Author: Derin Chisel

  • Living From the Heart: The Real Kind

    I have been given several blueprints and templates on my journey. The concept is always the same: live from the heart. 

    I used to think “living from the heart” meant being endlessly soft. Always forgiving. Always open. Always the one who loves a little harder, gives a little more, stays a little longer.

    Spoiler: that wasn’t living from the heart. That was living from fear, fear of losing love if I didn’t overextend myself.

    Real heart energy is quieter. Cleaner. It’s not about chasing connection, it’s about being it.

    Living from the heart isn’t romantic or poetic all the time. It’s gritty. It’s saying, “I love you, but I won’t lose myself again to prove it.”

    It’s realizing that boundaries are sacred. That sometimes the most loving thing you can do is walk away. That being at peace doesn’t mean being passive, it means being rooted in your own truth.

    Here’s what living from the heart actually looks like:

    You give because it feels aligned, not because you want to be chosen. You listen deeply, not to reply, but to understand. You forgive because it frees you, not because someone earned it. You stop performing your softness for people who only understand power.

    You start realizing that the real power is softness, when it’s conscious.

    Living from the heart means your inner masculine protects your peace, while your inner feminine keeps your heart open. You stop waiting for others to balance you, because that balance is already built inside you.

    And by spending time in a city I love the most, one that amplifies everything inside me, I can recognize the “flow state.” The inner peace. What being in alignment feels like. What inner union feels like. I don’t have to do anything when I’m there: I set foot at the bahnhof, and my energy body starts opening. My energy rises. I feel safe. I feel home.

    Leaving that city is a different story. I feel the crushing ache of being separated from a part of myself. I feel whole when I’m there: like all of me is finally in the same place at the same time. But I only go when I’m called. The distance teaches me detachment. That I can be “whole” without a person or a place completing me.

    And that’s the secret no one tells you: When you’re truly in your heart, you don’t fall in love, you rise in it.

    Living from the heart isn’t butterflies. It’s balance. It’s choosing love without losing discernment. It’s being gentle without being blind. It’s standing in your truth and letting it be enough.

    Maybe “living from the heart” doesn’t mean giving yourself away. Maybe it means finally coming home to yourself, fully, honestly, and without apology.

  • Home

    I realized my hair grows twice as fast when I’m at home with my family. This isn’t some woo-woo cosmic hair growth secret, it’s just biology with a sprinkle of emotional stability. My nervous system finally goes, “ah, we can chill now,” and apparently, my hair takes that as a green light to thrive.

    We seriously underestimate how much energy it takes just to feel safe. Especially for women. If you’re living alone in a country that never quite feels like “home,” chances are your nervous system is doing overtime trying to keep you grounded. It’s like having an overworked security guard inside your body who never gets to clock out.

    So, I’ve been finding ways to tell that guard, “hey, you can take a break now.” My personal favorite? Ashwagandha. My nervous system loves that stuff. I swear the first time I took it, my brain sighed in relief like, “finally, she’s doing something right.” I’ve been off it for a while, and wow, the difference is noticeable. We’re getting back on that wagon, stat.

    Then there’s my apartment. My safe zone. My cozy fortress. Blankets are my emotional support system. I wrap myself in them like a sentient burrito. I love warm, dim lighting, the kind that says “you’re safe here” and not “interrogation room.” Candles, plants, essential oils, my holy trinity of comfort. Pine, cinnamon, lemon zest, rosemary. Basically, I’m trying to recreate my childhood olfactory memories. And yes, I still have my plushies. My inner child deserves companionship too. 

    When I can, I escape to nature. Sometimes it’s just sitting in the park after rain, smelling the earth and sharing walnuts with the local crows like a low-budget Disney princess. Sometimes it’s the mountains, sometimes the sea, because I grew up by the water, and apparently my soul still thinks I’m a seal with wi-fi. I go to the pool occasionally, not only to swim, but to play in water like a manta-ray, whale and a seal, and to sit at the bottom holding my breath like an aquatic philosopher. Chlorine ruins my skin, but honestly, that underwater peace is worth every flake. 

