Tag: life

  • 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.

  • 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 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.

  • Infinite Mirrors

    The universe is basically a very dramatic mirror. What you see depends entirely on the angle you’re holding your life at, the filter on your mood, and whether you’ve slept enough. History repeats itself – especially if you haven’t done your homework – and sometimes the echoes are so literal they feel like bad rewrites of a play you thought you’d left backstage.

    Case study: dogs.

    My grandparents had a husky. I named her Happy because, if you’re going to rescue something, you might as well give it optimism as a name. She arrived like an accident of fate, not a purchase. Later we had a tan hunting dog who refused to leave us that we had no other choice but to take him in. One Christmas, Happy nearly died. I was a teen, and in that small, ridiculous human way, I used my Christmas wish on her healing. Months of illness turned to recovery, and she got a third chance at life; rescued off the street, loved, and then loved again.

    Fast-forward years. Another husky rescue; Alex. He already had a name. Another tan hunting dog that successfully got himself adopted because he refused to leave. Alex got attacked. Untreated wounds became infection; he fell ill. It stopped being coincidence and started to look like a pattern; a repeating riff on a melody I recognized but had no sheet music for.

    At my parents’ place, another rescue who found us by herself, injured a leg during the same patch I was limping. This March, apparently, was Injury Season. Or perhaps it’s simply that the world hums in patterns, and sometimes the hum reaches everyone within earshot.

    Look at the weather. Stormy weeks mirror stormy moods. Clear nights feel like reconciliations with life. Stars pop on like tiny agreement notices, saying, Yes. You are still part of this. Nature mirrors our bodies, our feelings, our odd little crises. We borrow metaphors from it because evolution handed us the original instruction manual: watch a river and you’ll understand flow; watch a tree and you’ll learn rootedness.

    We are connected: not in a platitudey, inspirational-poster way, but in a slow, undeniable choreography of cause and echo. If you stop for even a minute, and you start noticing, you’ll find more mirrors than you have in your bathroom cabinet.

    Sometimes the reflections are gentle: a breeze on a balcony that makes you remember lying on your childhood roof naming cloud animals (fox! swan! very questionable whale). Sometimes they are cinematic: you feel like you’re watching your life from a balcony above it: a passive observer in a movie you wrote but forgot your lines for. Those dreamlike moments are not glitches. They’re the universe handing you a high-def still of the pattern: pause, study, understand.

    There are people who minimize mirrors in their life (metaphorically and literally, some of them hate selfies). I get it. Maybe mirrors are inconvenient if you’re not ready to adjust your hair or your narrative. But pretending mirrors aren’t there doesn’t stop the reflection. It just postpones the conversation.

    So what if we accepted that we come from invisible roots above and below that tie us to the soil, the stars, and everything in between? What if the planet is one enormous organism and we’re polite bacteria? (Philosophy aside: I like the imagery.) If we stop treating daily life like a to-do list and start reading it like a novel, there’s more meaning than we usually allow ourselves to see between the lines.

    The point isn’t mystical showboating. It’s noticing: the feather on your path; the way a dog’s eye holds you and remembers you months later; the way your limp matches other people’s (and your parents’ dog’s that lives 1’500km away) ; the way a chance conversation solves a problem you didn’t know you had. These are small miracles disguised as coincidences.

    So maybe the work is simple and impossible at the same time: observe more, judge less, and loosen your grip on the wheel. Float a little. Let life look back at you. If dreams have been whispering the script all along, perhaps reality is only waiting for you to show up and read it.

    And if you’re still unsure. Try the dog test. Rescue one, watch how history and heartbeat rearrange themselves, and then tell me the universe isn’t excellent at mirrors.

  • Labels and More Labels

    Twin flames. Soulmates. Lightworkers. Starseeds. DFs, DMs… The internet has turned into a spiritual alphabet soup. The deeper you dig, the more labels you find. It’s basically like googling a headache and suddenly discovering you’ve got a brain tumor.

