Mindful. Aware. Rooted in self-love, self-care, and good vibes. A space for soft wellness, emotional growth, and healthy love. Reflections from the school we call life and the quiet art of connection. Learning to embrace change, ride the waves, and feel. Made with love.

  • Congratulations, you raised your vibration. But how do you keep it?

    In the spiritual world, “raising your vibration” sounds like a permanent prize; like once you’ve done the yoga, the therapy, the shadow work, and maybe bought the overpriced sage, you get to live in eternal bliss. Birds wake you up. Candles glow just right. Everyone smells like bergamot.

    Except in reality? You wake up not to birdsong, but to a jackhammer outside your bedroom window. Your zen is blasted away by your neighbor’s LED floodlights, or the teenager upstairs practicing his nightly setlist of Italian R&B. Suddenly, your highly-tuned “spiritual gifts” (like being sensitive to smell) feel less like a blessing and more like a superpower no one asked for, especially on a sweaty, un-air-conditioned metro.

    And just when you think you’ve found a way to cope, every song, every TV show, every random conversation reminds you of that person. The one you do not want to remember. The universe seems to have gotten the memo wrong, and instead of delivering signs from your soulmate, it’s recycling reminders from someone you’d rather delete from your memory. 8 months in a row now. Seriously? I thought I did all my processing, healing and purging universe, what more do you want from me?

    They say you can’t control situations, only your reactions. Which sounds easy in theory, until your “reaction” involves getting annoyed out of your zen mode into your noise-canceling earplugs at 2 a.m.

    So what do you do? You adapt. You buy the eye mask. You turn up the music. You learn that keeping your vibration high doesn’t mean floating above it all like some celestial goddess – which by the way, I did at some point. Floaty had become my middle name, until even that reached its expiration date as I found out one cannot chill at the spiritual lounge forever. It doesn’t mean grounding yourself right in the mess of it either. It means balancing it all out and meeting in the middle; the heart. 

    And how do you live from your heart, when you just cannot – for the love of all that’s good – like the city you live in? Do you buy more house plants and surround yourself with the things you love? 

    Because even if you ran away to your favorite city, where you’d see almost everything you love daily, eventually the honeymoon phase would end, and you’d still find something to complain about: the rent, the taxes, the neighbors, the bills, the weather…

    And maybe that’s the point. Raising your vibration isn’t about avoiding the noise, the smells, the ghost of a person who is still haunting you, or the construction workers with no mercy at 7 a.m. It’s about holding your frequency in spite of them.

    And as I lay in bed, wrapped in earplugs, eye mask, with my calcite under my pillow and possibly mild resentment, I couldn’t help but wonder…

    Isn’t maintaining our vibration less about chasing peace, and more about choosing it, even when life gets loud?

  • De-Virgoing: Learning to Flow Like the Aare

    on learning how to go with the flow

    Last year, I saw all the parts of myself that weren’t working. The parts that planned too much, controlled too tightly, and tried to bend life to a neatly written to-do list. I hated them. And honestly, I hated myself for them.

    I met someone who embodied all the qualities I wished I had. Not in a “he’s perfect, I’m broken” kind of way, more like a mirror showing me the rigidity I’d been living in. And slowly, I realized: my obsession with control, my relentless need to plan outcomes, was suffocating me. I’d find things to stress me out. I thought that was living. No, it was being on “survival mode.” 

    I saw how he put himself first, do things on his timing (if he could), and how he wouldn’t get too bothered about things, unless it was work related I guess. It was annoying at first. But the more I grew, the more I realized how beautiful and amazing that way of living was. I saw he didn’t create problems out of the blue by thinking himself into knots, which I had spent my early twenties doing.

    Later, the more the “person” disappeared, but the louder the “energy” got… I realized how magnetizing and attractive that energy was to me, because it was still reflecting something back to me; something I was always meant to embody. I wasn’t born to overthink, stress myself out… I hadn’t always been that way. There was something undeniably familiar about him, and it took me quite a bit to figure out what it finally was to close that chapter out for good.

