I remember one evening when my grandmother washed me in an old iron bathtub.

It was in the kitchen, in a room where there was also a traditional wood stove on which she heated water for bathing. The hot water was poured into the tub, and I still remember how scalding it was. My little bottom, as Grandma lovingly called it—“strawberry-colored, plump and red”—got really hot in that bath.

When the bath was over, she lifted me out and immediately wrapped me in a big towel so I wouldn’t catch a chill—and probably also so I wouldn’t run naked through the house.

Then she brought me into the living room. My grandfather was already lying on the sofa waiting for me. Before I was allowed to play with him, my grandma dressed me right here beside the sofa. I clearly remember how she pulled the T-shirt with red-orange polka dots from the three-piece set over my head and gently guided my little arms through the sleeves. And already, I felt the anticipation rising inside me. I put on my tights—no skirts or pants; it was typical for kids my age to run around like that.

My grandpa smiled at me once I was dressed. He lay there with his legs slightly bent, arms cozily folded behind his head.

I climbed onto his lap, sat on his knees, and “rode” him like children do when they play. He laughed, and I felt safe and loved.

I no longer remember exactly how old I was—maybe just four. My grandfather died in the summer of 1990, when I was only four and a half years old.

There aren’t many memories of him, but that moment is one of the few that stayed—with clarity and warmth, like a light in the fog of early childhood.

He loved me deeply.

And many years later, I was told that my grandfather once said to my parents:

“I want to have Ira.”

He wanted me to grow up with my grandparents.

I don’t know why he said it. I don’t know what he saw in me—but there was something.

Something that lived deep inside me.

Something I didn’t even know back then. And yet, even then I could sense: this something was special.

But that very something had to stay hidden.

It wasn’t allowed to grow, to shine, to be heard. Many people felt it—some perhaps unconsciously—and many tried to silence it.

From the beginning, efforts were made to ensure I’d never discover it myself. That I would never believe my soul carried a unique task. But more on that later...

It was on a warm summer day when my grandfather died. He had lung cancer, but I barely remember the details of his illness. I was too little to grasp what was really happening.

What I haven’t forgotten, though, is the night they woke us—my three sisters and me.

Our parents had been informed by our grandparents’ neighbors. They had brought the news: Grandpa was gone.

I still remember how the four of us stood in the hallway—sleepy, confused. The harsh light burned my eyes, having just been torn from sleep. I didn’t understand what was happening—only that it was quiet. And somehow, sad.

A few days passed until the funeral. I have only a vague, foggy memory of it.

That day, I wasn’t picked up from kindergarten by my mother or father—it was my older sister. She came for me, while my other two siblings had to stay home. Alone. Locked in. To this day, I don’t know why that was.

What happened afterward is shrouded in darkness.

From that moment on, everything feels erased—as if my memory closed a door.

But... I saw him one more time.

That memory is etched so sharply into my mind that I still don’t know if it really happened—or if I only dreamed it.

It was some time after my grandfather’s death.

My grandmother had asked my parents to let me live with her. She couldn’t handle the silence in the house.

The rooms were empty, heavy, and almost eerie. She heard noises, sometimes believed she heard doors opening. She could no longer be alone.

Having someone like me around—a living being that breathes, speaks, moves—gave her stability. Caring for me calmed her, helped her get through the day.

Whether it was a good decision for both of us is hard to say.

No one back then asked whether a child might be overwhelmed or burdened in such a situation.

Slipping into a role is one thing—but being separated from one’s parents is something entirely different.

From what my older sister later told me, I learned what I had long suppressed: that during that time—when I was separated from my parents—I went through an emotional rollercoaster, even if I couldn’t name it as such back then. I was staying with my grandmother, and around midnight, I was suddenly overcome by such deep pain that I wept uncontrollably. I sobbed for my mother, longing to be near her, even though there was nothing there that could truly comfort me.

And it wasn’t just one evening. It was several nights—maybe even days—when I screamed so desperately for my mother that I nearly choked on my own cries. I just wanted to go back to her. With every fiber of my small body. I don’t know when exactly the moment came when that longing stopped—or rather, when I gave it up. I don’t remember deciding I no longer wanted to go back. It’s as if that decision quietly crept into my heart.

To this day, I ask myself: Was it truly my own decision to stay with my grandmother? Or was it simply the early realization of a small child that her mother didn’t love her enough to keep her? That it was easier for her to send me away—out of sight, out of mind?

I think about it because even my grandmother later told me that there was a specific day when my mother sent me away. I had asked her for something to eat, but she had nothing to give. Instead, she said, “Go to your grandmother. Don’t come back.” And in that moment—I must have been four and a half, maybe five—I understood something no child should ever understand: that my parents’ love wasn’t deep enough. That I was better off with my grandmother—perhaps forever.

Was that the reasoning of a child? Or was it my soul, which had chosen its parents even before birth, and in that moment understood that it now had to protect itself? I don’t know. But one thing I do know for sure: only a sage child could make such a decision.

The effect such a situation has on a child’s mind and soul is something this story can show...

And for those who knew my family—who knew where I came from—it might not have seemed like an issue.

For many, it simply felt unfair.

I was the child who was taken in—clean, fed, cared for.

My younger sister, three years old, stayed with our parents—where there was often not enough of anything.

In the village, people whispered:

“Why only Irina? Why not both?”

And so quiet resentment spread—envy toward my grandmother, but also toward me.

I felt that even among us sisters, a crack had begun to form.

My older sister later said it openly: that she envied me back then and hated me for it. Not because of me, but because I grew up in better conditions, while she often went to bed hungry. I had more—and that was reason enough for her resentment. Our parents hardly took care of us. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother was emotionally absent, overwhelmed, possibly mentally ill—there’s no medical diagnosis, but anyone who speaks with her senses something isn’t right. She wasn’t present, wasn’t nurturing, and wasn’t protective—a mother in name only.

Food was scarce. Warmth, too. To my siblings, I was the child who “had it better.” And that quiet envy, that unspoken anger, grew up with them—like a shadow that never fully disappeared. Even the people in the village didn’t understand why it was me—of all people—who got to live with my grandmother. For them it was incomprehensible; for me, life-changing.

And I felt it. My whole life.

I was always able to read energy. I didn’t need words to sense what remained unspoken. And then there was this one night.

I suddenly woke up. The room was quiet; the moon cast silver light through the window. And in that light, I saw him:

A tall, male figure—a shadow standing right outside the window. It was my grandpa.

My grandmother’s bed stood opposite the window, so I could clearly see how this figure slowly moved in her direction.

I lay there, frozen. My heart raced; my body was motionless.

The fear was so intense that I eventually hid under the blanket—as if it could protect me from everything.

At some point, I fell asleep. Whether it really happened, I don’t know.
‍
But it’s burned into me—so vivid, so real, as if it wasn’t just imagination, but something I truly saw.

Later, when I was older, my grandmother told me something she hadn’t dared to say at the time:
‍
That I often woke up crying during that period, saying Grandpa had pinched me to make me get out of bed—it was his bed, after all.

She also said she regrets to this day not taking me into her bed in those moments. She still doesn’t understand why she left me there, crying and alone.
‍
I don’t remember the pinching itself. But I do remember the feeling that someone else was there.

Not threatening. Just present.

That was my first conscious encounter with the beyond, one I can still remember. And I’m fairly sure I was meant to keep that memory—with it to guide me whenever I doubt my gifts. So I can understand from which ancestral line I inherited this ability and what task I am meant to take on...

At some point, the inner conflict within me settled—and I became a granddaughter to my grandmother.
Not by birth—but through everything that connected us. I became a diligent student, curious, and ambitious. At school, I was among the best. My success was received in very different ways. Even within my own family. My grandmother herself had never expected it. She had no education. During the Second World War, she only completed two years of school.
The family was so poor, she didn’t even have winter shoes to walk to school. So she stayed home—with basic knowledge of reading, writing, and arithmetic. That was all that had been possible.
That I would one day be among the top of my class—that was hardly imaginable to her. But after every parent-teacher meeting, she came home content.
With a simple sentence that meant more to me than any award:
‍"You were praised again."

‍It was as if there was no need for her to even attend—her attitude was calm, full of trust.
My performance was consistent, stable, and excellent.
Something she never told me directly, but that my teacher once confided in me:
Whenever my grandmother spoke about me, she would say this one sentence:
"God Himself sent me Irina."
These words engraved themselves deep into my heart.
As if I were a gift. A secret plan known only to her and the universe.
A quiet knowing that lived between us.
Something that didn’t need explanation or proof.
I once asked her if she had really said that.
She evaded the question. Just smiled. Maybe because she knew some things can't be repeated. Because they are already true the moment you feel them.

But back to my nerdy ways...
Anyone who comes from the countryside knows how cold the winters in Kazakhstan were.
Sometimes the snowstorms were so strong, you could barely see a meter ahead.
The wind pressed against the windows, and paths were blocked by snow and ice.
I remember one of those days. I must have been in first or second grade, and my grandmother actually didn’t want to take me to school.
It was considered common sense that classes were canceled in such weather.
But I was so responsible—or maybe just so afraid of being seen as a bad student—that I cried and begged until she gave in.
And she really did take me to school—through snow and storm, eyes squinting against the wind, wrapped in coats and scarves, holding my hand tightly.
There, she was scolded by the school principal:
“How can you bring a child to school in this weather?”
“She cried so much,” my grandmother said with embarrassment. We were sent home...
I was almost obsessed with school.
I loved being there—with the books, the teachers, the steady rhythm.
Some wouldn’t believe it. Some might think, That’s crazy. But I really was a nerd.
When it came to grades—and of course also to my social behavior.
Until I got older. And the outside influence changed.
Or maybe I simply wanted to fit in.
But deep in my soul, I was always a rebel.
Until that moment came, I was a model student.
At the end of each school year, many in the village would whisper—because the best students received a Gramota, a certificate, and were called up in front of the whole school to receive it.
Your name was spoken aloud—and my name was called every single year, until we left Kazakhstan.
But as life often goes, my grades—year after year of straight A's (in the German system) or straight 5s (in the Kazakh one, where 5 was the highest)—also stirred other reactions.
Because the name Warkentin was not an easy name in the village. My father was now seen as the village drunk.
And my mother—well, she wasn’t exactly seen as a model woman or wife.
That a child from such parents could be a model child was hard for many to accept.
Especially when this child received no outside help… because everything came from within me.
Later, my grandmother told me that at the next certificate ceremony, older women in the village whispered behind cupped hands—half astonished, half mocking, with a tone laced with envy and resentment:
“Oh Baba, she really did raise a straight-A student…”
And my grandma just answered quietly—not defiantly, not proudly, just plainly:
“She did it all on her own. I have no schooling myself—how could I possibly help her?”
And that was true. But maybe it was exactly that which drove me.
I was so thrilled by learning that I even followed her into the earth cellar with a book.
Our cellar—we called it Pogreb—was like a small room beneath the floor. That’s where we stored all the preserved food from our garden for the winter.
Potatoes we planted and harvested ourselves were put into sacks and carried down into the cellar—so we would have something to eat in the cold months.
I remember one of those moments: My grandmother had gone down to fetch some potatoes.
I, with an open book in my hands, bent over the opening, crouched by the hole in the floor, and read aloud to her.
She was worried I might fall in—she called up, “Be careful not to fall!” But I so badly wanted to read to her.
I wanted to show her how well I could read. I wanted to share it with her.
I had always loved reading. During summer vacations, I borrowed almost every book from the village library—and read them all.
I found peace in books, a world of imagination. My mind and thoughts loved diving into other worlds, where anything was possible.
It was so different from what I knew in our village.
Until we left Kazakhstan, I had never been to a city.
I was so cut off from so much—and trapped, like in a cage, held by the fears of those around me.
That’s why books gave me more refuge than any friendship could have offered at the time.
I wanted to be educated. That deep-rooted belief—that books make people intelligent—was already inside me as a child.
And I had always wanted to be smart.
I don’t know exactly where that came from… maybe from certain teachers.
But I was a bookworm. And those who know me know:
To this day, I would rather choose a book than some meetup, than wasting time meaninglessly or watching stupid Netflix shows.
Books helped me. They showed me how to improve life. They carried me—especially when people tried to put me down.
When they tried to make me feel like I wasn’t worth anything.
And they often tried—each in their own way.
“Who do you think you are?”
“You don’t have what it takes to succeed.”
“Princess, be careful—the higher the crown, the harder the fall.”
“You’d have to come from a wealthy family if you really want to have influence…”
Or to belong…

Some of these statements I shaped consciously; others were taken literally. As I’ve said before, I’ve always been able to read energy.
It’s strange, really: the more I dove into myself, the less I wanted to belong. But that will become more evident as this book unfolds...

There were also sad moments involving books—some I would even call traumatic. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, maybe six or seven, because it was about the Fibel—the very first reading book every child in the Soviet Union received.
That day, I was visiting my parents. They lived just two streets away, and I often went there to see my siblings. That afternoon, only my mother and I were at home.
Of course I had brought my reading book with me—yes, I really was that studious. I was quietly murmuring to myself as I read because I still wasn’t very confident, but I kept practicing eagerly.

At some point, my mother lost her patience. She told me several times to stop because my whispering irritated her. But I kept reading—and then she suddenly grabbed the book from my hands and threw it, angrily, into the fire in the old stove. The flames devoured it instantly...

I screamed and began to cry. And as if that hadn’t been enough, she said coldly, “Stop crying, or you’ll get a beating.”