    Everyone’s version of safety looks different. The real trick is noticing how much energy our nervous system burns just trying to keep us okay, especially when we’re busy distracting ourselves with the emotional rollercoasters of unavailable people. If we could just sit with ourselves; with compassion, patience, and a bit of humor, we’d actually feel present. Safe. Whole. And when you become your own safe place, the magic happens. You stop grasping for safety in other people’s hands. You stop crashing every time someone leaves. 

    Because you finally realize, home was never a place, or a person. It was you. 

  • The Self Care Revelation

    I’m 27 now. And I’m not ashamed to admit that it took me a very long time to understand the concept of self-care. My upbringing was basically a cross between an endurance test and a renovation show. We didn’t “rest.” We tiled. We didn’t unwind. We rebuilt houses. We didn’t go to all included resorts. We worked on the boat. 

    My parents weren’t the “weekend spa trip” kind of parents. They were the “let’s sand the deck and live in the camper van while the house is being built” kind. Every summer had the faint smell of paint thinner, and at least one power tool soundtrack playing in the background. That was our version of a lullaby.

    In my youth-athlete era, my coaches carried the same torch of intensity. Rest days? Optional. Pushing limits? Mandatory. Up until this year, I genuinely believed that the entire point of exercise was to find your breaking point, and then casually jog past it.

    Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But none of them seem to know what “taking a day off” actually means. My grandparents live in the countryside, which basically means their version of retirement is “working forever.” The women handle the house, the men disappear into their basements to “work on projects” (translation: aggressively drilling things for fun). Maybe that is their version of self-care, but honestly, it looks like cardio with tools.

    My mom talks to me about their days. I get tired just by listening about it. “Your dad worked on the staircase he’s building single handedly, and crushed some wood for the fireplace, and oh now he’s wiring some cables in the basement.”

    So, naturally, it took me a while to realize that self-care doesn’t have to involve sweat, sawdust, or physical exhaustion.

    Today, I had a revelation. I realized I had free will and could make myself crepes; just because I wanted to. No birthday, no brunch invite, no celebration. Just… me and a frying pan. I lit candles, put on some music, and even diffused essential oils like I was my own spa therapist. Then I whipped up a homemade Himalayan salt, oil, and rosemary peel because apparently I am now that person.

    Here’s what I’ve learned: self-care doesn’t need to be an all-inclusive spa retreat in Bali (though, if anyone’s offering, I’m in). It can be small, simple, and even slightly chaotic. Maybe your version is retail therapy and buying yourself flowers. Maybe it’s doing face masks while watching conspiracy documentaries. There’s no wrong way to love yourself.

    For me, self-care looks different every day. Sometimes it’s me half-asleep on the couch after giving myself a full massage with a gun that sounds like a small helicopter. Sometimes it’s me balancing on my wobble board, lights dimmed, downtempo techno in the background, my apartment smelling like palo santo and ambition.

    The point is, self-care isn’t about perfection, it’s about permission. Permission to rest. Permission to do nothing. Permission to light the candle, eat the crepe, and enjoy the hell out of it.

    Because it turns out, taking care of yourself doesn’t mean pushing harder. Sometimes it just means finally letting yourself stop pushing at all without a single thought. 

  • The Intuitive Person’s Survival Manual (A.K.A. How to Decode Signs Without Losing Your Mind)

    If you’re anything like me, someone who receives divine communication through signs, dreams, songs, repeating numbers, random strangers that look like your ex, and the occasional billboard that seems way too specific, then this is your manual. You know, for when your brain is trying to figure out whether that butterfly was your spirit guide, or just a butterfly.

    Here’s the deal. When something truly is a sign, you don’t question it. You just know. It lands with that internal ding! The one that makes you go, “Yep, that was for me.” But when you see something that grabs your attention and your brain goes into a full decoding spiral like, “Okay, but does this mean something!?” It’s not a sign. That’s your ego trying to play scavenger hunt with the universe.

    Premonitions, on the other hand, hit different. They come with a knowing that’s so obvious it’s borderline annoying. You don’t have to decode it, you just understand. You could be half-asleep, half-delirious, and still know what it means. Cleary. 

