Category: Personal

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Out with the Old

    Life has a sense of humor this year, dark humor, specifically. 2025 rolled in as a “9” year, and anyone who’s ever dipped a toe into numerology has been dramatically whispering, “It’s all about karmic clearance and endings.” Endings of what, exactly? Apparently, of my physical stability and ability to exist without wincing.

    It started innocently enough. Hip bursitis on the right side. Like an ex who doesn’t understand “it’s over,” that one just kept popping back up with new drama. Then my left hip decided to join the party because, you know, equal opportunity suffering. While I was busy nursing my hips, my lower back decided to herniate itself right into the mix. A real overachiever. But I wasn’t too concerned; I could still walk, hike, and skateboard, so it’s fine, everything’s fine.

    By September, my hips finally got their act together, and I thought, “Okay, back to normal.” So I picked up my old hobbies; hiking and swimming in cold water like some feral ice age cavewoman, and that’s when my left knee said, “Surprise, bitch.” Ligament strain. Round two. This knee already had its big main-character moment eleven years ago, but apparently, it missed the spotlight.

    At this point, I started to wonder if all these injuries were part of some cosmic upgrade. Maybe life’s way of forcing my ego into an early retirement. Every time I try to do something I want, the universe just smirks and says, “Nope, sit down. Inner work time.”

    Or maybe this is punishment for ignoring those “gentle nudges” I’ve been getting for two years. You know, the ones that start soft and spiritual: “Rest, slow down, nurture yourself” and now sound more like, “Stop resisting or we’ll take the other knee.”

    There’s also the possibility that my body just… caught up with me. After years of pushing it, maybe it’s finally staging a full-blown mutiny, demanding a self-care era instead of my usual “healing-through-suffering-in-cold-water” routine.

    I’ve always loved the cold: the sharp air, the icy lakes, the frostbite flirting with my skin. It’s harsh, yes, but there’s something satisfying about it. It’s like nature’s version of tough love. Except now I’m realizing… maybe I keep choosing the cold because it mirrors the emotionally unavailable people I used to chase. My soul is warm and nurturing, but I keep signing up for environments that make me fight for warmth. Maybe that’s been my version of “balance.”

    But one thing’s for sure: I’m not who I used to be. The girl who thrived on intensity and discomfort has packed up and left the building. And though I still try to hang onto her like she’s vintage, she’s not coming back.

    So here I am, knee-braced, humbled, and rebranding. Maybe it’s time for new hobbies, ones that don’t involve chronic pain or frostbite. A rebuild phase, softer this time, more aligned with who I’m becoming.

    Because apparently, “Out with the old” applies to bodies too.

  • On Healing and Dishwashers

    Last night, unprocessed past made an appearance in my dreams: my beloved late bunny, our wounded dog after his attack, and a friend I had a falling out with months ago.

    The thing is, you think you’ve healed. You think you’ve graduated from that phase, earned your invisible diploma in “moving on.” And then, surprise: the universe slides another assignment across your desk. Apparently there’s always extra credit in emotional processing.

    It’s like when you finally manage to load the dishwasher after a ten-person dinner, feeling victorious -a domestic goddess in her prime- and just as you’re about to press start, someone walks in with ten more plates. You stare, defeated. You sigh. Then you start unloading and rearranging, somehow making it all fit, because that’s what adults do: we make space for the unexpected mess.

    Healing’s exactly like that. Just because you’ve “done the work” once doesn’t mean you’re exempt from doing it again. Emotions pile up. Life keeps serving courses you didn’t order. The dishwasher -your heart- never really gets to retire.

    And yes, sometimes it’s exhausting. Sometimes you just want to take a vacation from yourself, go to a metaphorical restaurant, and let someone else do the dishes for once.

    But maybe that’s the beauty of it, that we can keep unloading, reloading, and rinsing what no longer serves us. Maybe healing isn’t a one-time deep clean. It’s just the ongoing maintenance of being human.

  • One Minute to Another

    One minute you’re riding your skateboard with friends at 2 a.m., feeling like the main character of a coming-of-age movie, and the next, you’re staring at the moon, wondering what kind of simulation we signed up for that gave us the perfect sun–moon dynamic. The divine masculine and feminine. God and the Universe. Yin and yang. Or, as I like to call it, cosmic couples therapy.

