Just two suitcases filled with clothes and books—and a head full of dreams.

I wanted to belong. I didn’t want to be seen as "the girl from Eastern Europe." So I gave everything to fit in. I learned quickly. I performed. I smiled. I helped wherever I could. And I became really, really good at not taking up space.

So good that, eventually, I couldn’t find myself anymore.

I became a mother young—before I truly knew who I was. And while I tried to do everything right, while I integrated perfectly and functioned, loved, gave, performed… I lost my voice. The light in my eyes grew dimmer.

The turning point came during my second pregnancy. I was completely burned out. Panic attacks. Sleepless nights. Days filled with tears. I could barely leave the house. So I went to therapy—only to be told to "pull myself together" or I’d harm my child. And so I did. So much so that I didn’t cry for years. The therapy didn’t help—it only added more guilt and shame.

One day, I picked up an issue of "Happinez" magazine, and something inside me cracked open. I started reading. Learning. I dove deep into psychology, human behavior, attachment theory, personal development, and somatic work. I became a certified psychological coach, attended seminars, stood in the rooms of my mentors, read Louise Hay, Dr. Wayne Dyer, Les Brown, Michael Singer, Gabor Maté. I listened to Glennon Doyle’s podcast, studied Bessel van der Kolk, Peter Levine, Daniel Siegel, Dr. Shefali Tsabary, Don Miguel Ruiz, and many more.

These people brought truths to the surface—truths I had buried. And I began to understand: I have a choice. I can live a self-determined life.

I learned to set boundaries and say no. To stand with myself. To realize that loyalty to myself matters more than being liked. I reclaimed my voice and stopped hiding where I came from. I let go of people who made me feel like I was never enough—and opened my life to people whose eyes light up when they see me. Most importantly, I stopped believing there was something wrong with me just because I longed for depth and truth.

But what I missed most was not just knowledge—it was the space to live what I’d learned. After every seminar, every retreat, every event, I’d return home and feel a kind of growth hangover. I missed that sense of warmth, of being seen, of being understood. I longed for it. And I knew: my batteries wouldn’t last until the next event. I tried hard to hold onto the feeling—but I wanted more. I wanted a place to return to. A space where I could recharge, with people who needed the same thing I did. And when I didn’t find it—I created it myself.

Today, I wouldn’t dare to tell you how to live your life. I’m not here to optimize you, fix you, or act like I have the answers. What I offer is space—real, human space. Where we can breathe together, feel together, and grow side by side.

These spaces are not built on hierarchy, but on honesty. They are not classrooms. They are chapters—unfinished ones. Because everyone is rewriting something in their life. And maybe you’ve already written a few lines. Maybe you’ve underlined truths that are still waiting to be lived. Maybe you’re just now holding the pen.

Here, we gather to write those chapters in real time. Not alone, but together. Not in theory, but in embodied truth.

And in these spaces, you get access to the essence of everything I’ve gathered over the past 15 years—the knowledge, the practices, the experience, the insight. Especially for those who don’t know where to begin. You don’t need a perfect plan. You just need a place to start.

I don’t work with theories. I work with people.

With women who are drowning in motherhood and can’t find themselves anymore. With single moms who carry everything alone. With married women who feel deep down that something’s missing but have no place to speak their truth. With women who give everything and never arrive in their own life: emotional labor, mental overload, constant caretaking.

And I work with men who had to be strong—since childhood. Who were told that emotions make them weak. Who stay in unhappy relationships, powerless and stuck. Who fight to stay close to their kids after separation. Who stay in draining jobs because they’re the providers. Who forgot who they are because they were always told who they should be. Men who believe they have to do it all alone.

I work with people who understand a lot—but still feel stuck. Because they’ve never had a space where their wisdom could land. A space that doesn’t demand performance—but welcomes truth. Stillness. The real life underneath it all.

I believe: change begins not where we become perfect—but where we become real.