    So I started to let go. Now stress has become something I offer solutions to, not something I create out of the blue. 

    Solo trips became my laboratory. I booked the dates based on my intuition, and then… nothing. No itineraries. No agendas. Just me, a city, and whatever the universe decided to throw my way. Each trip had a theme; sometimes healing, sometimes curiosity, sometimes surrender. I adapted. I flowed. I learned to trust that the world wouldn’t collapse if I didn’t micromanage every step. I learned to trust the flow.

    And slowly, I noticed something strange and wonderful. I felt relief. I felt light. My rigid, controlling self… died. And from that, a new me was born.

    I call it my “de-virgoing”; shedding the old armor, stepping into spontaneity, learning that life doesn’t need to be perfected to be lived beautifully. The to-do lists? Gone. The endless plans? Out the window. And in their place? Flow. Freedom. The joy of trusting my own instinct, my own pace, my own rhythm.

    Sometimes I wonder why it took me so long to realize that control was just a comfort blanket, and surrender… is the real luxury.

    “Take it easy, chill, life’s good, no stress, no need to hurry” became my motto. 

    Because if life is a river (and oh, the Aare has taught me this) you don’t swim against the current. You let yourself glide. You let yourself be carried. And sometimes, you leave your overthinking and worries in the current, letting them drift away. Mine probably floated all the way to the Rhine… and out into the North Sea by now.

    And suddenly, you’re not just surviving. You’re living.

  • The Frequency of Love

    Last year, a song got blissfully stuck in my head. I hummed the melody, enjoyed it, and didn’t think twice about the words.

    Fast forward a year, I play it again. And suddenly, the lyrics hit me in a way I didn’t even know I was ready for. The words I skimmed over before, the ones that once felt like background noise, turned out to be a blueprint for my journey.

    “The frequency of love. Feels like rivers to the seas, I’m trying not to drown, feel those currents over me, keep both feet on the ground, feels like electricity, this is the frequency of love. Can you feel it, you gotta feel it, you feel it all around, it’s in your heart, in your soul.”

    Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a frequency. A pulse that runs through everything; in the way rivers meet the seas, in the charge that tingles through your body, in the quiet grounding of two feet on the earth, how the sun feels on your skin, floating on water…

    In a world where chaos seems constant, where comparison is the default mode and perfection is demanded in one form or another, love becomes the rarest skill. Not just romantic love, but love for yourself, for the messy humanity, for the mirrors you meet along the way.

    I’ve seen it in my past relationships with imperfect people. They were all imperfect, yet perfectly imperfect. Some mirrored pieces of me. Some mirrored all of me. In family, friends, work, I’ve met reflections of myself, and in showing them compassion, I learned to show it to myself.

    The frequency of love is unity. So above, so below. It’s patience, forgiveness, joy, stillness, electricity, surrender, and fire… all at once. It’s the pulse that reminds you that even when life feels heavy, even when the world feels cruel, your heart can still beat in alignment with everything beautiful.

    And maybe, just maybe, that frequency isn’t something you find. It’s something you carry, something you radiate, something you become with a little help along the way.

  • “Maybe this part of your healing is about facing yourself.”

    Someone told me that in a dream.

    He looked happy. Enlightened.

    That effortless kind of peace people write books about.

    He looked like he believed in me.

    And in that surreal, slippery space between sleep and truth, the words echoed like something I already knew, and didn’t want to admit.

    Maybe this part of my healing was about facing myself.

    The parts I’d been expertly avoiding.

    The parts I wrapped in distractions, in plans, in motion.

    But sometimes life – in its brutal brilliance – removes the exit signs.

    You stop running, not because you’re done, but because you can’t.

    I couldn’t even walk without pain.

    So what was left?

    Just me.

    And the uncomfortable realization that maybe I wasn’t escaping anything, except myself.

    That’s when surrender knocked.

    Not softly, more like a SWAT team breaking down the door.

    Surrender is funny that way.

    It doesn’t arrive with incense and affirmations.

    It drags you by the hair out of your old identity, while you’re still screaming “Wait, I wasn’t ready yet!”