This scene sends shivers down many spines—just the thought that a mother could do that to her child.
But behind this act lie so many questions: What kind of pain was she carrying? What was her level of education? Where was her empathy, her emotional stability? And how deeply does something like that shape a child?

Yes, that moment burned itself into my memory. But I never forgot how to read. Quite the opposite: my hunger for it only grew stronger.
Ironically, out of the flames that were meant to destroy my strength, my strength was born.
Today, I work with fire energy—the very force that was meant to extinguish my passion has set me alight.

In my childhood, there were repeated moments when my mother imposed physical boundaries—sometimes harsh ones.

And there were many situations I’ve suppressed over time—both consciously and unconsciously.
But one moment stayed with me vividly: I came rushing through the front door, completely exhausted, chased by a few boys from the village whom I had teased beforehand.
The door slammed shut—it was already in such bad shape that the force of a twelve-year-old girl was enough to damage it.

My mother reacted fiercely—out of anger and emotional overwhelm, she slapped me across the face.
Then we started arguing—loud, impulsive, and full of accusations on both sides.
I remember her saying, “I’m your mother.”
And I replied, “It’s not the woman who gives birth to a child who’s the mother—it’s the one who raises it.”

Ouch. That hit deep.

She was convinced I had learned that sentence from my grandmother. But honestly, I no longer remember where I got it from.
Back then, I had the courage to say it—but not the emotional maturity to understand the full impact of my words.

Today, I would express it differently—with more awareness of the tenderness that lives in every mother’s story. Or maybe I wouldn’t say it at all. So much has changed.

Today, I see many things differently. Not that I agree with the decision to give a child away—but I’m beginning to understand the circumstances under which it happened.
I’m beginning to grasp how much overwhelm, lack of support, and inner chaos played a role.

My grandmother still tells how I often came home with bruises when my mother had one of her outbursts. I hardly remember any of it myself—not because it didn’t happen, but because I trained myself early on to block out those memories.

Later, I learned that this is a well-known psychological mechanism: a traumatized child suppresses the painful parts to survive. To keep going somehow.

I remember telling my neighbor—whose child I used to babysit—that my grandmother always said terrible things about my mother.
She couldn’t understand why that kept me from forming a bond with my mother. She said my grandma shouldn’t do that, because “your mother is your mother.”

Back then, I didn’t understand any of it. And how deeply other people’s ingrained “wisdom” shaped my emotions and relationship to my parents—that only became clear to me much later.

I’m pretty sure my grandmother didn’t fully realize that she was emotionally pre-programming a child.
She only ever spoke the truth—nothing she said was a lie.
But she lacked the emotional maturity to understand how a child receives such words and how a perspective is formed from them.

This is my memory—not an accusation or blame.
These are the circumstances that shaped my feelings toward my parents, alongside the personal experiences I had the chance to live through.

Between the ages of twelve and fourteen, I began to challenge the boys in the village on purpose.
I became bold, provocative—and I loved the thrill of being chased. I got into scuffles, physically, loudly, wildly.

Something came alive in me in those moments.
I didn’t know what it was—I couldn’t name it. Only years later, in my thirties, when I began kickboxing in Canada, did I realized:
It was my inner warrior spirit.

I truly came alive when I could physically challenge myself. That energy, that drive for movement and assertion—that was me. Always had been.

But in my childhood, there was never a space where this power could be lived out safely.
Aside from physical work in the garden, in the household, and everything that had to be done—there was nothing.
I did what was expected: planting, weeding, laundry, and cleaning. Day in, day out.
I never loved these tasks—they were mere duty, not heart-driven. Mechanical, quiet, expected. I was exemplary.

But my grandmother, out of her fear, began to worry. I was thirteen, maybe fourteen, and boys started to react to me differently.
She wanted to protect me—not only from them, but from what I couldn’t yet understand.

I didn’t grasp her fear at the time. I just wanted to wrestle, not flirt.
I longed for direct, physical confrontation—not romantic closeness.

But with a father who was disabled, a mother who was emotionally overwhelmed, and a grandmother who was already old—I was, at least in theory, an easy target.
And that was precisely my grandmother’s fear.

In our village of about 3,000 people, there weren’t many opportunities to join a club or channel your energy in a meaningful way.
Maybe that’s why I sought refuge in books so early.

Yes, I had friends. But I rarely got along with the girls in my class.
It was always a back and forth. Conflicts again and again. I often felt excluded.
I was bullied at times—children can be cruel.

The reason was simple: I was different.
Often, I felt like I was from another time. Life with my grandmother was slow, old-fashioned, and far removed from what was “cool” among girls my age.
I was a bright child from a family no one expected “success stories” from—at least not by common standards.

But people saw my potential.
And that made them uncomfortable.

I felt the envy. Maybe even jealousy.
Not from the children—but from the emotions they had absorbed from their parents.

And so this feeling grew in me: I’m not good enough.
Despite all my achievements, despite all the recognition.

Because from the very beginning, love was missing—and out there, what sparkled inside me was being dimmed.

I was the child they praised at parent-teacher meetings.
I took part in countless competitions—most of which I won. First place, again and again. Sometimes second.

I could do it all.
Especially language was my strength: poetry, speeches, emotional expression—that was my domain.

And how fascinating to look back now: this very gift aligns with the number Five—in numerology.
And I was born on the 23rd, which also adds up to a 5.

And that was exactly what was taken from me.

The strength of my expression, my gift with words, later in life became my weakness. Only recently did I begin to understand why this gift had to be suppressed—not only in the physical world, but even more so on the subtle, spiritual plane.

And as one might expect, my love for learning and education also shaped my understanding of the world and kept moving me forward—always hand in hand with my inner voice, which has always been incredibly strong and continues to grow stronger every day.

I was so proud that my father didn’t work in a manual trade. (Not that there's anything wrong with craftsmanship—on the contrary—but I had always held deep respect for intellectual achievement, for using one’s own strength through mind and speech.) That left a strong impression on me. I probably adopted that mindset from books, since no one in my family worked in such a field.

My father had studied bookkeeping and was the only one in the family who was able to do head-based work—because he was physically disabled and, as a man, couldn’t take up a manual job. My grandfather had pressured him early on to learn something “for the head”—perhaps because he himself had never done such work.

Be that as it may, I understood very early on that although my father worked in a small village car dealership and handled paperwork, he somehow still “belonged.” And yet, he wasn’t truly seen as one of them—especially not after he slipped into alcoholism and became the most notorious drunk in the village. A man punished by fate, never truly seen as a “real man,” probably gave in to the temptation out of fear of not belonging—to be influenced by the other men in the village, who believed that alcohol made a man, and that anyone who drank at the same table was one of them.

And so my childhood passed—and my siblings’—while he drank, while he gave his money away to others just to belong, just to feel a certain kind of acceptance. It’s questionable whether he did it because he couldn't cope with his own situation, played the victim, and built his life accordingly.

At some point, I realized that he was not the ideal father I had imagined. I remember the day he came to eat at my grandmother’s—while my mother and siblings had, like on many other evenings, nothing to eat at home. My grandmother cared for him his whole life—she even did his laundry, because my mother wouldn’t (or wouldn’t do it the way he wanted).

I can’t really blame my father for that: my grandma was clean and tidy, and she wanted him to look the same. But my father never took responsibility for his own family—how could he, when he himself was treated like a child? He was, after all, disabled—punished by fate, as my grandmother always said.

One can understand the maternal heart, even if his condition was never an excuse for his behavior. And so I developed the belief that weak men had no place in my life. And without knowing it, I decided I would be the strong one.

You can probably imagine what that meant for my life—my relationships with men… well, I hated weak men. And guess who I kept attracting?

My sister Maria later told me that she sometimes hid the food from him—because he didn’t just eat at Grandma's but would come home and eat everything in sight, leaving nothing for the children. Apparently, I once—at the age of ten—stood up to her as his protector. I had actually taken my seventeen-year-old sister to task and accused her of being selfish for withholding food from him. Let’s not forget, I was also the child who was always clean and always had something to eat... there was resentment not only toward our father; I was, in a way, also a reason for her frustration... But this courage, to position myself so clearly, awoke in me back then—at ten years old. And as I write this, I realize: I was even braver than I remembered. This realization gives me a deeper understanding of why that courage was later taken from me. And I say very consciously: taken. Because I was attacked later in life—on another level. Energetically. Magically. And I knew it. I even knew who it was. My clairvoyant perception has always been there—even if I didn’t yet have the words for it.

But that realization—that my father wasn’t the role model I had hoped for—changed something in me. I lost respect for him—especially since that attitude was confirmed from all sides, even by my grandmother. My parents were publicly branded as “raven parents”—and in a way, it was true. Those accusations didn’t just eat away at my respect, but over time also at my love for them—at least that’s what I believed until not long ago...

From all of this, a broken relationship began to take root—one that grew into a real problem over the years. I mostly saw my father drunk, and he took no responsibility for his children. Whether he even knew that his daughter was a top student and helped his mother so much, I don’t know. I became my grandmother’s helper—in the garden, where we watered plants every summer, day after day. I helped saw wood for winter and picked fruits—tasks I often hated and yet did alongside Grandma. I always did them while the other kids played outside…

By the age of eleven, I was already washing my own laundry. We didn’t have a washing machine, so I cleaned every piece by hand. I did it with care and diligence, constantly striving to be a good example.

And yet I was constantly made to feel that I wasn’t enough. I never heard, “I love you.” My grandmother was sparing with affection, naturally distrustful, and so full of fear that she could hardly express love. Sometimes I ask myself how I managed to stay so positive. Many people don’t understand where I get my joy for life. I had to work hard for my self-love, and yet I always knew that something special lived inside me.

My relationship with classmates was always shifting—sometimes I belonged to the group, sometimes the entire class turned against me. I was teased for the clothes I wore—sent from Germany. Our relatives sent packages filled with sweets, food, and clothes to support my grandmother. And so I received whatever was sent—for myself. I was always fascinated by anything foreign and deeply grateful for the generous help from my uncle and his family. It was anything but a given, and this gratitude remains to this day, even through all the changes in our families.

At the same time, this sense of being “different” became visible. I didn’t just feel foreign because of the clothes—I also lived with my grandmother and not in a classic family structure like the other children. I simply wasn’t like them. Back then, I wanted nothing more than to belong. Today, I know that the universe was preparing me not to belong. And now, I am proud of it—I live my life that way, consciously.

These insecurities became especially obvious whenever we received our annual visit from my aunt and her children. They lived in a village too, but much closer to a city, and in my eyes, their lives were more modern, vibrant, and self-assured than mine. They always brought the best toys and the prettiest clothes, and I saw in them everything I felt I lacked. They came from a stable home, loved and nurtured by both parents—and it showed. Their confidence felt like something from another world. At least at that moment, I took it for confidence…The contrast between us was palpable, and it echoed in my own self-image.

Still, we got along well, and I loved those visits. The house would suddenly become lively, loud—full of laughter, games, even arguments. And the sadness was all the deeper when they left after a week. Then I had to get used to the ever-present silence again—a silence that was so difficult for me back then.

All of these experiences sowed a deep desire in me to one day leave the village behind. I felt so clearly that I couldn’t stay there if I wanted to grow. And the only path I could see was through education. Only if I went to university would I have a real chance to shape my own life and experience something different from what the village had to offer. That’s why I wanted it so badly. That’s why my biggest dream was to graduate with a “red diploma” and then go to university.

The disappointment was all the greater when my grandmother told me she couldn’t afford to register me at a university or send me to the city. The money simply wasn’t there. People began predicting that after the 11th grade, I would end up with a job in the village and probably start a family very early... but even back then, having a family of my own was never part of my life’s dream.

That was a nightmare for me: not growing. And the bigger that nightmare became, the stronger my desire grew to move to Germany as quickly as possible. We had already submitted our applications for resettlement and were waiting for a response.

And during that stage of life, there was nothing—absolutely nothing—that suggested I would one day become a healer or that my spiritual development would ever take center stage. I didn’t have a specific vision for what my life should look like, but I knew one thing for sure: I could not stay in the village. There were no opportunities for personal growth there—let alone any connection to the modern world that fascinated me so deeply—the world I only knew from a black-and-white TV…

All the more overwhelming was my joy the night we received confirmation: in the year 2000, we were allowed to enter Germany.

Before I speak about the move, I want to share something else. Something that still goes deep under my skin to this day: the people I had to leave behind. Even before everything truly began.

My parents were officially life partners, but they weren’t married. And that became a major hurdle later on, when the time came to leave for Germany. So much had to be arranged, clarified, and legally sorted out. But one thing stood out as especially important—a decision whose weight only truly hit me years later: my grandmother had to officially adopt me under Kazakh law. Only then would I be allowed to leave the country without my mother.

Because my mother and all my siblings stayed behind: Maria, Olga, and Valentina.

My mother didn’t want to come with us back then—Germany was never her destination. That’s what she said.
Not because life in the village was somehow better. But because she had no real sense of how much better her life could be. It was her inexperience. Her inner limitation. And perhaps also a quiet fear of the unknown.
And then, when the moment came—when my father, my grandmother, and I were about to leave—she suddenly wanted to come after all. But by then, it was already too late.
And I had three sisters I left behind. With the youngest, I shared both parents; with the two older ones, it was our mother who bound us. However, there was never a sense of "more" or "less" for me. Siblings are siblings. We were all carried under the same heart, and that was what mattered to me—what still matters, now more than ever. Emotionally, I never made a difference. I loved them all. And yet—on a deeper level, one that's difficult to put into words – there was a special resonance between me and the youngest: Valentina. Not outwardly. Not in biography. But soulfully.

