Tag: mental-health

  • More Than a Place 

    I’m stargazing in Bern. On a clear night. The moon is nowhere to be found, and the Vegas-level light pollution from the Sternenmarkt isn’t enough to block the stars (fortunately). The sky is clear. I have an Aare Bier in one hand and then a Müntschi in the other. I’m standing on the terrace I dreamt about back in May. Yes, dreams do come true. Shooting stars and wishes. Life is good.

    On the walk back, I listen to “Weisch Du no?” on repeat, drifting through streets that feel like home, but technically aren’t. Not yet. Still, my eyes are sparkling in that unmistakable way that only happens when you’re in love. And yes, I’m fully aware I’m saying this about a city. Irrational? Sure. But love has never exactly been a fan of logic.

    Everything looks sharper here. The trees. The pavement. The lights. Suddenly Halunke’s line “Dr Neonliechthimu isch niene so schön wi hie” hits a little too close to the heart. Love really might be one of the strongest forces on earth, and somehow, I’m experiencing it… geographically. Wrapped in familiar scents. Held by bricks, stones, leaves. Everything feels alive. The city feels alive. Alive in a way that makes me want to find its invisible zipper, unzip it, and climb right inside.

    It’s not that Bern is magical: even though, fine, it kind of is. It’s that it has something for me – I suppose. Something I’m only just beginning to understand. And I’m falling for it more with each trip, deliberately, savoring every step of the discovery.

    So here’s my unsolicited conclusion: if you’re lucky enough to find a place on earth that your soul, mind, and body all agree on: go. If you feel that quiet, persistent pull toward a place, listen to it. Trust your gut. It’s worth it. I promise.

  • Looking Down on the Circuit Board

    Have you ever had the sneaking suspicion that your future self has been quietly running the show this whole time?

    We’re taught to romanticize fate. Destiny. As if life were some external force dangling clues in front of us, daring us to interpret them correctly. We wait for signs. We wait for permission. But what if the guidance we’re looking for isn’t coming from out there at all?

    What if “future you” is already whispering in your ear, because everything is happening at once, and we’re just stuck experiencing it like a linear Netflix episode instead of the full series drop on multiple screens watching it al at once?

    Picture a motherboard.

    Time isn’t something that passes. It’s the board itself. You’re not the board; you’re the signal moving across it. Your choices light up different pathways. Free will is which traces activate. Intuition? Signal feedback from other nodes. Past, present, future, all online simultaneously.

    Some routes glow. Some stay dark. Maybe somewhere, in another version of you, those dormant paths are fully powered. The whole system already exists: you’re just experiencing which circuits youenergize through thought, attention, and choice.  Perception and decisions. 

    Zoom out far enough and sure, the mainframe is the universe. Obviously. But here’s the thing: when we feel like we have no free will, it’s usually because we’ve hardwired ourselves too tightly into the mainframe: outsourcing our knowing instead of listening inward.

    I’m not saying free will is an illusion. I’m saying it’s more internal than we think.

    The more we trust ourselves, the more we stay in our bodies, the more present our energy becomes, the louder the signal gets. When the analytical mind finally shuts up for five minutes, something else comes online. Something quieter. Older. Smarter.

    That’s when time stops feeling linear. That’s when you feel close to creation. To unity. To the universe.

    And to yourself.

    I couldn’t help but wonder… In a world where the answers were never ahead of us, but already humming beneath our feet, waiting for us to notice which path lights up next, how can we maximize the input? 

  • Is it self-sabotage… or sacred protection?

    the confusing art of leaving before it breaks you

    I’ve come to believe that anxious vs. avoidant attachment isn’t just trauma, it’s sacred protection. It’s your nervous system remembering what your mind keeps trying to forget. It’s your soul screaming “we’ve been here before.”

    And here’s what no one tells you when you start “doing the work”:

    The right relationship won’t give you butterflies.
    It’ll give you peace.
    It won’t light up your trauma.
    It’ll let your nervous system exhale.
    It won’t feel like a high, it’ll feel like coming down.