    Now, dreams are a special case. Some are cinematic masterpieces filled with hidden symbolism and emotional trauma disguised as plot twists. Others are just… weird. (Like that one where you’re eating spaghetti on the moon, no, that one’s not prophetic, that’s just your subconscious being weird again.) But even then, deep down, you know which dreams matter and which ones are just your brain cleaning up emotional clutter.

    The point is: if you find yourself confused and the message isn’t clear, move on. Don’t make a PowerPoint presentation out of it. Don’t Google “meaning of blue feather and broken shoelace together.” If it’s not landing with clarity, it’s not a message. The ones that matter always come with a clear mental download, like a spiritual push notification that just pops into your awareness. Every single time that’s happened to me, it matched reality. The vague ones? Never did. Not once.

    Sometimes the messages are tiny and seemingly irrelevant, like getting a song that randomly plays and later turns out to have predicted your next chapter. Sometimes they’re huge and life-changing. We don’t get to pick what we receive. Apparently, the universe is the one running the group chat. We just have to figure out what’s worth replying to.

    In my experience, the “smaller” signs often mirror the energy of the bigger ones that haven’t yet manifested. Think of them as sneak previews, or cosmic teaser trailers. Some dreams I’ve relived months later, sometimes five, six, even seven months after. Once, I was a year and a half early. I’d love to say that means I’m ahead of my time, but it’s really just the universe running on its own Netflix release schedule.

    Here’s what I’ve learned: when you do get guidance, just take the hint and do what’s needed. Don’t try to rewrite the ending. I’ve tried. Didn’t work. The outcome always came, just… delayed sometimes. Which, yes, makes me deeply question free will. Like, if I can’t change the ending, why am I even getting the spoilers?

    Maybe it’s less about control, and more about preparation. The universe doesn’t send signs so you can fix the future, it sends them so you can understand it when it happens.

    So, dear intuitive human, the next time you catch yourself overanalyzing the alignment of your morning playlist, take a breath. Not every cloud formation is a cosmic code. Some are just clouds.

    And maybe that’s the real wisdom here: If you have to ask whether it’s a sign, it probably isn’t. If you just know, it probably is. And if you’re still unsure, maybe just get a snack and let the universe text you back later.

  • Do It Your Way

    In 2020, when I first dipped my toes into Kundalini Yoga, I was determined. Like, full-on “new me” mode. I was going to wake up at 5am, dry brush like a goddess, take an ice-cold shower that would supposedly “awaken my DNA,” and meditate to Sadhana before the sun even remembered to rise. Spoiler alert: I lasted awhile. Maybe two months if we count the days I thought about doing it but hit snooze instead.

    Needless to say, I couldn’t keep up with it and gave up on Kundalini Yoga entirely. But here’s the funny part, even though I abandoned the practice, I listened to Kundalini kriyas like they were the only songs ever released. It was all mantras and the occasional meditations at night for a solid year. At the time, I didn’t know why I loved them so much. I just knew they made me feel… lighter. Like I had my own private cosmic concerts.

    Fast forward to the end of 2025. I’ve gone through my fair share of dark nights of the soul, awakenings, and breakdowns disguised as breakthroughs. Somewhere in between reaching “flow state” just by being physically present in a particular city, and laying on my couch overthinking, I figured something out; how to do it my way.

    Now? I get up when I wake up. No 5am alarms, no punishment schedules, no “sit-down and focus on your breath” meditations. I drink my coffee in peace. I play my Kundalini kriyas while journaling, doing an easy yoga flow without yoga instructors, and balancing on my wobble board like a spiritual circus act. I take warm showers afterwards. I eat breakfast when I’m hungry, not when a wellness influencer says I should. I still check Instagram (yes, I know, very un-yogi of me). I listen to Swiss German pop songs on the metro, do my work, read my book, maybe binge a show, maybe go out, and I go to bed when I’m tired, which somehow started being around 10 or 11pm. My old night owl self could never. I play my frequency playlist in the background when I’m sleeping. 

    I found a rhythm that fits me; a mix of modern human chaos and ancient soul wisdom. I’m living in the physical world but from a higher consciousness, taking care of my mind, my body, and my soul without overcomplicating it. The goal isn’t to ascend: it’s to integrate. Some days my higher self drives. Some days it’s my inner child. Most of the time it’s my inner feminine and masculine navigating through life like a healthy couple. And on bad days, my ego takes the wheel and speeds, but hey, at least now I notice when it does.