It felt as if our souls were meant to meet on a finer frequency—subtle, barely perceptible. And yet, that’s what made it so powerful. I could feel it. Like a quiet memory of something that was never fully lived. We were separated very early. And not just separated—it was as if someone had drawn an invisible line between us, a thin, almost imperceptible trace that grew sharper with each passing year. The people in the village began to turn against me. In their eyes, I was to blame simply because my life seemed a little easier. Because they thought I believed I was better. And if I’m being completely honest, there was some truth in that. Not because I placed myself above them, but because somewhere deep inside, I could feel: I was different. Not just different from them—but different on a level older than words. As if my soul had been planted into a lineage it was never meant to fully belong to. As if I was here—but not truly of this place. Like a quiet glitch in time. Or perhaps a deliberate placement by the universe, meant to remind me: you live here, but you are not this place. I could feel the difference. I noticed that my life was lighter, more structured, maybe even safer. And somewhere within me, the feeling began to grow that I belonged to another world. One that wasn’t open to everyone—and therefore needed to be protected. Even from her. At some point, I came to understand that there was a deep divide between our worlds. I had something she didn't—more stability, more opportunities, more attention. And with the rawness of a child who doesn’t yet understand their feelings, I showed it to her. Not out of cruelty, but from a confused, inner need to belong somewhere. I believed that belonging was something that had to be guarded. Especially when our relatives came to visit, I felt like I was stepping into a different realm. Not because of them—but because of what they brought with them. In their presence, something reminded me that there was more. Something beyond the village, beyond the narrowness, beyond the everyday. They came from outside—and their presence alone opened something within me. A gate to a space I had only felt inside myself until then. In those moments, I almost became protective of what I was. Of what I felt, of what I sensed. And sometimes I didn’t want anyone there with me. Not even my sister. I wanted this feeling to be mine alone. This secret wonder. This quiet knowing: there is more. I shut her out. Not out of coldness, but because I sensed that this very feeling was a delicate key—to what would one day become my path. She was left behind… My father promised her that he would bring her and my mother over later. And he kept that promise—but it took five long years. It wasn’t until 2005 that they were finally allowed to come to Germany. But back to our relationship. We were only a year apart—and looked almost identical. So much so that people confused us all the time. She was often called “Irina”—and I was just as often addressed by her name: Valentina. I don’t remember exactly how old I was at the time, maybe five. I was still in kindergarten. And I remember a particular early morning when, like so many times before, I went to pick her up on the way there. I stepped into the room, and my mother was brushing her hair. But it wasn’t a gentle brushing. It was a struggle. Forceful. Angry. Without any tenderness. My sister, that delicate, far too thin little girl, was crying. She cried because brushing her hair was a battle—not just against the wild curls, but against herself. My mother, with almost cold severity, forced her to “tame” that unruly hair. And every time, she repeated the same phrase: “Terpi, kasak, atamanom budesh.” A saying, probably from some old Soviet film. It loosely meant, “Only those who endure pain become strong—and are accepted as a Cossack.” A sentence like an imprint on the soul. Harsh. Without warmth. And with no room to simply be a child. On mornings like that, we would then walk to kindergarten together. I don’t remember if I was alone or if our mother brought us, but I remember those moments: people would look at us—and sometimes call us by the wrong names. And even back then, I could hardly bear it when my identity was mistaken for someone else’s. Especially when I felt that I—in comparison—was “more.” More seen. More wanted. More noticed.

Today I ask myself: where did this feeling come from—the sense that I came from “better circumstances”? That I—even though we belonged to the same family, shared the same blood, the same house—was somehow more than she was? Was it the quiet memory of my soul? A knowing from another life—perhaps one in which I came from noble, educated, spiritually rich circles? Or was it the image that people in the village had drawn of me? The girl with the clever mind, the good grades, the smooth hair, and the pretty face. Perhaps it was both. But one thing I know: my soul was confused. It didn’t know where it belonged. To the “better” group, the one I was so often placed into—or to my own family, to my sister, with whom I was supposed to be connected? Did I even want to belong to that “better” group? And who decided which group was better anyway? Who had taken it upon themselves to define my belonging—or to manipulate my feelings around it? I carried this confusion within me for many years. A quiet, stubborn question: who separated us? Who drove that wedge between us? I’ve asked myself that all my life. Because there were people—and I call them deliberately that: certain people—who made no effort to hide it. They envied me. For my academic achievements. For my appearance. For the way I thought. For how I “stood out.” And they had my sister by their side—a quiet, malleable, searching soul—and they took advantage of that. All they needed was an open ear, a child’s heart—and they turned it into an echo chamber for ridicule and division. They talked behind my back—and my sister listened. Again and again. Without ever truly realizing it. To this day, I don’t believe she understands what really happened back then. That we were intentionally turned against one another. That her childhood anger, her helplessness, her sense of not being enough, was carefully directed toward me. And that years later, she returned all of it—in the form of coldness, rejection, sometimes even hatred. We had many mutual friends—we were almost the same age. And every time I was excluded by the girls because I was somehow “different,” our sibling bond was used against me. It was like others took a perverse pleasure in splitting our closeness—just to have someone to blame. And that someone was quickly found: me. I was accused of being a bad sister, even though I was still a child myself. A child who was already lost in her own chaos, with a heart full of questions and far more confusion than I ever showed. Yes, she grew up impoverished. But she had both parents. And despite all the hardships, she knew where she belonged. I, on the other hand, lived in suspension. Between places. Between people. Between belonging. This feeling of not belonging has accompanied me my whole life. It sat inside me like a dark shadow behind my chest—quiet, invisible, but always felt. Only much later, after many years, did I understand: my heart is my home. And the faster I learn to get along with myself, the faster I understand that I am enough for myself, the faster peace returns. And joy. Maybe not loud happiness, but a quiet, sustaining one. I remember her in moments when she cried. Then came my mother’s anger—merciless, directed at anyone who had hurt her. She was the youngest, the family favorite. And she knew it. Often she played this privilege, staged a hurt expression, a little drama, so that I or my siblings would bear the consequences. In my memory, she was the spoiled baby, a “brat,” around whom everything seemed to revolve. Today, looking back, I see how all of this formed—how we all tried to survive in our own way, how our characters developed from pain and protection. My father had a closer bond with her because she grew up with him. I was often the one blamed, the one attacked. Maybe because I was loud, because I was present, because I showed with my light that not everything was right. That they had made mistakes. That I was different. And this being different triggered them all. Because this difference always existed, it showed itself also at school—in the way we presented ourselves, and how we dealt with others. Each of us tried, in her own way, to overcome the wounds of childhood. One of those wounds was me. Not because I had done something wrong, but because my very existence was a trigger. I don’t know if she thought everything came easier to me because I was always fed and clean, or because I didn’t grow up in dirt. But the truth is: until I was four, I lived in the same household. Anyone who knows child psychology understands that the first seven years are the most formative for a child’s development. And right in the middle of that time, at four years old, I experienced a deep break: I was given away. From then on, I had to observe two worlds, almost like parallel worlds... This turning point changed my life fundamentally. And all that came after can’t simply be described as “easy” or “simple.” Because true strength often grows from the deepest wounds. The more I was praised, the more, somewhere deep inside her—unconsciously—a sisterly hatred grew against me. She would probably never admit it, if she ever reads this text at all. But recently, it has often become clear that my development, my path, and my life trigger her very often. Especially when other people ask her about me. It’s not always about turning her against me. Often it is even praise given to me—for the path I have taken. And that is precisely what hurts. That’s why I was never angry at her for how she felt. I knew where it came from. And I felt that much of it was a foreign energy that had nested inside her—especially because she was always close friends with people who didn’t like me.

It is a complex web of wounds, loyalties, and deep soul dynamics. And I accept it—with compassion for all of us. And yet—we both shared so much when it came to our childhood. Especially in how our mother consciously neglected us. How little care there was. How little genuine, nourishing closeness. I was often told stories. For example, that as a baby I would only fall asleep in my mother’s arms—and would immediately wake up as soon as she put me in my crib. It happened over and over again. Until my grandfather eventually noticed that something was wrong. Because the mattress she laid me on was wet. Damp with urine, she had not changed. And every time she put me back into that wetness, I woke up. Can you imagine what that does to a baby? What does it mean when your own mother shows no care? No loving attention? Not even a normal, clean feeling of safety? As a baby, I was literally trained to be satisfied with the bare minimum. With what no one truly deserves. And that deeply imprinted itself into my childlike consciousness. Psychologists have long proven: The bond between mother and child is fundamental—especially when it comes to self-love. When exactly where warmth should be, coldness is felt… a child learns very early to undervalue themselves. Not consciously. But quietly. In the nervous system. In cellular memory. In the soul. There are many stories my sister experienced too. One in particular stayed deeply with me. She was only a few months old when she was once left alone at home—with a blanket over her face. By chance, my grandmother came by. She heard a faint moan, searched, and found my sister in her stroller. She pulled the pillow away—we were covered as babies with a pillow so we wouldn’t move and would lie very still. This experience was more than a physical restriction for us. It was a moment in which we lost our freedom and felt a deep sense of powerlessness and loss of control. A heavy pillow on our tiny chest—it meant not only…not only physical confinement, but also the feeling of not being heard, not being seen, and not being protected. Such early experiences often leave invisible marks on our psyche; they can create fears and inner blocks that follow us throughout life. Trust in ourselves and in others is shaken; the ability to feel freedom and safety is impaired. Her face was completely wet—from her own breath, from sweating, from struggling. She was almost suffocating. Probably only minutes away from something terrible happening. Was it thoughtlessness? Or something else already? No one knows. But one thing was clear: Our mother was not someone to be entrusted with care.

My older sister often told me that throughout her life, she repeatedly met people who showed a very specific behavioral pattern—a pattern familiar to us from our childhood. What exactly this “diagnosis” might be can only be guessed today… It’s not that she was evil, but that her own vulnerability and insecurity shaped her actions. She was never examined. But no one needed to. You could feel it. Even with an untrained eye.

My father often called her “полоумная,” which means half-witted. I often saw her cry because of that. It shows how deeply she suffered and how fragile her inner world was. But she could also become so angry that she hit my father—with a force he often felt in bruises. Physically, she was incredibly strong—a strength we all inherited from her. Maybe it’s not obvious at first glance, but a great power lives in our bodies, one that could make some men quite envious.

And so, somehow, we all grew up—not cared for, but rather survived. A way of being shaped more by “getting through” than by “being held.” Yes—I had similar experiences. On the outside, it eventually got better for me. But inside, another trauma remained. One that showed itself quietly but palpably throughout my life. What I want to say is this: We came from the same family. From the same parents. And each of us had our own wound to carry. And yet—I was the one who was hated. Not because I did anything wrong. Not because I did anything wrong—but because I was different, and I showed it without shame. Because from a young age, I strived to become better and better. I never truly belonged. Not back then. And not even today.

And you know what?
Today, I am even grateful for that.
Because this path of not belonging taught me to choose clearly.
I have become selective.
With my environment.
With the people I allow into my space.
Not out of spite,
but out of respect — for myself.…
And so we left Kazakhstan.
Me—without my siblings.
Only with my grandmother and my father.
A part of the family stayed behind.
A part of my heart, too.

December 1, 2000, was the day we left our village in Kazakhstan. To this day, that moment is etched in my memory as if it had happened only yesterday. For me, it was filled with anticipation, with a sense of inner departure—finally, I could leave the old world behind. I had always been someone drawn to the new, carried by a thirst for change. But this was the very first time I was truly leaving everything familiar, without any experience of what it meant.

And yet, joy was stronger than sorrow. Yes, for a brief moment it hurt to say goodbye to my sisters. But the excitement for what lay ahead was so powerful that it gently pushed the sadness into the background.

We traveled together with my grandmother’s children and their families. Not by plane, but by bus. Plane tickets for the three of us—my father, my grandmother, and me—were unreachable. What little remained after selling our house and our modest belongings, my grandmother wanted to save for our first steps in Germany. And so the decision was made: we would take the long journey by bus.

The three days on the road were exhausting and, at the same time, exhilarating—especially for us children. The route took us through Russia, Belarus, and Poland. The bus was full of other migrants. Some carried so much food that the entire bus was heavy with the smell of boiled chicken and sweat. I remember vividly sitting next to a woman. At some point, I dozed off and unknowingly laid my head on her shoulder. When I startled awake, I wanted to pull away in embarrassment—but she let me rest peacefully. That quiet, wordless act of kindness engraved itself deep in my heart.

My grandmother suffered the most during the trip. Her legs swelled painfully, so much so that it was even mentioned when we arrived in Friedland. Fortunately, the swelling went down soon after.

And then at last: Friedland. A place all migrants know, each carrying their own story of it. For me, it was a revelation. For the first time, I saw another country: unfamiliar houses, unfamiliar fences, unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar trees. Everything was different—and all of it seemed more beautiful than what I had known. It was as if a door had opened. A door to a new world, waiting to be discovered.

We spent about a week there—the memory is blurry. But I still feel how everything was thrilling, simply because it was new. We met people, and spent countless hours with our cousins. For us teenagers, it was a radiant, dazzling time.