    And when you’re used to love feeling like survival, calm can feel boring.
    Untriggered can feel empty.
    Unchaotic can feel wrong.
    But that’s not sabotage.
    That’s just your body learning what safety actually feels like.

    Still, triggers are real. And important.
    Not because they mean someone’s wrong for you, but because they highlight the places where you still need healing.
    A trigger is just a neon sign that says “here’s where you’ve been hurt.”
    It’s not always a warning to run, sometimes it’s an invitation to stay… and finally do the work.
    To stay with yourself.
    To hold the wound.
    To remind that younger version of you that they’re safe now.

    Healing isn’t about avoiding all discomfort.
    It’s learning to sit with it, without losing yourself in it.

    So how do you know when you’re running from love, or being rerouted away from a repeat of your wounds?

    Check who’s driving.
    Is it your inner child, afraid they’re too much to be loved?
    Is it your hyper-independent ego, terrified of being seen?
    Or is it your higher self, the version of you that’s healed enough to know peace when she sees it?

    Because not everyone who feels like love is actually safe.
    And not everyone who feels safe is boring.

    So maybe the next time you feel the urge to leave something good, pause.
    Ask: Is this a red flag… or just a new color I haven’t learned to trust yet?

  • Allergic to Consequences

    Three Negronis in, I’m blasting techno on my balance board, fully allergic to consequences, and temporarily evolving into the most unhinged version of myself to date. Snusless. Dopamine-starved. Adrenaline-deprived. I literally climbed a random parking-lot wall just to feel something. I could see the fire in my own eyes and honestly? I understood what some say about my gaze. Looking at my own eyes in the mirror gave me chills like I was looking into twin crystal balls.

    Nobody talks enough about the withdrawal symptoms of “the life as we knew it” before everything went… south. Or sideways. Or into whatever spiritual demolition site this is. Becoming emotionally numb was not on my vision board. I miss flirting. I miss fire. I miss dopamine. I miss adrenaline. I miss calculated chaos. The highs. The chase. The spark.

    I feel retired at 27. Twenty-seven. If Earth is a school and this is my one body rental, then yeah, this is inevitably YOLO, isn’t it? It’s not that deep. It’s not that serious. We’re all just running experiments in human form. Send the text. Drink the drink.

    A car almost hit me again today while skating to work. I’ve genuinely lost count how many near-death guest appearances I’ve had since moving to Milano. My entire timeline could flip in two seconds. Again. And when life is that fragile, what exactly are we pretending is so serious?

    I don’t want to feel retired at 27. I want to live. I literally have a “live life to the fullest” tattoo from when I was 16 on my rib. Yes, it’s cringe. But teenage me was onto something.

    I want to bomb downhill on bikes. Ride waves. Be a passenger princess in a speeding car or on a sports motorcycle. I want to boulder, climb peaks, dive deep, hold my breath till I feel high, swim in freezing water, skate downhill with questionable survival odds. Listen to loud music, I want to flirt like tomorrow is a suggestion. Meet people whose names I’ll forget, or remember forever.

    I want to be alive. Feel alive. Be present. Follow my heart. My gut. The madness. Wherever life leads.

    YOLO, right?

  • PMS Goblins – Or Are They Actually Messengers?

    What if PMS wasn’t a pack of unhinged basement goblins we’re supposed to chain up, hide from society, and pretend we don’t have?

    What if our symptoms were just… messengers?

    Loud, dramatic messengers, sure, but still pointing at everything we’ve been bottling up. That month. That year. Our whole damn life.

    What if our period is basically a monthly diagnostic scan? Not to torment us, but to highlight the unresolved: the wounds, the resentment, the grief, the tiny swallowed feelings we said we’d “deal with later.”

    Just like modern medicine, we slap bandaids on symptoms and avoid the root. PMS works the same way.

    If the same themes show up month after month (no matter how healed or self-aware we think we are) then maybe they’re not random. Maybe they’re the exact chapters we’re supposed to work on.