    Humans have this relentless need to label everything. Introvert, extrovert, ambivert, and now ortrovert? Healers, psychics, mediums… At some point, it starts sounding less like self-discovery and more like an HR department from another galaxy.

    But here’s the kicker: some connections don’t need labels. They’re just it. I’m me, you’re you, we already have names. Do we really need to slap on a nametag too? At the end of the day, we’re all just particles colliding in the same human experiment.

    And then there’s the “one great love” theory. Some say you only get one. Some say two. Either way, it sounds suspiciously like the rules of a board game no one agreed to play. The truth? Great love isn’t always fireworks and epic ballads. Sometimes it’s subtle. A smile you didn’t expect. Healing you didn’t know you needed. Or finally knowing what you want in life after a five-year detour through chaos, heartbreak, and questionable decisions.

    So maybe the point isn’t the labels at all. We don’t call ourselves surfers after one wave, or hikers after one trail. Our hobbies don’t define us, so why should our labels? Especially when some people collect them like medieval kings collected titles “Duke of This, Lord of That, Keeper of the Gridlines, and Occasional Reiki Practitioner.”

    Maybe the real trick is to embody who we are, let it evolve, and not take any of it too seriously. To stop over-analyzing and start floating; like we’re drifting in a river, letting the current take us.

    Because at the end of the day, labels may try to tell us what we are. But only we get to decide who. And in the end, no label ever defined us better than this: human, just trying to figure it out. 

  • The “Tsch Tsch” of Enlightenment


    Last year, I mocked a billboard for grilled meats. “Tsch tsch,” it read, trying to seduce me with the sound of sizzling. As if I was Gordon Ramsay. As if I had a Weber collection in my non-existent backyard.

    Every time I walked past it, I rolled my eyes like the world’s most judgmental art director: “Really? That’s the best they came up with?”

    And then… this summer, during one of my grilling evenings at the park that I ever so look forward to, just around the time the billboard ads had made a come-back, winking at me… I heard it. Tsch tsch. Suddenly, it wasn’t an ad anymore. It was a cosmic truth. I had been enlightened by a sausage.

    That was the moment I realized: most of life’s great understandings sneak up on us like this. They sit right under our noses – which, ironically, we literally can’t see without a mirror – until one day, something clicks.

    Until then, life hides its answers in plain sight, just out of reach. And no matter how many people point at it, explain it, or warn you about it, you won’t see it until your moment arrives.

    So I began to wonder; how much of life do we silently judge in others, dismissing what hasn’t yet clicked for us? And how much compassion could we hold if we remembered that everyone’s “click” has its own timing?

    And maybe that’s the point: we all learn differently in our own different timings. Some people can just take advice. I, apparently, need to be charred in the fires of direct experience.

    So maybe the secret isn’t to roll our eyes at other people’s “not-yet-clicked” moments, or judge situations through our own limited perspective; the one that might only make sense to us later. Maybe it’s not to form such strong opinions in the first place, since half the things we swear by today will sound either naïve or too harsh tomorrow. Maybe the secret is to accept that enlightenment can sound like sizzling meat, look like a bad breakup, or arrive disguised as a metaphor we never asked for.


    Maybe the real wisdom is this: life isn’t a straight line of lessons. It’s a series of sizzling sounds, waiting for us to finally hear them.

    After all, one person’s “Tsch tsch” is another person’s “Ah-ha.”

  • The Flare-Up

    Just when you think you’re healed – your body, your heart, your everything – life has a way of handing you a little reminder: not so fast.

    My hip injury, for example, has had more comebacks than a boyband from the 2000s. Six cycles of healing, six flare-ups. Every time I thought I was done, every time I dared to live a little beyond walking on flat surfaces; skateboarding, balance board, surfskating, mountain biking, hiking, climbing trees, windsurfing… or, you know, simply going up a couple flights of stairs more than usual… boom. Flare-up.