    And somewhere in the mess, in the ache, in the disillusionment, I stopped screaming.

    I started listening.

    To my body.

    To my shadows.

    To the version of me that wasn’t performing for anyone.

    And I started talking to her.

    She was scared, yes, but she was trying to protect me.

    From being wrong again. From being hurt again.

    But healing isn’t about being “right.”

    It’s about remembering the path you were always meant to be on.

    A path that, ironically, requires you to stop walking for a while.

    And sit.

    And reflect.

    Not just in the mirror, but in your life.

    In your choices.

    In the version of you who got buried under ambition, validation, and fear.

    So I asked myself:

    What do I want to see when I look at my life?

    Who do I want to be when I can finally run again?

    And maybe, just maybe…

    This part of my healing was about not becoming someone new,

    but finally seeing who’s been there all along.

    And maybe, just maybe…

    this part of my healing wasn’t about chasing, or even changing, 

    but about learning how to stay.

    To show up.

    To hold myself steady when everything else shakes.

    Because for the first time, I wasn’t waiting for someone to come hold my hand. 

    I was already here.

    And I wasn’t going anywhere.

  • Life is Full of Mirrored Moments

    There I was, Saturday night on my balcony, taking a break from watching Gilmore Girls because nothing soothes an overthinking mind quite like the fast-talking women of Stars Hollow.

    And then… from just one floor below, I hear it. The same theme song. The same Lorelai and Rory banter. I lean slightly over the railing and there she is, my downstairs neighbor, smoking, also watching Gilmore Girls. Two women, two apartments, one show, same scene, same night.

    I’ve lived in this apartment for 7 years. She’s just moved in.

    We didn’t say a word to each other. We didn’t need to. The universe already delivered the message loud and clear:

    Some nights aren’t about fate or romance or breakthroughs.

    They’re about mirrored lives, stacked on top of each other like chapters in a book we all think we’re writing alone.

    And it made me wonder…

    If our lives are all little reruns of each other’s heartbreaks, habits, and healing, maybe connection isn’t something we chase. Maybe it’s already happening, just one floor below, one rerun at a time.

  • When exactly did we stop playing like children?

    Was it after our first heartbreak? Our first tax return? The moment we decided swings were “embarrassing” and seesaws were “unsafe for the lower back”?

    Because somewhere between learning how to spell “mortgage” and forgetting how to skip without pulling a hamstring, we lost something. Something soft. Something simple.

    We traded jungle gyms for gyms.

    Trampolines for treadmills.

    Sandboxes for deadlines.

    We started amping up our dopamine instead of just feeling joy.

    “More, faster, better,” became the new fun.

    Amusement parks on steroids. Screaming rollercoasters and overpriced food. All engineered thrills.

    But joy? Real, no-filter joy? That’s harder to come by.

    Sometimes, when the city’s asleep, I go to the children’s park to swing.

    Just me and the stars. Sometimes with my girlfriends. Grown women, hip pain and all, giggling like we’re six and school just let out. That kind of joy is raw. Untouched. Uncomplicated.

    One time, on a mountain trail, we found this giant wooden seesaw, made for four people. We took turns like kids at recess. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t “Instagrammable.” It was just fun. The kind of fun that forgets to check the time. That reminds you your soul still has a playground inside, even if your knees say otherwise.

    Then there was that time I told a local guy (during one of my travels) that I love visiting the zoo and petting the wild goats. He smiled like he had just remembered a long-forgotten memory.

    “Isn’t that for kids? We’ve done that before, so we don’t think of doing it again.”

    Why does something only count if it’s new, impressive, and expensive?

    Why can’t naming a wild goat Sao-Feng and imagining you’re soul-bonded be enough?

    I think it is enough.

    In fact, I think it’s everything.

    We’ve overcomplicated joy. We turned it into a performance instead of a feeling.

    Maybe if we let our inner children run barefoot again, pick daisies, jump in puddles, and squeal when we see a sleepy bear nibbling on grass mid-hibernation, we’d actually feel alive again.