    I only realized this now. So I’m mapping out my emotional “PMS report” this cycle and actually working with it. Who knows, maybe my PMS goblin will turn into a gentle glittery fairy. Maybe that’s what she wanted all along: care, attention, appreciation. Not blame. Not shame. So yes, I’m apologizing to my sweet, chaotic red gremlin for all the times she tried her best to show what I had been bottling up to me only go get ignored. 

    Maybe we should all treat our period like a monthly staff meeting. HR barges in with her clipboard:

    “Heart, your boundaries need an upgrade. Inner Child, sweetheart, this is not a daycare, someone please hold this kid. We’ve contacted IT six times about the Abandonment Issues bug. They swear they’re working on it, but the system keeps crashing. Self-Worth, Self-Love, Self-Care: excellent performance this month, keep it up. Past Mistakes… stop showing up uninvited. We’re not rehiring.”

    Honestly? Start journaling every emotion PMS HR lady brings up. Then revisit it through the month. Work on it. Integrate it.

    Is it work? Yes. Are we getting paid for it? Not in money. But in nervous system stability, emotional resilience, and the ability to build healthy love someday? Absolutely.

    I’m not just working on myself for me. I am, for the family I might have. Because I know what emotional neglect looks like: how it shapes kids who grow into adults who flinch at touch, cry into pillows, isolate instead of ask for help, and treat vulnerability like a threat. I know what it’s like to be raised by parents whose nervous systems simply couldn’t hold mine. I know firsthand how the way our emotions were handled when we were young can make building a healthy relationship feel impossible: even when the love is real, the fear keeps showing up. How when we never observe healthy nervous system regulation, it takes us ages to learn it for ourselves. I know all about the urges to run away, disappear without saying a word and come back when I feel better. I know what it’s like to be misunderstood. I do not want my future kids to go through what I have. 

    Someone once asked me what my biggest aspiration in life was. I don’t remember what I said, but it’s always been this: to break the pattern. To be a good mother and a good partner. To raise emotionally aware kids who never have to feel as alone as I did.

    That’s my real ambition. Not the materialistic financial side of the story. That’s why I ended up on this path. Apparently I did choose this journey myself, just… it looks nothing like I thought it would, hence why I think I hadn’t signed up for this at all. Turns out, I have.

    If I’m meant to have a family one day, I want to meet them as the integrated, steady version of me. Not the girl who never had anyone to hold her when she needed it.

    And on the days when it all gets brutally hard -courtesy of an awakened life force doing whatever the hell it wants- it helps to remember what the point was all along.

  • Mission: Inner Peace (Now With Extra Sass)

    Nothing whispers “mission accomplished” softer than uniting with your own energy after years of chasing nervous system regulation like it was a limited-edition NFT. Yeah. I said it. Me, myself, and my vibe: finally in alignment. Chill, calm, and absolutely unwilling to outsource my peace ever again.

    And then there’s my creative spark. Oh, the elusive little rascal. Vanished years ago like it was dodging taxes, only to waltz back in a few nights ago with, “Hi, remember me? Let’s doodle.” Not AI-generated, thank you very much. AI could try, but it doesn’t have my brain’s level of chaotic brilliance. My head is basically a Pinterest board for symbolic dreams, very specific snack cravings, mixing things I love (the Aare, fondue and the animals at Dählhölzli) into an artwork. Think an alternate universe Bern where the Aare is flowing fondue, the herbivorous zoo animals have turned into cheese eaters, and they’re having a “fondueschwumm” meanwhile the carnivorous ones are BBQing at Eichholz. Don’t worry they bought the meats from supermarkets, no zoo animals were harmed making these illustrations. Yay my child level absurd creativity is back. 

    So there I am, cozy-ass apartment, candles flickering like tiny, passive-aggressive cheerleaders, fake sunlight doing its best impression of a tropical vacation, playful music playing like it has insider knowledge of my mood swings. I’m drawing. Then I’m sawing wood. Sanding it. Smelling the nostalgia of sawdust from childhood… it’s literally the adult version of playing with Lego, but with a hint of meditative stillness. Maybe I inherited some of my dad’s craftsmanship genes, maybe I’m just happy to have something that doesn’t require Wi-Fi.