    Maybe that’s how we’re meant to do it in 2025. Living in cities, juggling jobs, paying bills, and still finding moments to breathe, connect, and tune in. It doesn’t have to be full monk mode or full matrix mode. We can live in 3D with 5D awareness.

    There’s no one right way to do this thing. The point is to find your way, the one that feels good, not forced. And some days, you’ll totally fall off the wagon, but that’s fine. You can climb back on whenever you want.

    Because at the end of the day, we’re not monks. We’re modern mystics trying to keep plants alive, make rent, and stay grounded while ascending, preferably with good coffee and a decent playlist.

    And maybe, just maybe, that’s the new age way of doing it. Our way.

  • The “I Love You”

    Lately I’ve been digging. Digging deep, not in the romantic sense, but in the “why can’t I say I love you without sounding like I’m confessing to a crime?” kind of way. I realized that I can’t say it out loud. Not to my parents, not to my friends, not even to my plants. Apparently, I can whisper it to a city, but even then it’s in this weird, baby-talk tone like, “oh I wuv you.” Which is… not the same thing.

    I’ve tried practicing it in the mirror. “I love you.” Nope. My throat tightens. My face does this awkward twitch thing. It’s like my vocal cords are on strike.

    I started to wonder, how many times have I heard that phrase growing up? Not that my parents or grandparents didn’t love each other. They did. They just expressed it in ways that didn’t require actual words. Like, “Here, I cut you some fruit.” Or, “You’re getting pale, eat more iron.” Apparently, our family tree has a generational allergy to saying “I love you.” Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s trauma. Or maybe we just prefer our love medium-rare, served through acts of service, not syllables.

    That tracks for me, though. Acts of service? My main love language. I show love by doing things. Cooking for someone. Listening to their existential crisis without checking my phone. Helping them pick an outfit that doesn’t scream midlife panic at 25. But sometimes that turns into overgiving, which I’m… still unlearning. Learning to say no without feeling like I’ve committed a felony. Learning to ask, “Can we meet at 6:30 instead of 7?” instead of martyring myself at a bar for half an hour writing blog drafts like this one.

    Words of affirmation, though? That’s where things get tricky. I see people throw “I love you” around like confetti. Girls saying it to someone they met ten minutes ago: “I love your energy.” And I’m like: wow, that’s a bold move. I admire it, but I also needed a nine-month period before my “I love you”s left the mouth to the person I loved with all the cells in my body. No offence girl, but I think I need to complete my 3 years of getting to know you period before I get to say “I love you.” 

    But maybe, just maybe, the real work isn’t about blurting it out. Maybe it’s about making peace with the feeling behind it. Letting love exist in whatever form it wants to, whether it’s a whispered “I love this city,” a packed lunch for someone you care about, or a silent I love you said internally because your voice still cracks when you try.

    Because love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s shy. Sometimes it’s clumsy. And sometimes it just needs a little practice before it comes out naturally, without the baby voice. And sometimes the people who don’t blurt it out, may be loving you the deepest, quietly. 

  • Laundry Day

    At some point this year, after months of unpacking emotional baggage, breaking generational patterns, and performing full-time spiritual shadow work without PTO, I just… stopped unpacking my actual baggage. Specifically, my suitcase. And my closet.

    I’d come back from trips and let my luggage sit there for a week, like an emotionally neglected roommate. Clothes piled up on top of it, a textile volcano of defiance. My neat freak Virgo self would’ve never allowed it before, but this year? I liked it. I was rebelling. This was my punk era: no rules, no folding. I even let dishes pile up in the sink for three days. It was exhilarating. My inner control freak had finally left the building. 

    But then came the guests. Spontaneous ones, of course, because the universe loves testing spiritual people when their place looks like a small-scale fabric explosion. I did what any rational person would do; shoved everything into the closet. Clothes, tote bags, a rogue pair of jeans that could probably stand on their own. They lived there, crumpled together in the dark, for three weeks.