But there were shadows as well. Once, I quarreled with a cousin. To this day, I have no idea what caused it. I only remember how suddenly she became aggressive and wanted to hit me—and I stood before her, ready to fight back. Another cousin, who always delighted in stirring conflict, added fuel to the fire. I am still surprised it didn’t turn into a physical fight but remained a heated exchange of words.

Looking back now, I see a pattern running like a red thread through my life: from early on, I had difficulties with girls—in this case, even with my own blood relatives. A theme that returned again and again.

Much later, during my studies of numerology, I came to understand what role these experiences played. Children born in February often encounter deep challenges in their female ancestral line from early childhood. Their task is to break through and heal these patterns. It often means they spend a lot of time with grandmothers and have complicated relationships with mothers or sisters.

I came to see why in our lineage there was so much envy, hostility, and hidden conflict among women. I realized these souls crossed my path as triggers so I could consciously look into my ancestral themes and heal them. My soul had chosen this path.

After a week in Friedland, we were sent to Wolfsburg. My grandmother’s children were scattered to neighboring towns. As much as she pleaded for us all to remain together, her wish was not granted. She never forgot it, spoke about it often, holding onto her resentment toward the woman responsible for the decision. Sadly, this tendency marked her life: my grandmother could not forgive easily.

And so we—my grandmother, my father, and I—stayed with my grandmother’s sister for several weeks. The others were temporarily placed in shelters until they received their own homes.

The first days in Wolfsburg were full of wonder for me. Everything was new: the products in the stores, the unfamiliar food, the bustling city life so different from our village. What thrilled me most was something simple—a toilet inside the apartment. Until then, I had only seen it in films. In our village, only a few families could afford such a luxury, and they were considered well-off. For us, it was normal to use the yard outside or, at night, a bucket inside the house.

It was these small things, seemingly ordinary details, that filled me with true delight. Even then, material things, comfort, and convenience held a special attraction for me. Everything new and unfamiliar filled me with joy and curiosity, stronger than any longing for the past.

I remember my first school in Germany well. It was a Realschule in the neighborhood where we lived. Based on my grades, I could have attended a Gymnasium. But since I didn’t know English—the first foreign language there—it was decided I would go to the Realschule, which offered Russian as a foreign language. My native tongue suddenly became a “foreign language.” Today, I find this almost absurd.

The decision about my schooling was not made by me, not even by my grandmother. She spoke only Plattdeutsch and could not handle such matters, so she handed the responsibility to a distant relative. That aunt decided it would be “enough” for me to attend Realschule rather than Gymnasium. Many years later, I realized I could have taken private lessons, and studied English in evening courses. And indeed, that’s what I began doing at eighteen.

I came to see that in life we do not always receive the full support we hope for. But hidden in this is a gift: the strength to walk one’s path with confidence and independence. So, after graduating from Realschule, I entered Gymnasium through my own efforts.

Today I know: every boundary that appeared before me only led me deeper into my own strength.

School was, overall, a pleasant time. I never experienced mockery or rejection simply because I was not from Germany. Many pupils were migrants or children of migrants, and that naturally made everyone accept. In that, I was fortunate.

Among Russian-speaking teenagers, I quickly found friends. They welcomed me into their circles, and most of my time I spent with them. This gave me a sense of belonging until I moved on to Gymnasium.

Even then, I knew I wanted to go to university. At that time, I dreamed of architecture, as I could imagine nothing that seemed so creative and prestigious at once. My decisions seemed mature, yet I was moving unconsciously—walking into darkness where only later I would learn to see the light.

By the end, I was among the top students across the four tenth grades. Of course, my marks were weaker than in Kazakhstan, due to my lack of German, but they were enough to enter Gymnasium directly into the eleventh grade.

I vividly remember the moment when, after being honored as one of the best students, I stepped off the stage and the principal walked over to where my grandmother sat. He shook her hand and thanked her for raising such a remarkable granddaughter, who within two years in Germany had become one of the best students. For my grandmother, this was profound recognition. That moment was engraved in her heart so deeply that even years later she recalled it with joy and pride. Especially precious was experiencing such recognition far from home, in a new land.

Between Closeness and Division
Before speaking of my Gymnasium years, I must share something about my relationship with my father. Moving to Germany meant we had to live together in one apartment—and I saw with my own eyes that he continued to drink here too. The state provided him with benefits, including my share, to support our life. But he never passed that portion on to my grandmother. She carried the burden of providing for me, while he surrendered to alcohol.

The nights were often filled with shouting. He screamed, cursed, vomited so loudly we could not sleep, sometimes ran naked through the flat—and in the morning denied it all, calling us liars. Those who have lived with alcoholics know how tightly truth and falsehood intertwine in their world.

What hurt me most was that he suddenly tried to interfere with my upbringing. I was fifteen or sixteen then—and I had no respect left for him. Our past, our constant fights, the violence, and what he continued to show even here in Germany—none of this left space for trust. We quarreled, sometimes physically. My only refuge was often the bathroom, where I locked myself away. Once, in rage, he even tore out the doorframe to get to me.

At that time, I realized I had to defend myself against my own father—something a child should never face. A father is meant to be a protector. In my story, he was the aggressor, a man who provoked me to drain my energy. And he does so still—only now I am strong and aware enough to give him nothing.

When he flew into rages, he bit his own arms. Since childhood, he had suffered from a nervous condition he was born with. In those moments, it seemed as if a demon were pushing to break out of his body and hurl itself upon me. My reaction—almost my only one in those years—was utter disgust, a defense against his madness.

Beer glasses, plates—anything within reach he would throw. The reason was always the same: he demanded respect, which I could no longer give him. It felt like a sudden attempt to claim the role of father, which he had never fulfilled. My inner being rebelled. In such moments, I was bursting with a sense of justice I had carried for years. I longed for truth and could not accept people demanding attention and respect while offering none themselves—acting in the opposite way.

On top of it all, my grandmother became even more fearful in this foreign country. For me, that meant even more restrictions and prohibitions. I wanted to do sports, have hobbies, and develop myself but was often not allowed—partly for financial reasons, partly because of her fears.

We lived as three generations under one roof, each with our own temperament. And in the middle of it all was me, thirsting for another life. Today I understand it was not just hunger for something new, but a deep longing for freedom, a desire to break out of the cage.

At that time, I had some friendships, but none truly absorbed me. I was in a phase of development I didn’t yet understand, and I adopted many unhealthy patterns.

Since neither my father nor grandmother gave me money, I began borrowing from friends. When invited somewhere, and I had nothing, I asked for their support. I often didn’t know how I would repay, yet somehow I always did. Sometimes I was gifted money; sometimes I was helped in other ways.

My father gave me what he called fifty euros of “pocket money.” For him, that was supposed to cover food, clothing, school supplies, and all my expenses. In truth, everything was provided by my grandmother. His money was symbolic rather than real support.

Thus, I learned early to borrow money—and I internalized a heavy family pattern of dependence. While one relative fought with alcohol, I carried the burden of money.

At the same time, I searched for ways to be more independent. My father drank away the allowance meant for me. It was unbearable, and I decided I wanted to deprive him of that possibility.

So I began working weekends at the Volkswagen factory. Many students had such jobs, cleaning new cars. For me, it was more than work. It was a conscious choice—to stand on my own feet and take away from my father the money intended for me.

And indeed: as soon as I began working, the benefits he used to receive on my behalf stopped. He exploded with rage…

The work became a valuable school, even if it took time from my studies. But it gave me my first taste of independence and the strength of knowing I could actively shape my life, even in hard circumstances.

Years later, in my study of numerology, I understood why all this played out so strongly. It was not just my “personal problem,” but an ancestral theme. In our lineage, dependencies recurred—alcohol for one, money for another. My soul had chosen to pass through this to recognize, break, and heal it.

Today I see clearly: what once seemed like weakness was in truth the beginning of my healing work—for me and for my lineage.

First Steps Into Freedom
At Gymnasium, I met the girl who would become my best friend. She spoke to me during Russian class—yes, I continued studying Russian as a foreign language, and this was the only Gymnasium that admitted me without English. That’s how a close friendship began.

She was bright, interesting, full of life, and we clicked immediately. On the very first day, I placed her on a pedestal. Over time, our friendship took the shape of her leading and me following. Back then, I was insecure, too yielding.

We spent eleven wonderful years together—filled with joy, closeness, and unforgettable moments. But it was also a phase in which I learned to understand myself more deeply.

Meanwhile, the pressure at home grew heavier. I could no longer bear it. My father was losing control, my grandmother was ever more restrictive, and I longed to live. I was always dutiful: I studied well, helped at home, never touched drugs… And yet my wish for freedom was constantly denied. “No money, something will happen to you…” – Such were the answers.

What drained me most was life with my father and the constant restrictions from my grandmother. I could no longer endure the madness—his outbursts, her fears, their limitations…

So I turned to child services. I wanted my own apartment. But my situation was not seen as “extreme.” My father was invited as well, and as always he played his role perfectly: at home the devil, in public the angel. They believed him more than me. Outwardly he looked like a caring father, and I was seen as a difficult teenager. I received no help.

But I did not give up. I kept seeking support, and eventually succeeded through social services. After several attempts, I was granted an allowance that enabled me to rent a room. At nineteen, I moved out. Not far from school, I found a townhouse with rooms for rent, and one became mine.

I told my grandmother only in the evening, the very day I moved. I knew why: had I told her earlier, she would have “talked me out of it.” Even then, I had a fine sense for people. I could not bear her constant scolding or the negative energy she carried with her. My grandmother knew how to manipulate, how to press on emotions—and in such a situation, it would have been unbearable. I did not want to put myself in a place where I would be worn down, so I kept silent until the end.

Only once my things were packed and there was no turning back, did I tell her. I remember how hard it was for her. Later I learned from a cousin that she had cried and called her children, telling them I had left.

Even now, it pains me to know how deeply it hurt her—the person who loved me most of all.

Years later, she still claimed I had left only because of my friend—that it was she who had changed me. In truth, my friend was just one piece of the puzzle. She showed me that life could be different, and with her I could try new things. But the decision to leave home came from my inner drive—my thirst for freedom and my longing to walk my own path.

It was my first great decision—to choose myself. I needed silence, peace, a space free from fights and pressure. And even if my grandmother could not give me that, I knew I could give it to myself.

It was one of the best decisions of my life. That was when I realized: we choose our destiny. Yes, decisions can be difficult, and their consequences painful. But eventually, it is in our hands to choose what best serves our soul.

And so, my move became the beginning of a new chapter. For the first time, I lived within my own four walls, free from the shouting and control at home. I continued my studies at Gymnasium and worked to support myself. The rent was covered until I earned more. I worked part-time in an ice cream café and earned my own money.

It was the beginning of a new life—one that was not always easy, but finally truly my own

When I moved out, a new life began for me.
It felt unfamiliar—a little frightening—to be alone in a room for the first time, to live by myself, carrying all the responsibility that suddenly rested on my young shoulders.
I was still very young, but I embraced everything with an open, positive heart. I dreamed of a vast future, a world at my feet.

My performance at the gymnasium was never particularly good. Somehow, I managed to move up every year. At one point, many advised me to repeat the eleventh grade. They said it would be almost impossible to graduate later if my grades were just enough to pass. I listened to their advice. I had no one in my family who could truly guide me—no one had ever come this far.

And yes—my grades were not the best, but they were good enough to stay in school. In some subjects, especially Italian, I did very well. Languages had always come naturally to me. But in everything else, I struggled—for many reasons.

One of the reasons I struggled so much at school was the language barrier.
I had become shy, almost silent. And anyone who knows the German school system knows that the oral grade often counts for sixty percent, while the written one counts for only forty. So on paper, I was perhaps average – but when it came to speaking, I was a disaster.
Not because I didn’t know the answers, but because I felt insecure.

Someone who had once been lively and open had suddenly grown quiet.
I was afraid of making mistakes, afraid of being laughed at if I said something wrong.
I couldn’t understand how others spoke so loudly and confidently, defending their opinions even when they weren’t right. It didn’t matter what was said – only how it was said.
Confidence was rewarded more than truth. And that shook my self-esteem deeply.

But exactly there, something new began. That uncertainty became the beginning of my inner journey – to know myself, to face my weaknesses, and to discover my strengths.

Many years later, I realized that my shyness didn’t only come from insecurity – it came from shame. I was ashamed of my accent. It was like a quiet signature of my origin that always gave me away. I wanted to belong, to sound “right,” to sound like everyone else.

Only years later, when I lived in Canada, did that begin to shift. I decided to work on my accent and invested in accent reduction therapy to minimize my German-Russian pronunciation.
And indeed – while I sat in the therapist’s office, I could hear the improvement.
My voice sounded smoother, clearer, almost native. But every time I left the room and returned to daily life, my accent came back—naturally, effortlessly, as if it were part of my DNA. And at some point, I understood why it was.

I never “fixed” it – and today, I would never want to. You can hear, in every language I speak, that I carry others within me. And that, to me now, is something beautiful.

I would not trade it for anything in the world. Because that sound in my voice—that blend of tones and roots—tells my story.

It reminds me that I am a person whose essence was not diluted by social expectations, not shaped by the pressure to sound like everyone else just to be accepted.

Because the truth is – you are not truly accepted when you lose yourself trying to fit in.

My accent remained. But what I gained is priceless. The shame I once felt has disappeared. No matter what language I speak now – I speak from within.