    Oh, and yes, I’m on a social-media hiatus. Hermit mode: activated. I posted my illustrations in my stories, called my mom (hi, mom!), that’s it. No notifications. No external stimulation. Just me, my thoughts, and the occasional existential chuckle.

    Because sometimes, hermit mode isn’t “antisocial,” it’s the height of self-love. It’s a soft rebellion against chaos: “I’m too peaceful to scroll. I will eat the Rösti and let my tastebuds dance. I will sip my tea. I will spend time with my plants.”

    In the quietest, softest way, life throws random surges of happiness at me as well. Love. Gratitude. Little nudges that feel like someone sprinkled edible glitter on my aura. It feels… yummy. Like, I-can’t-believe-this-is-real-but-it-is yummy.

    And the icing on the cake? My inner runner and inner chaser finally RSVPed “yes” to the self-love party. No drama, no chasing, no fleeing. The party has one strict dress code: heart-centered vibes only. And the DJ? Yours truly, spinning only tracks approved by my nervous system.

    So here I am. Peaceful, calm, armed with my art, my sawdust, my emergency fondue and chocolate stashes, and a renewed appreciation for the absurdity of being human. No Bern. No cosmic outsourcing. Just me. My vibes. My energy.

    And truly? I’ve entered my “I lived, I healed, and I’m kinda hot about it” era. I’m living proof you can survive full‑body ego extractions, spiritual plot twists that make telenovelas look subtle, dark nights, emotional detoxes, cosmic curveballs, karmic escape rooms, entanglements so confusing they deserved subtitles, identity deaths, resurrection arcs, and whatever the hell you call “healing while inhaling sawdust.”

    And somehow? I came out of it with good skin, working chakras, and a nervous system that no longer files HR complaints about my lifestyle.

    So no, I wasn’t supposed to be a monk. Or the next Buddha!? I’m still me, just healed and regulated. Plus balanced, finally. I’ve been craving balance more than some Libras I know. 

    But here’s the humbling part: I’m fully aware life might drag me into another dark night if there’s more junk to peel off. And that’s fine (optionally I can really live without one.) But right now? I’m enjoying the absolute hell out of this peace.

    Because me (and the pillows that have absorbed several liters of my emotional hydration), we earned this era.

    And I’m unapologetically YAYing to that.

  • Date Yourself

    I couldn’t help but wonder, why do we treat our homes like pit stops instead of sanctuaries?

    In relationships, we crave that can’t-wait-to-see-them energy. We text them on the way home, already imagining the conversations, the cuddles, the snacks. So why don’t we feel the same way about coming home to ourselves?

    Maybe the truth is… most of us don’t actually want to spend time with ourselves. We’ve become the partner who’s “too busy,” who doomscrolls through the silence, who binge-watches Netflix just to avoid ourselves.

    Because if you think about it… your relationship with yourself is a relationship. And much like in any relationship, too much screen time kills the vibe. You can’t exactly build intimacy when you’re both staring at your phones or binging shows, even if “both” just means you and your inner child sitting in the same room while you doomscroll.

    So here’s the little self-love audit no one asked for: If you were dating yourself: how’s that relationship going?

    Do you communicate honestly, or do you ghost your emotions until they show up uninvited at 2 a.m.?

    Do you spend quality time with yourself, or do you just… watch Netflix in silence and actually avoid sitting with yourself?

    Do you cook nice meals for yourself, or are you in a long-term situationship with takeout?

    Do you surprise yourself with gifts just because, or wait for someone else to find you “worth” them?

    Are you consistently loving yourself or do you flake on some days?

    Do you take yourself out, or are you still waiting for company to start living your life?

    Do you choose yourself every single day, know your worth and hold onto your boundaries, or are you neglecting your own heart?

    Do you consciously take some time in your day-to-day to make yourself happy or are you being lazy in your commitment to yourself? 

    If your answer to most of these is “ehhh,” congratulations: you’ve just discovered why you sometimes feel disconnected. You’ve been neglecting you.