    Because maybe, just maybe, growing up doesn’t mean growing out of the things that made our hearts light up.

    Maybe it means protecting them even harder.

  • On Bugs, Metros, and the Art of Letting Go

    In Milan, you get used to two things: heatwaves and unexpected insect roommates. It’s like the city never told them they weren’t invited, and now they just live here, casually buzzing into your apartment like they pay rent.

    One day, I killed two flies. No drama, no mercy, just out of annoyance.

    The next morning, I found a small bug at the metro. A woman wanted to crush it. I let a firm “no” out, and stopped her from doing so. I picked it up in a napkin, keeping it safe until I got out.

    Ten minutes later, on my way out, another insect. Another rescue. A strange kind of redemption arc began to unfold; one bug at a time.

    Months passed. I cried over the spider I killed by accident almost a year ago. Sobbed, actually. Like I had killed something sacred. Maybe I had.

    The next day, I found a bug underground again. Trapped between steel and foot traffic. And again, I set it free.

    I started to notice a pattern.

    Every time I released a bug from the belly of the city (this dark, mechanical underground maze) something in me felt lighter.

    Because maybe it was never just about the bugs.

    Maybe it was about all the things I’ve kept trapped in my own system: the grief, the control, the clinging to people who weren’t meant to stay. Maybe I keep freeing insects because I’m still learning how to free myself.

    And isn’t that the quiet spiritual metaphor of it all?

    We kill things we don’t understand.

    We trap what we don’t know how to handle.

    And every once in a while, we choose instead to set it free, even when we don’t have to.

    Sometimes I wonder if that tiny insect, dazed and dusty, ever turns around and thinks, thank you.

    Or maybe it just flies off, back to where it belongs; the sky, the trees, anywhere but here.

    And me?

    I stay behind on the metro platform, quietly realizing: setting things free… is a very freeing thing to do.

  • How blunt is too blunt?

    In a society where speaking your mind can quickly earn you a label; too much, too intense, too opinionated, we’ve collectively defaulted to “polite mode.”

    We sugarcoat. We tiptoe. We water ourselves down like a low-calorie version of truth, and we call it kindness.

    But in situations where the truth might sting momentarily, yet ultimately liberates the other person from a blind spot or a bad habit, who are we actually protecting by holding back?

    Is it them?
    Or is it us?

    Are we avoiding hurting their feelings…
    or just avoiding conflict altogether?

    Is it more loving to tell your partner that you’d really appreciate if he stopped leaving his socks all over the damn floor? Or to silently give them the side-eye while picking them up, punctuating the moment with a passive-aggressive sigh?

    Is it rude to tell your family “I love you, but your constant advice feels more like control than care”? Or is it honest?

    Is it disloyal to warn your friend that her new love interest has more red flags than a Formula 1 race? Or is it actually the loyalty test?

    The thing is: we think we’re avoiding drama by staying quiet.
    But what we’re really doing is delaying the explosion.

    Unspoken truths don’t disappear. They simmer.

    And the longer we let politeness take the wheel, the more tension piles up in the trunk, until we’re suddenly swerving off course, crashing over something that could’ve been a conversation.

    So maybe the better question is:

    How much future conflict do we create simply by avoiding present honesty?

    Written by a virgo. We won’t always hold back. Because we have regretted holding back when he had the chance to be brutally honest. And let’s face it, a virgo that doesn’t automatically tell you what they think is wrong with you, how much do they actually love you?

    If you have a virgo in your lives, kindly let us be brutally honest with you without taking it too personally. If you see a virgo trying to be fake-polite to keep the peace, it’s because they’re too afraid to lose you. Let us be ourselves, and try to see the criticism as an act of love. Because it honestly is. And we appreciate the brutal honesty back.

  • The Spider in the Bathtub: A Story About Goodbyes

    It was almost a year ago.
    A spider accidentally drowned in the bathtub.
    Not a metaphor. Not a symbol. A real spider.
    Small, delicate, curled in on itself. Its little body in the water puddle.
    I picked it up gently and laid it out on the coffee table, hoping maybe it was just stunned. Maybe it needed to dry.
    Maybe it would wake up.