This is my small message to you:
You may not always get what you think you want when you strive for something new.
But often, life gives you something far greater—something more than perfection or approval: yourself.

Another reason my performance at school fluctuated was work.
I often worked up to six hours after school. I was already living alone, and although it was quiet, the family arguments never seemed to end – even when I visited.

I still remember one situation vividly, as if it were carved into my memory.
Once, I brought my laundry to my grandmother’s house because there was no washing machine in my room or in the whole building. My only option was to wash things by hand. So, I thought it practical to bring them to my grandma.

But instead of understanding, I faced bitter disappointment.
My father became angry and accused me of wasting their money – because of the electricity the washing machine used.
My grandmother tried to comfort me, told me not to listen to him, and told me to keep bringing my clothes. But I was too proud. I never did it again.

That moment hurt me deeply. Even years later, I could still feel that sting – the coldness in the air, the loneliness that followed.

From then on, I took my clothes to the dry cleaner. It cost money, of course—so I had to work even more to afford it. Later, I bought a small bucket and began hand-washing everything at home, drying it in my tiny room. I did what I could. I fought quietly, with the strength I had.

Some might say, “Well, if you moved out, you have to take responsibility.”
And yes, of course.
But that was not the point. It wasn’t about responsibility – it was about being left alone once again.
There was never a moment in my life when my father truly supported me. On the contrary, later it was even expected that I would be the one to take care of him.

There was another reason my school performance suffered.
Somewhere deep inside me, unnoticed, a quiet depression had taken root.
I did not know when it began. Back then, I hardly even knew the word – let alone what it meant.
But looking back now, I believe it started when I was around sixteen or word—letseventeen—in the time when I slipped into an eating disorder, a kind of bulimia.

I still lived with my family.
It was that age when girls want to lose weight, when the mind begins to equate beauty with worthiness – to believe that only those who are beautiful are loved.
It’s the stage when the psyche starts to learn that love often seems conditional: be pretty, be strong, be perfect.

Now I see how many signs there already were that I needed to learn self-love.
But there was no one around me who could recognize it, no one who understood such things.
I went through all stages of my inner struggle alone.
And, as it often happens, what was not understood was punished.

My grandmother eventually noticed that I always went to the bathroom right after meals. She didn’t know why.
I made myself throw up – I put my fingers down my throat, trying to regain a sense of control that I lacked everywhere else.
But instead of receiving help, I was scolded.
She accused me of wasting food—and with it, money.

So I fought not only with an invisible pain but also with guilt and accusation. The worst part was that soon the entire extended family knew.
I was mocked, shamed, and humiliated.

Once, when I stayed a week with my uncle, the bathroom door was locked after dinner. When I asked why, my “problem” was mentioned right in front of everyone.
I felt exposed—and betrayed by my grandmother.

It seemed that in this family there was never a secret that stayed protected. Everything was discussed, passed around, absorbed—and later used against me. My weaknesses became gossip; my vulnerability, a source of shame.

Looking back, I believe that was the time when my depression truly began to take shape. At that time, I wasn’t aware of it.
Only later, when I was at the gymnasium and the pressure grew heavier from all sides, did I start to have panic attacks – especially during the preliminary exams for my final graduation.

My best friend told her mother about it.
Her mother said it sounded like depression, since I often felt as if I were “under a glass dome” – as if everything around me was unreal, distant, dreamlike.
So I decided to see a neurologist.

But the appointment was disappointing. He barely listened, asked no questions.
After a few minutes he reached for his prescription pad and wrote down antidepressants. I felt unseen – dismissed.
I was sent away with a slip of paper that was supposed to heal my soul.

Furthermore, I took the medication at first, but deep down I knew—this wasn’t the way. I stopped soon after.

When I told my younger sister—who was already in Germany—she laughed and said I was crazy for taking pills.
That hurt more than she could imagine.
It felt so lonely—to not be understood by anyone.

During that same time, I was taking driving lessons.
It took me a long time—I even paused for six months after failing the practical exam three times.
The theoretical test I passed without a single mistake. But driving itself—that was different.

Now I know that it was because of my mental state, the exhaustion and pressure I carried. My driving instructor was not kind either; he often shouted at me, adding more fear and tension.

And as I write this now, I realize how many layers of stress, fear, confusion, and silent pain I carried back then—without knowing, without anyone to help me hold it.

It was a long road before I finally held my driver’s license in my hands. So much money, so many hours, so many small tests—not only on the road, but also in life itself.
At first, my grandmother didn’t want to support me. She said she wouldn’t give me any money for it and asked why I wanted to do it at all if I wouldn’t be able to afford a car afterward. Those words weren’t truly hers. They had been whispered to her—by someone in the family, someone who, as so often, interfered in decisions that really only concerned me.

I see it differently today. Back then I didn’t understand, but now I can feel how deeply the voices of others shaped my path. Later, my grandmother changed her mind. She helped me, covering about half of the costs—and I was grateful for that. My father, as usual, contributed nothing.

When I look back at that time now, I feel both gratitude and a quiet ache inside, where a pattern reveals itself—one that was already forming back then. Too many influences from outside, too many people who believed they knew what was right for me. And yet, despite everything, I was always the one who kept going my own way. Perhaps not loudly, but with quiet determination.

Today, many years later, I sometimes hear that things didn’t happen that way, that people remember it differently. And each time, I feel how truth shifts depending on the eyes that see it. Everyone carries their own version of the story. But mine lives within me—quietly, clearly, and truthfully.

Maybe that’s why I speak differently now. I no longer tell my story to prove something or to correct anyone. I share it so that others can take something from it, something they can use in their own daily lives. Without struggle, without defense—simply as it has become within me.

And perhaps that is where also your forgiveness begins—not outwardly, but inwardly.
Of course, not everything was dark during that time.
There were also moments when I felt life pulsing through me—when I laughed, danced, and dreamed. I was young, and all the ordinary desires of youth did not pass me by.

That was when I began to care deeply about how I looked.
The money I earned from my job at the ice cream shop went into clothes—little things that made me feel like I belonged. I believed that being well-dressed made me prettier, maybe even more lovable. That through this, I could somehow become “normal.”

And yes—the saying “clothes make the person” carries some truth. But they only soothe the soul for a moment. Healing, true healing, begins only when we start to look inward and invest there.
Back then, though, fashion was my escape. My way of coping with the noise inside me.

I also went out—to small gatherings, to discos, sometimes with a drink or a cigarette. I was never addicted; it was more of a social ritual, something that made me feel part of a group.

And so my years at the gymnasium passed—between school, work, and small escapes into nightlife, most often with my best friend by my side.

But the chapter ended differently than I had hoped.
I did not pass my final exams. I failed three subjects—only Italian, my language of the heart; I passed well.
I had one week to retake the exams, but I chose not to.

I didn’t believe that I could make up in one week what I had been struggling with for years. Deep down, I knew that my failure wasn’t just about studying—it was about my inner exhaustion, the fatigue of my soul.

I pretended to be fine.
I acted cool, as if it didn’t touch me—especially in front of my best friend. I didn’t want to appear weak or emotional. But that was a mistake.

I should have faced it, felt it, understood it. Instead, I buried it all—just like I always did.

I thought it was better to appear strong, to be who others expected me to be.
Only much later did I realize how much of a wall that created inside me—how it closed the natural flow of my feelings.

You can imagine what that does to someone who once was among the best in school, and suddenly finds themselves failing.

During that time, something happened that I will never forget.
A relative stepped on my foot while standing in the doorway—seemingly accidentally, yet it didn’t feel accidental at all.
Something in me sensed that it carried another meaning, something energetic, something not quite right.
I let it go back then, dismissed the strange feeling, tried not to dwell on it.

Only years later did I learn that in certain forms of folk magic, such an act is used as a ritual—to block someone’s path, to hinder their personal growth.

In old stories and magical traditions, the act of stepping on another person’s foot in the doorway is not seen as a simple gesture, but as a symbolic act.
In many cultures, feet represent one’s path—movement, development, the soul’s progression through life. They carry us through all our stages, through joy and transformation.

When someone steps on another’s foot intentionally—out of envy, dominance, or old custom—it can be seen as an attempt to disrupt that person’s path, to obstruct the natural flow of their life.
Such beliefs appear in old Slavic zagovory (spoken spells) and in foot- or footprint-magic rituals found in other parts of the world.

Everywhere the Earth is revered as the keeper of our steps; such an act was once seen as interference with destiny itself—an attempt to change the direction of someone’s life.

And when I learned about this much later, I realized that something like that might have been done to me—precisely at the time when life had become so heavy, when I could barely move forward.

Yet every energetic act carries its counterpart – awareness.
The moment I recognized that something might have been directed against my path, the healing began.
It was as if a pattern, long hidden, had suddenly revealed itself to me.

With light, with mindfulness, with inner clarity, I began to transform the shadow on my path. Not through struggle, but through understanding.

Whether one believes in such things or not—for me, this realization was healing. It helped me see the unexplainable parts of my life with greater compassion.

I understood that some paths do not close because we fail, but because something—internal or external—blocks our flow.

And yet, the moment awareness awakens, the path begins to open again.

That is precisely what happened to me.
As I started to see the connections, as I stopped questioning my own light, the knots that had bound me for years began to loosen.

I realized that no shadow is eternal—and that even what tries to stop us can become part of our awakening.

After the exams, I decided at least to complete my Fachabitur—my specialized secondary diploma.
I wanted to prove to myself that all those years of learning, striving, and holding on were not for nothing.

So I began a one-year internship at the public health insurance office, and together with my earlier school records, I was finally able to confirm my qualification.

It wasn’t a grand triumph according to the world—but for me, it was a quiet victory.
A small, steady step that showed me that something within me had never stopped moving forward.
That even after all the setbacks, the flame in me was still alive.

I learned that success has many faces.
Sometimes it doesn’t come through grades or certificates, but through the inner strength to keep walking—no matter how slow, no matter how heavy the path feels.

Five years of my life—for a Fachabitur.
Five years of trials, detours, lessons, and silent resilience.
Five years in which I failed many times, and yet, each time, I stood up again.

By then, I was already living with my boyfriend in Braunschweig.
It was another new phase of my life—quieter, more grounded, and yet filled with inner questions.
After all the years of fighting, searching, and stumbling, I began to feel something change inside me.
A new awareness was taking form.

I realized that not every path we choose is truly ours. Some dreams are meant to transform so that we can grow. And as I began to accept that truth, I felt a deep peace settling in.

Looking back now, I see how deeply those years shaped me. All that happened—the pain, the lessons, the disappointments—they didn’t break me. They formed me.

No, I didn’t come out of that time with the best results—at least not in the way society usually measures success. After seven years in Germany, I had preserved something far more important: myself. Back then, I didn’t spend much time researching whether I could study architecture with my Fachabitur.

Today, I sometimes ask myself why I didn’t try harder to find out—because, in truth, it would have been possible. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the weight of all the circumstances that surrounded me at the time—so many decisions, so many unanswered questions, all pressing in at once.

And yet, I feel that everything happened exactly as it was meant to. I chose to stay in that direction and beganocational training as a technical draftswoman in the field of heating, climate, and sanitary systems. It wasn’t a glamorous path, not the dream I once imagined as a child. But it was real. Tangible. Grounded.

And perhaps that was precisely what I needed back then—something to bring me back to earth after all the uncertainty and fragility of the years before.

Because just as life tested me again and again, it also taught me to keep walking—step by step, with an open heart. Always forward. No matter what.
‍
And so I began to embrace this new chapter—not as an end, but as the beginning of something different.

When I moved in with my boyfriend after finishing school, a new chapter of my life began.
Suddenly, everything felt brighter. Calmer. Safer.

The next five and a half years felt like an exhale—as if, for the first time, my inner world could finally rest.

I don’t want to go too deep into that time because my former partner is married now,
and I wish to leave the past in peace—with respect.

But one thing must be said: he was the first man who truly saw me as a partner.

He treated me with respect - genuine, steady, and with a quiet depth that still touches me today. Through him, I learned what it means to be seen, appreciated, and accepted.

And for that, I am still deeply grateful.The most important realization, however, came later — in another chapter of my life.
That relationship became the foundation of something I still carry within me today:
I have never allowed a man to treat me badly - because I knew it could be different.
I had experienced what it feels like to be loved with respect, warmth, and sincerity.

Maybe that first real relationship became a kind of invisible measure - a quiet bar against which everything that followed was compared. Not only by others, but by me.

And I don’t mean that I compared partners. It was something deeper. Through that first relationship, I had learned where my personal boundaries were - what level of respect, depth, and presence I needed in love.

That inner standard stayed with me -not out of pride, but out of awareness. I knew what felt right. And I could never again go back to anything less.

He gave me what my parents never could - what my father never taught me.
And that’s why I could no longer overlook it when something felt smaller than that.

I learned to set boundaries - lovingly, but firmly. I learned what respect truly means.
And I began to expect it, naturally, without hesitation.

No man was ever allowed to belittle, hurt, or demean me.

I was often in love — or at least I thought I was. It took me many years to realize
that I had truly loved only two men in my life — deeply, honestly, soulfully.

Back then, I saw my partner as a safe place, a quiet harbor. Before that, I had known only disappointment - nothing dramatic, but painful enough to awaken a longing for stability.
And if you knew the life I’d lived up to that point, you’d understand why I longed for something steady.

At that time, I made a conscious decision that he was the right one. But somewhere deep inside, I already knew he wasn’t right for me.