    And if you take a look back at your relationships with emotionally unavailable people, you’ll see every mirror they held up to your face. Every time you bent your boundaries, every moment you sold yourself short, every place you were starving for love you hadn’t yet given yourself. The key takeaway? It’s the same every time: choose yourself.

    We spend so much time longing for people who make us feel safe, seen, and at peace, but the truth is, you can build that with yourself. Make your home somewhere you can’t wait to come back to. Make your own energy your favorite company.

    Because at the end of the day, you’re the longest relationship you’ll ever have, and honestly, you’re a catch.

    So light the candles. Put on that playlist. Cook yourself something sexy. And when you walk through your door at the end of the day, I hope you think, “ahh, finally, I’m home and I get to spend time with me.” 

  • The Burn-Out

    I couldn’t help but wonder… How many cities are actually designed to destroy us… and why do they never send a follow‑up apology email? I feel happy for my girl friends who found home in Milano, and how this city that’s my training ground and zen-testing, is somehow their happy place. 

    Some places drain you without remorse. The noise, the density, the emotional smog in the air; suddenly your body is clenching every muscle like you’re preparing for impact and didn’t get the memo.

    And then one day… Your upstairs neighbors decide they’re headlining an Italian R&B World Tour. Your other neighbors are reenacting Parliament: The Musical. Your coworkers are collectively stress-breathing like a broken espresso machine.

    And you catch yourself thinking, “can noise kill you or just spiritually assassinate you?”

    Turns out: neither, but it can make you question all your life choices and consider becoming a hermit in the Alps for a couple of weeks.

    So naturally, your brain does what any responsible adult brain does: It dissociates. You escape to the reality you want in your dream: You’re wandering through a cheese expo, sampling Swiss cheese like you’re the Queen of Lactose. Life is good. Your cortisol is on vacation.

    Honestly? I crave cheese the way some people crave stability. My dream house? Made entirely of different types of cheese so I can nibble on the walls when I’m stressed.

    And when winter hits…? Throw me into a lake of fondue. Let me backstroke through melted Gruyère like a happy little raccoon. 

    But reality hits like a cold shower: Your neighbors are still loud. Your job is still loud. The planet is still loud. Where am I gonna go? Live on a star? Although that was a childhood dream of mine, even my inner child got educated on science, biology, and space. 

    So you retaliate with the maturity of a seasoned adult: You BLAST your own music out of spite. You slam on your Beats like you’re performing a noise exorcism. You decide that inner peace means “no outside noise. Just me, my playlist, and maybe God if He’s quiet.”

    Meanwhile, your little sneaker who wants to sprint to Switzerland on the next train, is packing her tiny emotional suitcase like, “Enough. Let’s go where the frequencies are civilized. And calm.” 

    But no. Not this time. Because this era is called “You’re Not Outsourcing Your Emotional Stability and Your Zen-Mode to Switzerland.”

    No Bernsie. No Aare river emotional support field trip. No letting Switzerland do 70% of the energetic heavy lifting while you pretend it’s your breathing exercises.

    This season? Is radical sovereignty. It’s me choosing to be zen here, not just in a country that feels like a healing crystal (not everywhere, just in some places, for me.) 

    So it’s me. My cozy-ass home. My emergency fondue stash (obviously). My music. My energy. Me, regulating myself like a tiny enlightened bouncer at the door of my own nervous system.

    And somehow… It’s working. Just not every single day. But guess who catches me when I burn-out? Me. 

  • Snacks

    I remember going to a supermarket with an ex, buying snacks, and doing what any sane human being would do, wanting to have a snack on the way back. I opened it, and he looked at me like I had just committed a crime. “Can’t you just wait until we’re back?” he said, in full snack-police mode. That killed the vibe. The mood. The entire snack timeline.

    Then later, with another guy, after I’d retired from mid-commute snacking due to previous trauma, he surprised me. He bought snacks for the way back. My inner child practically jumped up and down in joy inside my heart. “Finally, someone who gets it!”