    One minute you’re finally back on the hiking trail after months of injury, diving into a cold mountain lake like a reborn sea creature, and the next, you’re sitting on a hill, with hip pain from the walk uphill and lower back pain from your newly discovered herniated disc, realizing you’re not as indestructible as you thought just because you’re “young.”

    One minute you’re dozing off in the car, half-delirious from three hours of sleep, and the next, you’re wide awake, staring out the window thinking, none of this looks real. The trees. The sky. The fact that we all just… exist. It’s almost suspicious.

    I think I live for moments like that. The oxymorons. The sudden switches. The whiplash between “I am having 3D fun” and “life is a miracle, there is harmony, balance and mirroring in every situation, is this even real?”

    Because maybe that’s the beauty of being human: one minute you’re vibing with the universe, and the next, you’re just vibing with gravity.

  • On Running (but not like that)

    I’ve always loved running. Not the actual 5K-with-perfect-hair kind of running (although, yes, that too), but the escapist kind. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. The Olympic-level sport of “nope-ing” out of whatever I don’t want to deal with. Ever since I was a kid, I could always find an exit sign. And honestly? It was more fun that way.

    Now my Instagram, right on cue, because algorithm telepathy is real, is feeding me endless posts about “the only way out is through.”

    Cool. Cute. Inspirational. Also: rude.

    You can tell that to the part of me that’s currently hyperventilating at the mere idea of not running. The part that knows there’s nowhere to go but still wants to book a one-way ticket to Hawaii under a fake name.

    I’ve tried every escape I was allowed to try. Life itself blocked the rest. I’ve literally done the emotional equivalent of pushing every emergency exit door and pulling every fire alarm. Still here. Still me. Still not escaped.

    But facing what I need to face? That feels like losing control. Like shedding all the parts of me I’ve been clinging to like old band t-shirts that don’t fit anymore but still “spark joy.” I’m not ready. And yet I know life will keep throwing bricks of truth at my head until I stop ducking.

    So, yeah, apparently I do have a choice: delay it or face it. Am I thrilled to discover that disappearing for three years to travel the world like some kind of Eat-Pray-Ghost is not an actual option? Absolutely not.

    So cheers to whoever came up with “the only way out is through.” I know it wasn’t just one person. It’s clearly the universal tagline of everyone who’s ever had a shred of self-awareness and realized they can’t out-jog their own life.

  • Grief: The Skateboard, the Shopping Cart, and the Almost-Said “I Love Yous”

    Grief is weird. One minute you’re ugly-crying over your dog who just crossed the rainbow bridge, the next you’re staring at a €20 voucher wondering if it’s a sign from the universe to impulse-buy another skateboard. (Spoiler: it was only enough for a massage gun. Bank account saved. For now.)

    We lost our sweet doggo – the happiest little soul – and even though I knew it was coming, apparently nobody is ever ready. I still think he’s going to come bounding around the corner. But grief doesn’t just arrive with tears. It also arrives with random bursts of “YOLO.” Like ignoring your doctor’s orders and hopping on your board with a busted hip because apparently the Kübler-Ross stages of grief now include skateboarding.

    And then there’s the other kind of impulsivity. The kind where you suddenly want to call your parents and say “I love you” like some soft-focus movie montage. But the words stick in your throat as if you’re trying to confess a crime instead of basic human affection. We literally talk every day. They know I love them. Why is it so hard to say it out loud?

    It got me thinking: why do I only use “sweetie,” “dear,” and “honey” when I’m being condescending? Why do I find people who are emotionally constipated with words of affirmation so irresistible? (Probably because we’re both sitting there thinking “feelings are cringe” while simultaneously bursting with them.)

    I thought I’d grown out of that. But then I remembered: it took me nine months with one person to choke out “I love you as a person.” Not “I’m in love with you.” Not “I love-love you.” Just “I love you as a person.” It wasn’t even romantic. It was pure, universal, unconditional love. It was also about as emotionally risky as streaking through a board meeting.

    So here I am. One special dog’s unexpected passing away triggered a full-scale existential audit: an almost-skateboard purchase, an almost-confession to my family, and a Spotify wormhole that made me feel like I was watching the last five years of my life as a movie.

    And maybe that’s the weirdest part about grief: it’s not just sadness. It’s a mirror. It shows you the shopping carts you fill to patch the hole in your heart, the words you almost say, and the love are learning how to give without drowning the other person in it but somehow still feel.