Once, he even stood up for me when my father called me something no father should ever say to his daughter. My boyfriend didn’t hesitate. In a calm, firm voice, he interrupted - and my father immediately fell silent. He remained respectful, but his quiet strength was enough to stop him.

It was the most powerful and beautiful gesture anyone had ever made for me.

That’s why I experienced his affection as something precious - refreshing, healing.
It gave me air to breathe.

I entered that relationship believing that reason and stability could be enough. But my soul was asking for more. Perhaps it was right for a time - certainly healing - but not for a lifetime.

It’s well known that many women struggle in relationships because they’ve never truly known their father’s love. And although that wound followed me through the years, and although I never again allowed anyone to mistreat me - I still attracted men who couldn’t love me deeply.

So yes, pain returned later in life - not because someone deliberately hurt me, but because I always sensed too early when something was off. When words and intentions didn’t align.
I recognized patterns before they repeated themselves.

And so many connections ended before they could truly begin. Because deep inside, I didn’t know love - not the kind that nourishes, not the kind that stays.

That became the seed of my healing journey - of all the shadow work, all the lessons, all the inner transformations that would one day help me understand why certain things in my life unfolded the way they did.

Too much had gone wrong from the very beginning - from birth itself. And I had to heal it, piece by piece.

But even in that early relationship, I could feel that everyday life - the routine so many people call “normal” - was slowly suffocating me. Work, home, cooking, routine - my soul was drying out. It was starving for something else.

I was the one who looked sideways - at the world, at life, at people. At work, in a club, on the street - II was searching for movement, for a spark of aliveness. I didn’t want attention for the sake of attention. I just needed a pulse - something new, something real.

This hunger for “more” often led me into extreme situations. It was as if life itself was sending me exactly where growth was unavoidable.

I was drawn to conversations about inner work, about self-awareness, about consciousness.
Topics that went beyond what people usually talked about. Now I know that this was no coincidence. My soul carries the vibration of Five - freedom, change, depth, experience.

I was never meant for a static life. I need to feel, explore, move - to understand.

I love with my ears. I fall in love when I learn something - when a conversation expands me,
when a thought touches my soul.

Even in love, that never changed. To this day, I feel no spark if a man cannot teach me something new - if I sense that I’m ahead of him in awareness or growth.

It’s not about superiority or power. It’s about resonance - about meeting on the same frequency of consciousness.

I speak of evolution. Of a man who leads without dominating. Who gives stability because he himself is grounded? Who doesn’t hold his woman small but grows alongside her.

Today, when so many men chase material things, I lose interest quickly. A paradox -because I do love the material world. I’ve always dreamed of a refined life. But what fascinates me most is balance - the harmony between the spiritual and the material. That connection awakens all my senses.

A man who spends his evenings on the couch, without dreams, without fire - he has no space in my life. That realization sharpened over the years. With every lesson, every experience, every fall and rise, my standards evolved.

Today, I no longer have room for anything less than depth, for empty talk, or shallow encounters.

I am too risky. Too unpredictable. Too free.
Too conscious to be manipulated - and that, I know, silently frightens many men.

But let’s return for a moment -back home.

I remember having to buy my own computer in installments. Neither my grandmother nor my father wanted to help me. I needed it for school - even back in secondary school, I knew that without one, it would be almost impossible to manage in higher education.

Looking back, I was right. But you can imagine what that caused among my family. My grandmother supported me as best she could - always. Yet later, that same support became the reason for arguments. Whenever money was involved, things turned heavy.

All my small failures - especially the financial ones - were remembered, collected, like invisible notes stored away in their minds.

And when I went through one of the painful phases of my life, they used those memories against me. Every payment, every choice, every risk - suddenly it was all brought back up.

Not as compassion, but as proof. Proof of what they had always wanted to make me believe:
that I wasn’t good enough. That I was nothing without them. That the way I lived was a mistake.

But that was never the truth. It was their mirror - not mine.

They had gathered my past to use against me when I was vulnerable. But by then, I already knew how such people operated. I understood why they attacked. And I had long since learned to face, accept, and transform my own weaknesses.

They couldn’t do that - because they never faced their own. Shadow work was foreign to them. Inner healing was a territory they refused to explore. They preferred to judge, rather than look into the mirror.

I had chosen a different path - the raw, honest path back to myself. And that made all the difference.

As for that “computer story”… my relatives told my grandmother I didn’t need one. Their children hadn’t had one for the school purposes - why should I?

They said a computer was a luxury, not a necessity. And maybe it was but underneath, there was a hidden message: that I didn’t deserve it.

Advice given from limited experience can become a cage. And my grandmother, as she often did, listened to other voices more than to mine.

That’s how I learned early on that understanding and support can’t always be expected - not even from the people closest to you.

Over time, I noticed something else: it’s often those with the least awareness who have the loudest opinions. And when it comes to morality - not everyone can truly wear that label.
Morality is not about words or appearances, but about consciousness, empathy, and inner truth.

People project their fears and limitations onto you - especially when you dare to live differently. They never allowed themselves to go beyond their own boundaries,
so they can’t understand how you do.

They might say, “Who do you think you are? If we can’t do it, how dare you?”

But here lies the invitation: understand that what people say about you rarely says anything about you at all. It’s projection - a mirror of their limits, not yours.

They don’t reveal who you are - they reveal who they are.

Yes, I made mistakes. I wanted things too soon, too quickly. I took on installment payments -
but never for pleasure, never for meaningless things.

 Always for growth. For learning. For becoming.

That time taught me more about responsibility than any classroom ever could. It also showed me how hard it is to walk your path alone - to fight for a vision no one else sees.

Even now, decades later, many of those same voices remain trapped in the same small patterns they once defended. Because they never learned anything new.

The reason I mention this whole “computer thing” is because it played a much bigger role in my life than one might think.
I was already eighteen when I could finally afford a computer — only then was I allowed to begin a payment plan. And that seemingly simple fact had consequences that went far beyond the material.

Because of it, my computer skills remained limited for a long time. Even later, when I attended high school, I still lacked what so many children in Germany had been learning naturally since early childhood.
That missing foundation showed up again during my training as a technical draftswoman — a profession where you’re expected to start with a certain level of experience.

It also showed in my confidence. An older trainee often laughed at me when I didn’t know certain basic terms or programs. And the person who was supposed to train me sometimes used my visible insecurity — my trembling uncertainty — to make belittling or hurtful remarks.
I felt mocked, misunderstood, humiliated. I can no longer recall her exact words, but I still remember the feeling — that burning, painful sense of shame.

After about a month of training, I had a panic attack while driving home.
I cried — from pain, from helplessness, from being completely overwhelmed. I stopped at the side of the highway to calm myself down. I don’t know how long I sat there — but eventually, I managed to drive on.

Maybe that moment was the reason I still finished the training — because it was the first time in my life I had to pause and breathe, instead of just functioning.

And perhaps you’re wondering why I didn’t say anything back then — why I never told anyone at work what was really happening.
The truth is: I was afraid. Afraid they wouldn’t believe me. Afraid it would be seen as weakness. Afraid I’d lose my position — that they’d believe the person who had been there for years, not the new, insecure trainee.

Deep inside, the old trauma from my school years was still alive — the experience of failing my final exams. That wound gnawed at my self-worth, pulling me downward.
Today, it all feels so far away — like another lifetime. But back then, I didn’t yet have the life experience, the inner strength, or the trust that I have now.
My life was still heavily shaped by external influences — and my inner world too fragile to protect itself.

And if you ever find yourself in a similar place, I want to tell you one thing:
Speak. Silence does not protect — it only makes you lonelier.
No one has the right to belittle or hurt you. Reach out, talk to someone you trust. You don’t have to carry it alone.  And above all: never allow anyone to use your insecurity against you.

Learn to work with your weaknesses — gently, patiently, honestly. Because once you know your own shadows, no one can turn them against you. Every attack loses its power, and the light returns to the one who sent it out.
Your sensitivity is not a flaw — it is the expression of your depth, your feeling, your soul. Hold yourself when no one else can. Because in those moments, true healing begins.

That time also taught me how the professional world really works:
You are observed. And the moment you show insecurity, some will use it as an entry point—especially those who feel triggered by your energy. That’s why so many people hide their true emotions, wearing a mask so they won’t appear vulnerable.
They build up immense pressure inside—too much stress, too many expectations, all just to avoid failure.

But this constant hiding, this swallowing of pain, slowly destroys the inner system.
That’s how depression, illness, exhaustion, and burnout are born—until, eventually, the person beneath collapses.

In our society, those who show their feelings and weaknesses openly are often seen as “too soft.” Yet in truth, they are the strongest of all. Because they open within themselves the process of real, pure love—for themselves and for life.

Yes, back then there were many gaps in my awareness, many insecurities.
And they were visible to others. Some attacked me for them—perhaps because, despite everything, they sensed something in me they lacked themselves: my light, my yearning to grow, my inner call toward something higher.

And despite all my weaknesses — I kept going.
And I did not stop.

Later, life unfolded again- and after five years, something inside me began to stir. A quiet pull to leave everything behind. To break free from the relationship everyone saw as “perfect.”

On the outside, it looked ideal - the kind of love people dream of. But inside, I felt as if I was slowly suffocating. I couldn’t understand what was happening. After all, I had everything a young woman was “supposed” to want - a stable relationship, security, plans for marriage, children, a shared home. And yet… nothing touched me deeply. I didn’t want any of it. It wasn’t truly my life.

Sometimes I cried without knowing why. Not only for myself - even my partner couldn’t understand it. Now I know it was my soul crying - asking to be heard. Begging for freedom.

Back then, I didn’t understand what was wrong with me. Why was I unhappy when everything seemed perfect? Why did I feel as though I was betraying someone - when, in truth, I was betraying myself?

I was living the life of others - the life I thought I was supposed to live. Perhaps I stayed because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, because I didn’t want to be called selfish.

But in doing so, I hurt myself - because I was lying to my own heart.

I wanted to be the perfect girlfriend, to meet expectations, to do everything “right.” But in that constant effort to appear right on the outside, I lost touch with what was true inside.

I no longer felt myself - my needs, my truth, my soul.It doesn’t happen often that you meet uch a kind, generous partner -  someone who gives you everything you think you need.
And yet, despite it all, something was missing. Something unspoken, something I couldn’t name.

And that’s why my soul wept…

Not because I didn’t love him - but because I could no longer hear myself. Because I had silenced my own voice in the attempt to be everything for everyone else.I was following standards and ideals that didn’t belong to me. I was being the woman society wanted —
not the woman my soul came here to be.

And so my soul cried - quietly, persistently - until I finally listened.

I wanted to go out into the world. To soothe that hunger in my heart. To experience something new - something that could heal the parts of me I didn’t yet know were broken.

At the time, I didn’t even realize there was something to heal.

But the truth is - the worst thing you can ever do is lie to yourself just to please others. That is the fastest path to inner destruction. I later understood how deep this truth runs. Because how can you trust someone who lies to themselves? If you’re not honest with yourself, you can never build real intimacy with another.

That became one of my guiding principles - in love, in friendship, in every connection. I watch for honesty - the kind that begins within. Because only then can trust grow. It’s not about being perfect - it’s about being real.

And that’s what matters most to me now. Your past doesn’t define your worth as long as you learn from it. True value doesn’t come from flawlessness - it comes from awareness, from the courage to face yourself fully.

My life had evolved by then - I was strong, independent, focused on material success. I thought I had left my past behind. I didn’t believe my childhood wounds still influenced me.

But later, I realized - to be truly free, you must face them. 

And so I made a decision: to go abroad for a year, together with my best friend at the time.

A fire of excitement lit up inside me. I had a dream, a goal - and suddenly everything felt possible.I was inexperienced,  shaped by family expectations and social norms, but something inside me wanted more.

I chose Canada. There were many reasons - but mostly because it was easier than going to the U.S.

After my apprenticeship, I planned to study fashion design. Fashion had always played a role in my life. I organized everything so I could start studying upon my return.

First, I needed to finish my apprenticeship. It lasted three and a half years - but I didn’t want to wait that long. So I decided to shorten it by six months.

That was only possible with good grades - and I had them. Over the years, my scholarly performance has improved.That feeling of safety and stability I had gently reflected onto everything in my life.

Yet still, a thought haunted me: “It’s just an apprenticeship — real studies are for the smart ones.”

How deeply wrong that thought was.I had convinced myself that my earlier failure was about intelligence - that those who “only” took vocational paths weren’t clever enough.

But that was never true. I had cornered myself with my own beliefs.And that’s why I want to tell you: never underestimate your own strength. Your thoughts shape your reality.

I submitted my request to shorten my apprenticeship - and it was approved.
Three classmates followed my example, and soon we were a small study group, meeting several evenings a week to master what school had not yet taught us.

It was an exciting time. We had set a goal that few dared to pursue - and we achieved it.

I completed my vocational apprenticeship with good results, and for the first time, I felt the door to freedom open.

Afterward, I began preparing my portfolio for the fashion design program in Hamburg.
I joined a short preparatory course, where within a few months we built our creative portfolios.

I loved that time - the art, the expression, the freedom to create.During the week, I stayed with an acquaintance, someone I’d met through another friend. I moved in for three months - we shared a small apartment, one bed, and many evenings filled with laughter and deep conversation.

That brief encounter grew into a lasting friendship - one that still warms my heart today.

Around that time, my relationship with my boyfriend grew more fragile. We argued often, broke up a few times, but always found our way back.