    When I was little, around five, I convinced my parents to let me go to the supermarket alone because apparently I was already a fiercely independent grocery enthusiast. I bought myself a snack, sat at the park, and ate it before going home. Meanwhile, my parents were in full panic mode, convinced I’d been kidnapped. When they found me, just chilling, I said, “I got myself a snack for the way back.” They were speechless. I was snack-satisfied.

    I think that’s the thing about connection. The more someone brings out your inner child, the happier you are. Science even says we’re more likely to fall in love with people who remind us of our childhood. I lived that. He had my favorite childhood tea at his place, completely by coincidence. Then, as we hung out more, I kept rediscovering snacks from my childhood in a totally different country. Coincidence? Maybe. Magic? Absolutely. Drinking milk with milk chocolate? Love it. Late night candy? Yes please. My inner child was thriving. She finally felt safe. Seen. Snack-approved.

    Since I was a kid, I always wanted someone in my life I could bring shells to. He was that. I’d spend hours at the beach finding the most perfect ones to bring back. He’d put them around his apartment, and that, even if it sounds small, was a dream come true. He was the guy who made so many of my childhood and adult dreams come true. Not all, but most.

    It didn’t last, of course, but that’s beside the point. If there’s anything I miss from that connection, is how my inner child felt around him. Safe, happy and healed. 

    Now, I surround myself with people who bring that version of me out. The one who laughs with her whole heart. The one who gets overexcited about gummy bears. The one who loves animals, and shares food without being asked. When my inner child comes online instead of hiding in her room, I know I’m around the right people. It is not the same, but it doesn’t have to be.

    So yeah, snacks and candy, apparently, are my love language. If you ever want to win my heart? Don’t wait till we’re home. Just open the damn bag.

  • Maybe Spirituality Was Never Supposed to Be a Practice

    I used to think I wasn’t spiritual at all. I couldn’t sit still to meditate, what I did to ground myself suspiciously looked like walking barefoot in the park, and every time someone said “visualize light,” my brain responded with: how about we just feel it instead?

    For a while, I felt guilty about that. Like I was missing some invisible membership card to the Enlightened People’s Club.

    But then, one day, somewhere between the flow of the Aare and the rhythm of a Swiss-German song I couldn’t stop humming with dragonflies landing on my body, I realized: I am meditating. Just not in the way people say I should.

    Maybe spirituality isn’t meant to look like sitting cross-legged with your eyes closed. Maybe it’s just being fully alive. Maybe meditative states happen naturally when your feet touch earth, not when your mind repeats affirmations. When you come across an animal, an insect, a bird and your heart’s walls melt. When you’re in a city that feels like home and you don’t have to do anything else but be. 

    Maybe alignment isn’t found in routine, but in recognition, the moment you notice how your entire being lights up in certain places, around certain people, under certain skies. 

    Maybe meditation is as simple as relaxing your body when its automatic reflex is to tighten up from cold. Maybe it’s keeping yourself calm in a sauna when your heart races. Maybe it’s balancing on a board or holding onto a boulder. Maybe it’s focusing on your breath to fall asleep, or on an ascent when your heart is racing.

    Maybe your flow state is when you’re going down a mountain on your bike. Maybe it’s hearing the sound of moving water. Maybe it’s being underwater. Getting kissed by the sun. Feeling the salt on your skin. Gliding through powder, or the waves. Carving on your skateboard. Whispers of wind that feel like freedom. Birdsong at 4AM. Morning red, evening pastels. Watching the clouds drift laying on grass. Smelling the air after rain or just before snow.

    Some souls don’t come here to follow the steps. We come here to remember that there were never any to begin with. We can find the spark in anything. We can turn anything into purpose. We can be anything our heart calls us to be. 

    We find divinity in movement, in breath, in laughter, in mistakes, in the way the world mirrors us back to ourselves. And when we stop trying to do it “right,” that’s when we finally realize; we’ve been doing it right all along. We don’t need a label for the way we choose to live this human experience we call life.

    So no, you won’t see me in linen clothing with crystals, affirmations, or with the wild eyes of the people who’ve spent too much time in Bali. But you will see me living my life with awareness.