    At first, it felt liberating. But then it started bugging me. Like a tiny voice whispering from behind the closet door: “This isn’t freedom, this is chaos.”

    So yesterday, I went full Virgo. We’re talking deep-clean-on-steroids Virgo. I cleaned out the fridge, reorganized my kitchen, threw out anything that didn’t spark joy (or was growing its own ecosystem), and finally faced The Closet. I color-coded, categorized, folded, and Marie Kondo’d the life out of that place. Three giant donation bags later, I was reborn.

    I reorganized my bathroom, too. Got one of those fancy little shower shelves that can actually hold all my products: shampoo, conditioner, existential crisis scrub, the works. Now my apartment smells like fresh laundry and essential oils. It feels lighter. I feel lighter. Mostly because I’m no longer living with a closet monster made of denim and emotional avoidance.

    Here’s the thing: for someone like me, who used to clean to control her emotions and alphabetize her life just to stay sane, letting the mess be for a while was actually medicine. It taught me to release. To live with a little chaos without falling apart.

    The last time I deep-cleaned like a Virgo on steroids was on New Year’s Eve; and back then, the motive was… very different. I washed every piece of clothing that had ever stepped foot in his apartment. I scrubbed my luggage like it was evidence from a crime scene, determined to remove any trace of his energy, dust, scent, or emotional residue. Then, in true dramatic fashion, I left that luggage 2000 kilometers away like a symbolic mic drop two months later. I saged every corner of my apartment to banish the ghosts of me crying in those same corners over something he did. I flipped the mattress, washed every pillow, and practically performed an exorcism on my sheets. Turns out, I really didn’t want my 2025 to start with any leftover “him” haunting my space, and we weren’t even officially over when I was doing all of this. 

    But now? Now I clean from a different place. Not to control. Not to cope. Just because it sparks joy. And because, let’s be real, fresh sheets are the closest thing to enlightenment.

  • When Your Cup Isn’t Full…

    Yesterday, a switch in my brain flipped when I found out about yet another change in a city I don’t even live in, but somehow remain emotionally attached to. I recognized the pattern from the last two months: blow after blow, change after change. I realized I wasn’t reacting to the removal of the golden elephant statue from that rooftop. I was reacting to everything else that’s been shifting underneath me.

    See, the thing is, we do this in our relationships too. We blow up at a late reply, but deep down, it’s not about the message. It’s about the dozen tiny moments we didn’t express: the disappointments, the unmet needs, the small hurts we let pile up like emotional laundry. Until one day, someone forgets to text back, and suddenly we’re folding every unresolved feeling into that one moment.

    Our cup gets empty sometimes. And most of us don’t even notice it happening. We’re too busy. Too distracted. Too busy being strong. Someone’s taking sips from it, life, work, people and we’re not pouring back in. Until one day, the cup runs dry. And with it goes our patience, our peace, and our ability to handle other humans existing.

    The trick is catching it before it hits zero. To notice when the water’s running low and pour back in while there’s still some left.

    So how do we pour back in? By doing the things that make us feel alive again. Joy. Peace. Rest. Laughter. By taking care of ourselves without guilt. By prioritizing our peace of mind, whatever that looks like. For some, it’s painting or walking barefoot in the grass. For others, it’s saying “no” more often.

    And sometimes, it takes a while to figure out what actually fills your cup. That’s okay. It’s part of the process. No one hands you a manual for this stuff, you learn it by noticing what drains you and what doesn’t.

    We can’t expect anyone else to keep our cup full. It’s our job. Our responsibility. Our act of self-respect.

    And maybe, just maybe, when our cup is full, we stop mistaking exhaustion for unhappiness, and start realizing that peace doesn’t come from life slowing down: it comes from us remembering to refill before we run dry.

  • Love, God, and the Divine Wi-Fi Connection

    At some point in your journey, you stumble upon this truth: Love is the greatest force in the universe. The kind that can heal, destroy, rebuild, and still leave room for dessert. Love is God, and God is Love. Simple, but somehow it takes a few heartbreaks, more than few dark nights of the soul, a couple of injuries, downloads, dreams and visions to really get it.