I remember one argument vividly - I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. It turned into a panic attack. Maybe that’s why we stayed together. Maybe compassion held us longer than love.

Looking back, I know - if I had still loved him deeply, I would never have gone to Canada alone. I would have done everything to stay.When I love, I love with all of me. But leaving was my soul’s way out. Had I stayed, I would have never been able to let go.

It wasn’t the love of passion anymore - it was the tender affection for a soul who felt like family. A love pure and quiet —-for a man who was kind, who I wished nothing but light.

His family became my safe place. They gave me what my own family couldn’t - warmth, belonging, genuine love. To this day, I’m still close to his mother. There’s a quiet, loving bond between us - something many never understood, something a few even envied.

My father, of course, disapproved. He thought it was wrong to stay close to an ex’s family.
But I knew that was only the limit of his understanding.I learned that it’s pointless to argue with those who live from a different level of awareness.

Some people simply don’t understand heart connections because they’ve never allowed themselves to feel that deeply.

And it’s not about judging them - it’s about seeing them, understanding that every soul acts from the level of consciousness it has reached.

We meet others only as deeply as we’ve met ourselves. 

And that truth changed everything for me. Because every encounter mirrors the space we’ve already opened within.

In those moments, you don’t always know what’s right. You simply listen to that quiet voice inside - even when it makes no sense.

It’s your compass. Your truth. The one voice that will never betray you.

And listening to it - even when fear walked beside me - was the beginning of my journey back home to myself.

And so it happened that I stood at the airport in Berlin—with only one suitcase of my belongings, 1000 euros in my pocket, which were supposed to last for a whole year, and my best friend holding my hand.

My boyfriend at the time had driven us there; back then we were still together, and saying goodbye to him was hard. At that moment, it suddenly became crystal clear what it means to go to another country—without him, without any stability, without any support.

Many people considered my decision naïve and risky, simply because they themselves would never have dared to do it. But it had always been my wish to live a life I would never regret. And so it was—andlater—perhaps so it still is, to this day.

There is nothing worse for me than living your life according to someone else’s standards, burying your own desires out of fear, and later—perhaps at the end of life—realizing how deeply you regret the things you did not do. That has never changed: I have never regretted what I did, and I have never been ashamed of my mistakes or unconscious hurts.

I regret only one thing: something I didn’t do.

And it is still alive somewhere inside me... even though I am satisfied with my life, this one question still returns:

What if I had done it?

Maybe one day I will write about it. It is more private. It is about another person, my first love.

But back to my departure. Tears came. We hugged. We promised each other to meet again after one year. And yet, deep in my heart, I knew it was a farewell forever. I never planned this. As you know, I always acted in those moments out of feeling—outfeeling—out of what my soul wanted. My human mind did not yet have enough life experience to understand why.

I went into the unknown, full of expectation that I would experience an incredibly interesting year: new people, new customs, a new language, a new country. The unusual waited for me behind the ocean—and that is precisely how it was.

When we arrived, we lived for a month with strangers, for free. It was called CouchSurfing.

Among travelers, it was very popular—a platform where people all over the world could stay a few nights in a home without paying. You left a review, and people who offered their home usually already had a rating and used the service themselves.

Probably your hair is standing up now, thinking how dangerous that was—and yes, somewhere you are right. But living in fear and trying nothing was never an option for me.

My greatest fear was something else: public speaking. That was the worst thing that could ever happen, I thought back then...

So during the first month, we were able to save a lot of money, while my best friend and I were looking for a job. Most CouchSurfing hosts were men because men are often braver in such things. And of course—we were two young, pretty girls, and we were always lucky with the stays.

Some of these encounters even became short friendships—not deep, not forever, but enough for that moment. That was CouchSurfing: an exchange of cultures, opinions, and little life worlds. Some meetings were fleeting, others a bit deeper, yet everything remained light.

Would I do it again today? Probably not.

Not because of fear—but because of my life standards now, the expectations I have for myself. Today it would not feel aligned anymore.

But back then, at 25, it was perfectly fine. The world was open; I was curious, brave, and ready to try everything. It was a different time inside of me—a time of lightness, discovery, and trust in life and people. And the experience was always positive.

Whether in Canada or in America, we used CouchSurfing again on our trip along the West Coast. In this way, we paid nothing for accommodation. We met new people who showed us their cities, guided us around, and shared their favorite places with us.

To be able to stay in Canada and afford everything, we needed money. So we started looking for jobs. My friend had already been in Australia for a year. She had improved her English, and it was much easier for her to find work. Her first job was in a café, selling coffee and cakes at the counter.

I still remember the moment when she told me on the beach that she would already start working. I swallowed deeply, because I had no English at all, and I knew I would have to settle for a less good job... and that it would take a long time until someone would hire me.

But I was positive. I set off with the only sentence I had memorized: “I’m looking for a job.”
I went into different hotels, trying to get a housekeeping job. Some said they would call. I don’t know how many rejections there were. Was there doubt that it was a wrong decision?

No. I knew: you always have to take the first step before the second comes.

And the Universe always walks with you—you just have to go. And so it was.

A pizza shop gave me a job after two months in Canada. I was supposed to sell pizza slices on a main street in Vancouver—Granville Street, a street very active day and night. All the nightclubs were there; junkies drifted across the street like in a dream, between small, modest shops. I could already say a few sentences, communicate, and explain how much something cost—and that is how it began.

The job was so intense. I was often scheduled in the evenings, and the pizzeria was open until four in the morning. Party people came to eat. In Germany people would probably get a döner—they had it there too, but not as tasty as ours. Pizza was very popular at night.

They came drunk, high, sometimes aggressive.
I remember the day when I had to ask a homeless woman to leave the shop.

It was also part of my job to make sure the customers felt comfortable and were not harassed.

Sometimes that meant asking someone to go. I did exactly that—with my broken English.

She became very loud and insulted me. Then she stood outside for a very long time, staring at me through the window...

Every night I risked being attacked by junkies. I also had to worry about not being attacked by homeless people—Granville Street was full of desperate, lost souls, especially at night when I walked alone.

At five in the morning, after everything was cleaned and the shop was closed, I had to walk home through the darkness. Luckily we rented a room downtown, my friend and I. It was also to save money. Even today, in Canada, it is very common to have roommates.

Life is so expensive that many cannot afford to live alone. So many share a place with others—especially students, travelers, people from around the world.

Every night I risked being attacked. And yet, after some years, it became so normal that I stopped being afraid. The harder part was the time itself. The night shifts stressed me.

At home I had nightmares—I walked in my sleep or talked in my dreams. Once I reached for the floor lamp, because I believed it was taking pizza slices off the trays—as if it were a customer. I did all this half awake, half asleep, somewhere between dream and reality.

My friend had to shake me awake. I dreamed of the stress of that job, where everything had to keep moving like on a conveyor belt, so the line at the counter would shrink.

My strength was always my speed. I was very fast, and I could handle stress. It was a skill I had to learn quickly abroad—and I learned to use it. Every employer who ever hired me valued me for that. I replaced two, sometimes three, employees. And that opened doors for me.

But I also had to learn that my emotional health suffered. Back then I didn’t know about these things. I had already learned to be strong. Do you remember when that moment was?

I could not stand it when someone was weak, when someone was a crybaby, or when someone didn’t lift a finger. If something was “too much” for someone, it irritated me. I convinced myself I could handle everything. I thought I had no choice...

Then another hotel owner gave me a housekeeping job. And so I worked two jobs at the same time—until I quit the hotel. I preferred selling pizza instead of cleaning rooms—and that was right for many reasons.

First, I had much more contact with people, and I could strengthen my language skills.
Yes, on a minimal level, but I was constantly interacting. I listened, I answered, I repeated, I learned a little every time. In the hotel, I was alone between beds, towels, and vacuum cleaners. No conversations, no encounters, nothing that would improve my language.

Second, every time I finished a room in the hotel, I remembered that in Germany I had a good profession, a nice apartment. And now here I was doing these jobs, just because I didn’t speak the language well enough.

This shame, this feeling of stepping down a level, made me feel like I was going backwards.

It had never been a plan of my life. So I had to get out as quickly as possible—not because it was a “bad job,” but because you are so physically exhausted that you have no time and no energy to do something that would offer you a better life.

And yes, I knew it was only for one year. But I had left to experience something better.

The pizza shop was loud, chaotic, full of energy, sometimes hard—but it was alive. And that was precisely what I needed.

With every month, I became more aware of how minimal my English really was. To this day I wonder how I managed everything.

Sometimes someone asked me something not about pizza, and I smiled like a mute person, because I didn’t understand a word—and still I didn’t want to be rude. So I learned a new sentence or word every day.

For New Year’s Eve I was supposed to work in the pizzeria. And I decided it was time to leave. I had not gone abroad to work on holidays—especially not in a job that didn’t make me happy. I found another job in a pizza bar, a little more upscale, and I was allowed to celebrate New Year.

But with better working conditions, my language had to get better too. I became a waitress—and that required more than just selling the same pizza slices.The language had to flow; I had to express myself, talk to people, take orders, react, laugh, and listen.

My English had to improve, so I adapted. I observed, I learned, I got better.

I never had English in school, if you remember. My English came from life in Canada: by communicating, by reading, and through many, many mistakes. And I had to do all of this to heal the shame—the shame of being different.

I was again in another country, without speaking the language well. And it was up to me:
hide because I was embarrassed not to be perfect... or join people and learn.

I chose the second—and I was pleased with that decision.

But language shame was not the only one. There were many moments when I thought:

You had a good life—why all of this?

Every time the question came, I knew it was my mind—ego-driven, not my soul. My soul knew that I had to go down somewhere. That I had to learn humility.

My experiences in Canada didn’t only change me as a person. They showed me how much I could do alone. It was only the beginning of the obstacles I had to overcome.

I changed jobs a few times in Canada. I don’t want to list them all, but it always went forward. I was still in service, but the places became more upscale. My confidence grew; my English improved.

That year I had to learn a lot about myself. Especially about the fact that abroad, people saw me differently. I received more compliments for my appearance, my character, my qualities, than ever before in Germany. And I had to learn something: to receive.

People in Canada were open and positive. They didn’t complain as much. Even though many probably had a harder life than in Germany. I could feel it immediately: I was among people who stood positively towards life.

Maybe it was because it was a multicultural country. Among ten Canadians, maybe three were born in Canada. It is densely filled with foreigners.

And yes, there are always exceptions—but in general, it was natural there to have an accent, to speak another language. You were not “different.” It was part of the Canadian culture—that's how I experienced it.

Alongside the new language, I also began to see my best friend differently. I began to notice that she saw me differently too—perhaps because people reacted to me in a certain way.

She had never seen this side of me.

Over the years I understood that I always stood in her shadow. Our friendship was seen as a duo, but she was the dominant one.

And yes, I remember how often I just went along so I could be “the good one.” Because being who I really was, with my shadows, with my opinions when I didn’t like her behavior—I couldn’t do that before. The fear of losing her as a friend was too big. And so many decisions in our friendship were influenced by her.

I didn’t trust myself. I betrayed myself without knowing. I didn’t value myself enough to understand that I was not less than her. She was not “better” than me. She was only more successful at school, better with languages, and had status because she came from a good family, loved and spoiled by her parents. And that is precisely the situation where I betrayed myself: because my abandonment trauma left something in me that I never understood—but it influenced my life deeply.

There comes the inner belief in yourself—at least on the surface. Later I often saw that even that is not enough to truly love yourself. I knew people who had a much better childhood and still didn’t believe in themselves. But at least in youth, such people often felt comfortable in their own skin.

It was also a time when it bothered me so much that people didn’t separate us. That even my decisions were questioned with:
“And what does your friend think about this?” As if I needed to run my life decisions through her. I felt my identity was mixed. Things she did were automatically attributed to me. If she behaved a certain way, people assumed I would behave the same. I didn’t like that.Rapidly, I realized that outside of my familiar environment in Germany, I finally began to see myself. I wanted to shine with my own light—not be dimmed by another person. I didn’t want my qualities attributed to her, or hers to me.

I began discovering parts of myself I had never seen before. And so an unconscious aversion toward her grew in me. Today I know exactly what it was: by her side I could not be who I really was.

Not because she forbade it—but because I was not confident enough to show myself.
But I was smart enough to understand that I would never manage while she was still there.

Because she would always remind me who I used to be. And she loved me exactly that way: comfortable, insecure, easy to influence, a nice girl, somehow a gray mouse.

Yes—maybe from the outside I was no longer a gray mouse. But inside, I was so deeply wounded that I could neither explain nor see how deeply my true self was buried.

And I can imagine that if she reads this one day, she will say she never saw it like that.That she admired me for certain traits—because later those words came from her too. But I am sure she would admit that being with me was easy. Because I said yes to everything.

Because in our friendship, I was the follower. I was convenient.

There were a few moments when I said no or refused something. In those situations, she called me “difficult” or was angry because she supposedly couldn’t rely on me.

What she meant was she did not like it when I stood up for myself. She did not like it when I chose myself.

There were times in my life when I often heard from people that I was stupid, crazy, difficult, or not empathetic enough. These judgments always came when I separated from narcissistic people—when I cut the connection completely and no longer allowed people to project their programs and fears onto me.

Every time someone had a problem with me choosing myself, I could clearly see who benefited from me being “the good one”.