    I left the room for a moment.
    When I came back, the spider was gone, thrown away.
    No ceremony. No goodbye.

    I felt the kind of grief that punches through logic. The kind that makes no sense to the people around you. The kind you can’t explain. I know because I had tears in my eyes when he said he threw it out, the kind of tears he could not relate to and didn’t even take seriously.

    But I knew this wasn’t just about a spider.

    Because I’m still not over it. After almost a year.

    This was about every goodbye I never got to say; laid in front of my eyes in the form of a bathroom spidey I had formed a mild emotional attachment to, whose accidental death was my fault, and it was thrown out by the person I loved.

    In my life, people leave.
    Not dramatically. Not loudly.
    Just… suddenly. Quietly. When I’m not looking.

    Loved ones pass away when I’m away.
    Breakups happen over the phone.
    Pets are gone when I’m away.
    Endings, real ones, never seem to happen face to face.

    There are no doors closing. No farewell hugs.
    Just empty space. A sudden absence. A vacuum that no one acknowledges.

    So I carry them.
    All of them.
    Inside.

    That spider cracked something open in me.

    Because I wanted to sit beside it.
    Watch. Wait. Witness.
    And if it didn’t come back, I wanted to give it a good goodbye.
    A sacred one.
    Even if it was “just” a spider.

    But I wasn’t given that chance.

    And that’s been the theme.
    The life pattern. The grief blueprint.

    “I wasn’t given that chance.”

    What do you do when life refuses to give you closure?

    You get it in your dreams at night.

    You get it in the wind that makes you remember a certain moment in your life.

    You get it by making new memories by yourself in the places you used to go together. In the streets you laughed, kissed, argued… Lived life. Even briefly.

  • We Broke Up, But Why Did We Also Break Apart?

    on post-breakup territory wars and becoming strangers with people we once undressed our souls with

    No one warns you about the silent custody agreement after a breakup.

    You get your side of the city. I get mine.

    You get the bar near your place. I’ll avoid it like it’s cursed.

    I get the bookstore downtown, but only before 2PM, because I know that’s when you usually go.

    The mutual cafe? Dead to both of us.

    We don’t talk about it, but we feel it.

    And suddenly, we’ve turned a love story into a war over real estate.

    We used to walk these streets like we were creating a world together. Now we’re living in the ruins, divided like ex-nations.

    There’s no judge or jury…

    But somehow, we both know which cafés are now forbidden, which parks are now sacred, and whose friends are no longer “neutral ground.”

    And I can’t help but wonder why does a breakup have to mean a complete delete of the non-romantic parts of a connection?

    We weren’t just lovers. We were people.

    Friends, even.

    We shared music, dumb jokes, late-night thoughts about the meaning of life.

    We sat on balconies and talked about our parents.

    We slow-danced in kitchens.

    We cried. We laughed.

    We knew each other.

    So why is it that, after it ends, we’re supposed to act like we never existed?

    Why is “just friends” seen as a downgrade, not a grace?

    Why do their friends have to stop being our friends?

    Why is it suddenly “too weird” to say hi without pretending like the past didn’t happen?

    Why does the end of romance mean the end of all relating?

    Maybe it’s ego.

    Maybe it’s pain.

    Maybe it’s our culture telling us to “cut the cord” and never look back.

    But maybe, just maybe, we’ve forgotten how to hold space for nuance.

    Maybe two people can love each other deeply, part ways honestly, and still care, without it being “messy.”

    Maybe it’s possible to outgrow the role without erasing the person.

    To say:

    “I no longer want you as my partner, but I still respect who you are.”

    “I won’t be at your birthday party, but I hope someone brings your favorite cake.”

    “I’m not yours anymore, but I hope you’re happy.”

    “I’m moving on, but I remember us fondly.”

    We don’t have to vanish from each other’s lives like ghosts.

    We don’t have to pretend it didn’t matter.

    It did.

    It just doesn’t anymore.

    And maybe that’s okay.