    It got me thinking: how many times have we all believed we were “healed,” only to find ourselves sucked right back into the same old loops? The dynamic you swore you were over until you see their name pop up. The family dynamics you thought you transcended until you’re back at the dinner table. Healing, apparently, has stages. And sequels. And re-runs.

    The thing is: you don’t really know you’re healed until you try. Without external stressors, you look peaceful, zen, maybe even enlightened. But throw in a couple of triggers and suddenly you’re limping, metaphorically or literally.

    Maybe the point isn’t avoiding flare-ups. Maybe the point is doing things differently. Swimming doesn’t hurt my hip. Diving doesn’t either. So maybe the solution in life is the same: stop climbing trees with people who shake the branches. Change the type of people you interact with. Change your reaction. Notice the pattern. Rewrite the script.

    Spending extended time with family recently reminded me of how much I’ve outgrown certain dynamics. And yet, every now and then, I still catch myself reacting in the old way, like muscle memory. Only now, it’s not a failure. It’s an experiment. A test run. Proof that healing is less about being perfect and more about practicing differently.

    Maybe life is constantly showing us what works and what doesn’t, so we stop chasing triggers like amateur treasure hunters on the beach; combing the sand with metal detectors, hoping to find gold, when really, all we’re unearthing are old bottle caps and rusty nails.

    It’s often not what we say, but how we say it. Most conflicts don’t come from the words themselves but from the nervous system delivering them like a faulty mailman; frantic, dysregulated, and late. I know because I lived there. I researched. I thought. I rewired. And now, I get to practice showing rather than telling.

    Because here’s the secret: people rarely change because you tell them to. In fact, tell someone outright what to do, and odds are they’ll do the opposite. (Guilty as charged. Stubbornness was my brand.)

    But if you quietly model a different way? That’s when people learn without even realizing they’re learning.

    So maybe flare-ups aren’t setbacks at all. Maybe they’re reminders: proof that we’re still alive, still practicing, still human.

    And in my case, still learning not to sprint up the stairs like it’s an Olympic event.

  • Blowing Out Candles (and Other Traditions We Can’t Seem to Quit)

    How many things do we keep doing simply because… we’ve always done them?

    This year, I had my birthday with my parents. Lovely day, lovely cake, the kind you buy from the store that still insists on plastic decorations nobody needs. Then came the candles. And for the first time in my life, I thought: why am I doing this? Blowing out candles suddenly felt pointless. Last year, it felt like magic, like one strong puff could carry my wish straight into the universe. This year, I did it out of tradition. As if the wish would expire if I didn’t.

    It made me wonder how many other things I keep alive purely because of habit.

    Take photoshoots, for example. Growing up, we always had them. My mom loved them, my dad, the family photographer, took them, and I adored them. It became our thing. My love for photography grew from theirs; I graduated from family portraits to hiking landscapes, and eventually, architecture, just like my dad. But this year? The thought of a photoshoot feels… meh. And yet I know we’ll probably still do it, because it’s tradition. Because “we always have.”

    Is that growth? Or un-conditioning? Or just me rebelling against ancestral programming like it’s a Netflix subscription I never signed up for? Most of my early twenties felt like a crash course in breaking cycles my parents never broke; and somehow, that growth rubbed off on them too. Turns out, learning doesn’t stop at 50. Or 26. Or ever.

    Life’s ripple effect is funny that way. I’ve learned my biggest lessons through love and romantic connections. My parents? Through me, their only child. And somehow, our growth overlaps. Like a family group project none of us asked for, but all of us are in.

    And then there’s how love multiplies. Once, I bought someone a massage gun for his sore hips. I would have never thought of getting myself one. But I tried it, liked it, bought one for my parents, and then we got one for my grandparents too. One thoughtful act snowballed until suddenly everyone’s muscles were happier. That’s love for you: powerful, exponential, and sneakily practical.

    So here’s to traditions we outgrow, lessons we can’t skip, and love that multiplies like a group chat you never leave.