    Then one random night, just when you’re about to fall asleep, you get the download: God is the Divine Masculine. The Universe is the Divine Feminine. The birthing point. The yin and yang. The Sun and the Moon. The cosmic parents who created everything, including the mess.

    And as the energies within you start balancing out, you notice something. The inner masculine and the inner feminine stop arguing over who’s driving. They both just… meet in the heart center. No one’s dominating. No one’s performing. It’s peace talks in the chest cavity.

    The feminine, of course, rules the upper floors: intuition, dreams, visions. She’s the one whispering, “Go left, babe,” when your brain says, “That makes zero sense.” She’s the reason you trust the weird synchronicities and call them guidance instead of coincidence, much like when you ask the Universe for guidance. It delivers the signs. The tests. The orchestrated events in Divine Timing.

    The masculine, on the other hand, handles the downstairs department: structure, action, and material reality. You ask God for help, and He doesn’t send a sign. He sends an opportunity. A door. A call to move your butt.

    And when they finally merge: the Divine Wi-Fi connection between Heaven and Earth comes online. You start living from your heart, where love meets direction. That’s what they call Christ Consciousness. Unconditional love with a Google Calendar.

    The secret to balancing it all, I’ve learned, isn’t in floating away to the fifth dimension or living in monk mode. It’s living from the heart. Where the chakras play nice. Where nobody’s trying to be the boss.

    Because once you balance those inner energies, you stop fighting life. You start harmonizing with it. Like jazz, a little unpredictable, but somehow perfect.

    For most of my life, I was either team Universe or team God. I grew up believing in both, then switched to the dogmatic side, then went full “Universe, show me a sign!” mode. Turns out, both were right, they were just tired of the silent treatment.

    We live in a dual world. Matter and energy. Masculine and feminine. Light and shadow. Why would God and the Universe be any different? Maybe they’re not two separate forces after all. Maybe they’ve always been the original divine duo: the cosmic balance that existed long before us and will exist long after.

    And maybe, just maybe, balance has been the point all along.

  • Life After Finding Out You’re Not, In Fact, Indestructible

    There comes a point in life where you stop watching videos of people surfing, climbing, or doing parkour and thinking, “Wow, I’d love to try that.” Instead, you start thinking, “That’s a lot of pressure on the knees.”

    It’s a subtle shift, really. One day you’re inspired, the next you’re calculating MCL impact. That’s when you know, the delusion of bodily immortality has officially expired.

    I used to love walking. Walking was my therapy, my meditation, my end-of-day cleanse. I’d walk an hour home from work just to clear my head. I’d hike on weekends, preferably uphill, because I thought flat surfaces were “too boring.” Now apparently, a flight of stairs feels like a triathlon. My hips protest like unpaid interns, and my knee sends sharp electric reminders that I am, in fact, not 19 anymore. I blame Milano’s metro system for its eternal elevator outages. Truly humbling.

    These days, I find myself noticing how most public transportation isn’t exactly designed with people who have mobility issues in mind. And that realization came with a generous serving of karma. I used to be one of those people who didn’t understand why someone young would need a seat. Now, I’m that person: silently praying for an empty one and getting side-eyed by elderly women with grocery bags. I don’t blame them. I don’t look like I need a seat. But I do. And it made me realize how much we never really know what’s going on with someone. Empathy is the ultimate plot twist, apparently.

    Having three mobility injuries within one year wasn’t exactly in my 2025 bingo. I was supposed to be in Portugal by now, at surf camp, finally learning how to wave surf. I even bought a balance board to practice. I had dreams. I still have those dreams, they’re just currently benched. And instead I’m trying to find comfortable sleeping positions where neither my knee, hips nor my lower back ache at night.

    This year taught me what my 20s never could: that your body is not a YOLO vessel. It’s a living archive of every time you said, “It’ll be fine.” And eventually, it comes to collect.

    So yes, this year has been humbling. My ego is in early retirement, my knee is on strike, and my hips have unionized. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe “slowing down” isn’t punishment: it’s the universe forcing me to sit down long enough to finally… focus on my creativity. 

    And if that means I won’t surf a wave soon but will master the art of sitting gracefully without feeling guilty on the metro, so be it.