I say it consciously so, because back then I didn’t understand it differently. I had not yet accepted my shadows.This path began with saying no. Holding my own opinion. Walking separate ways. It was long and painful—and over time, it became easier.

Today I do it consciously. When a person has been important to me for a long time, I give a warning before I leave completely. Not out of drama, but out of respect. But deep inside I know: the ones who want to stay by my side will grow with me. Not for me—but for themselves.

I know how hard it is to change. I have been doing it for many years. And I learned: there is no point in changing for someone else. Therefore, I don’t expect it from others.So only two paths remain, obviously: I accept someone completely as they are, if I want them in my life, or I leave, if their behavior pulls my energy down, makes me small, or makes me doubt myself.

I no longer have the willingness to make myself emotionally small so that someone else feels better. For that, there are therapists. They get paid for it.

My only invitation is: if you want to come with me where I am going, I expect that you are already working on your inner path.

But if someone holds on to the old version of me, or the old version of themselves, without changing anything, then our paths separate. And I wish them love—just without me.

And I act this way today because I know exactly how many years, how much time, and how many emotional rollercoasters such a path takes. Even if someone begins it with the wish to succeed, it is a process. You cannot expect a person to arrive within one week when you have been walking for years. And this fact is important: experience accumulates over time, through countless decisions, steps, mistakes, insights, and new beginnings.

And therefore, it is so important for me to understand:

If I see a person who does not want or cannot walk the same path, we cannot continue together.

Not because I don’t want to help—on the contrary, I am willing to help. But it must not come to the point where their energy pulls me down.

I cannot sacrifice my life, my direction, or my health just so someone else feels better. Help, yes—but not at the cost of my own path.

Because my emotional health is sacred.

It is my foundation. And today, it is the most important thing I have.

Back then, I did not yet understand that. I could not put it into words—those realizations took years. I only felt one thing: I must walk this path alone. So that I can arrive.

About this part of my life, I will tell in the next chapter.

In Canada, I met someone who changed my life completely. It did not work between us...surprised? Back then I was. Because I did not even find him exceptional and thought I was too good for him. How naïve...

Something I had to learn on my own skin: the outside of a person does not determine their worth.

And because in my last relationship I had learned to respect myself and to expect that respect, I could not see certain things in new encounters—not before anything even began.

I noticed patterns only inside the relationship, not before. I expected certain behavior, but I chose the wrong men. I searched for self-confidence (strength)—and I did not notice how well some men could perform it. Only when I was already in the middle of it did I recognize that much of it was just a façade. Then came the real questions that led to the relationships ending.I knew, obviously, what I wanted in a partnership—but I had no experience in attracting such a partner. Because I still had many open wounds. Still so much to heal inside me.

But this person caused something in me that went deeper than any relationship before:

I began a journey into myself. For the first time, I consciously worked on my weaknesses.

I took a sheet of paper, probably a method I had read in a book, and wrote all the negative and positive traits of myself.

I already knew where I was weak—and I began thinking about how I could do it better.

What was necessary. Which steps.

This person broke my heart so deeply that I looked for mistakes in myself. How typical it is for people who don’t believe in themselves.

They think first: What is wrong with me?
And yet there was nothing wrong with me. I was simply not the right person for him.

But I began to work on myself. And I still do. After every breakup, I came back to myself.

I sat with myself to understand why I was so good—and why it still didn’t work. And every time there was something I could improve.

It was so important: not to run into another relationship to numb the pain, but to face my wounds and dig deep.

Over time, I no longer needed to search for mistakes after a breakup. Each separation became easier—emotionally, as a person. I no longer looked for errors in myself because I had already healed many of them.

I suffered because I missed that person.

He left something important in my life. He showed me through his presence what it means to feel a fulfilled life—a life where you constantly grow.

And no, he was not the great love I once mentioned. It hurt because he opened my world to my weaknesses. In a way that felt like love—but in truth, it was the disappointment of having been so wrong. Believing I was “too good” for someone and then realizing how many wounds inside me were still open.

Wounds that needed healing before an emotionally mature relationship could ever work.

It was the beginning of a journey I never knew I needed.

I had to understand why I always attracted emotionally unavailable people. Why did it always fail so quickly? It began like a fairytale and ended just as suddenly. Always.

I was born on 23.02. And the energy of the number 2 learns its lessons through relationships.It was always that way for me—unconsciously before, consciously today.

Yes, my heart was broken. Into small pieces. Many times.

But I learned what breaks can be healed. Piece by piece.

And even if afterward it is no longer the untouched, smooth heart... it becomes something special. Something much stronger.

In Japan there is an art and a philosophy: Kintsugi.

Broken ceramics are not glued invisibly—they are repaired with gold. The cracks are highlighted, not hidden. The message moves me deeply: what breaks can become more beautiful and valuable than before.

The breaks are part of the story. They make it unique. And that is how it was with my heart.

My heart was not less worthy because it had cracks. It became more precious because of them. With each healing, each step, and each insight, gold flowed inside.And there I found my inner strength: not in perfection, but in the ability to heal again and again. You develop the ability to love yourself—just as you are. With all wounds, all cracks, all scratches. And I collected new scratches in Canada...I had to work a lot. Very often my friend was out—without me. She could afford it better.

She had no debts to pay.I, on the other hand, had to pay off our furniture credit in Germany every month. Not much, but it showed in everything I could do and what I could afford.

I remember so clearly how physically exhausted I was. I was completely done because I always worked so much. I was already used to this from Germany: during my education, I worked in a nightclub on weekends, and sometimes we helped my boyfriend’s parents with side jobs. Not much—but always several jobs at once.That was my life: I worked myself tired. I worked myself sore.

Because I thought it was the only way to move forward. I only knew that I was physically strong. But also because the programs of the entire ancestral line sat deeply in me.There was no one in the family who had an intellectual profession. As far as I knew, everyone always worked with their hands. Beliefs were passed down, from generation to generation.They flow in the blood.

To believe that you can do better is not enough.The blockages must be released. And that can take years.And that is how it was in Canada. I worked—a lot. And I thought it was normal for me...

Yet that year, we still traveled a lot. A trip through California.

The West Coast trip was unforgettable. We rented a car, flew first to Los Angeles, spent a few days there, and then drove to San Francisco. It was one of the most beautiful routes I had ever seen.

We stopped again and again at viewpoints—along the ocean, on cliffs, the wind in our faces.

So many beautiful places on the way: Santa Barbara, San Diego, San Francisco...Those two weeks were one of the happiest times of my life. We had so much fun. It was free, alive, and light. Later, my friend said it was the most beautiful trip of her life.

And years later, I heard the same from another friend who visited me in Canada.

She also said it was the most beautiful trip of her life.Both friends are no longer in my life. At some point, I consciously separated from both.

And every time, it was a shock for them.
I was never just what people saw from me. Many people see only the smile, the courage, and the lightness with which I make decisions. One might think I was reckless or naïve. But in truth, I am very deep—especially when it comes to people in my life. I see much more than I show.

I feel it very precisely when something is off, when energies no longer match, when nothing grows anymore. And when I leave, it is not out of mood, but out of clarity.We also traveled through beautiful Canada, flew to Toronto, and spent four more months there before returning to Germany.

At that time, I already knew that the university in Hamburg had not accepted me because my portfolio was not among the best. Out of about 600 applicants, only around 40 were accepted for fashion design.

And if I am honest, what had I expected from a two-month preparation course, if I had never seriously worked on this before? If I had never truly drawn in that direction?

So instead of six months, I stayed a whole year in Canada—because my Working Holiday Visa was valid for one year. And my friend made the same decision. She wanted to stay with me. She said she did not want to move away while I was still there.

Maybe it was a sign of love she felt for me. But deep inside, another thought would not leave me: that she did not want me to experience something better without her.That she could not accept not being part of it. Do you notice how many questions and thoughts kept appearing inside me—in a friendship that was supposed to feel harmonious?

And this is not an accusation. It is simply a sign that I needed to separate—to understand how much of this friendship was real. Not only from her side, but also from mine.

Because sometimes you only recognize in distance how much was true closeness, true connection, and how much was just habit, comfort, or the need to please someone.

Separation brings clarity. Not to make someone bad, but to see: What was real?

But at that time, I only separated from my partner in Germany, after three months in Canada.

I understood that it would not last a year. It was time to separate. And that chapter of my life ended too. Was it easy? No. But probably a little easier for me than for him. I was the one who left. I was the one who wanted to end the relationship. I was the initiator.

And yet, I had to deal with the separation. It touched me, confused me, hurt me, and challenged me.

Some years later, a cousin commented on it—as always, without anyone asking. She simply had to say it. She found the breakup negative, something wrong that I had done. “You had fun abroad, and he was alone here...”Hm. I was ALONE... ABROAD. Okay, with my friend... but the first cracks were already there. He, on the other hand, was here, in the environment he knew, loved by his family.But that was not the point. The point was that I was again examined by the family.

My decisions were constantly discussed—even when no one asked for their opinion.

I was always like a thorn in their eye. To this day.

After a year in Canada, we had to return. Our visa expired.

At the end of August 2012, we came back to Germany.

The world looks very different to me now. So much had opened inside me; so much had changed. I looked at the people I knew with different eyes. I looked at people in general differently. Everything felt foreign.

I didn’t want to belong here anymore, because I felt limited. Maybe everyone who spends time abroad feels that way.

My friend even said she had lost something inside through that year abroad. You no longer fit in because you cannot simply accept everything. You are no longer satisfied with a “normal” life. You have outgrown that place—and if you stay, something must change.

You never want to go back to how it once was. And also, you don’t know how it should continue.

So I found a job in Hamburg in my profession as a technical draftswoman. It was my first official position after my education. I sat in a beautiful office in St. Georg, near the central station, with my own desk and a vase of flowers on the table, a gift from my new employer...

Back then I always wanted to live in Hamburg.

I stayed two and a half months. Then I quit. Still in the probation period.

And I went back to Canada.

Canada had never felt cruel. When I look back today, I do not see darkness—I see light.

I only told about the parts that shaped me. But the city itself... Vancouver... it had won my heart immediately.

Vancouver is a place where nature and the city touch like two old friends.

Ocean, mountains, forests—everything in the same movement. You breathe salt and rain.

You hear seagulls and cars at the same time. You feel freedom on your skin.The city is open, multicultural, wide. Many languages are spoken, and you feel understood.

You are never “different”; you are simply a part of the whole.
Vancouver has a special softness. No heaviness—only gentleness. Even the rain feels like a warm coat. It belongs to the city, like breathing. It cleanses, it clarifies, it makes the trees shine.

At the sea, you sit quietly and look into the distance. And I even had a place I always went to when I was breaking inside. I searched for healing by the water.

And when water moves, the soul becomes calm.In the background, the mountains—big, protective, strong.

Many would say:
Vancouver is a place where you meet yourself.You can sit on the beach, have a coffee in the city, and stand on a mountain later—all in the same hour.

Life has space there.In Vancouver, you learn to walk slower. To see more consciously. To breathe deeper.

It is a city where you feel:
I am allowed to be here.
Exactly as I am.
And maybe that is why Vancouver touched my heart—quietly, naturally, without effort.

Returning to Canada felt strange to me because I wasn’t going to Vancouver but to Toronto—the city where I had held my last job. There, I could start again from scratch… but I didn’t stay long. Only about six months. I had a plan: to go to Australia as soon as possible.

My best friend at the time had spent a year there with her partner before we traveled to Canada, and through her I knew that you could earn quite well on Australian farms if you worked fast and hard. And that was something I had always been able to do. I knew I would never shy away from work. Early on, I learned to use my unusual ability to be strong exactly where others lacked stamina or perseverance.

After a year and a half in Canada, I could speak English—but not well enough to get an office job. And at that point, my self-confidence wasn’t strong enough to take on a well-paid city job anyway. That would have come with many other expectations and social dynamics in which I would have felt uncomfortable. So I decided to start with something I knew I could do well. I picked fruit because I was certain of one thing: I could work. And I could only do that while I was still young. I knew that when I got older, I wouldn’t want to do jobs like this anymore. But at that moment, I could do them better than many others.

While most backpackers in Australia earned money to travel, I decided to finance my future studies in Canada. I wanted to study fashion design in Vancouver—not exactly a city known as a fashion capital, where many people walk around in Lululemon sweatpants—but for me, one thing was clear: I wanted to leave Germany for good. I wanted to live in Canada.

There were two options: either marry someone—as some people do in Canada to be able to stay—or study to later obtain work visas and build a life. Marriage never fascinated me. I never wanted to give up my freedom for it, especially if I could achieve my goals on my own. So I decided to pursue my dream of studying fashion design—at a private university, which of course meant paying a lot of money. But I did it. I knew my strengths, and I had something many people lacked: perseverance and the will to achieve something, even when others wouldn’t even begin. Eventually, I decided to apply to the Blanche Macdonald Centre in Vancouver.

Perhaps it’s important to mention that in Germany, I wouldn’t have been able to save that much money so quickly, because the standard of living there is higher. In Australia, as a backpacker, you had to adapt to a very simple lifestyle. I bought a T-shirt for five dollars and felt incredibly happy about it. In Germany, I probably wouldn’t even have noticed such a small purchase. There, a certain detachment from material things was much stronger within me.

The school cost me 22,000 CAD. They had my credit card details, and once a month they withdrew a fixed amount. The money I earned through hard work was taken immediately. This ensured that my tuition was paid before I returned to Canada. It was a way of “tricking” myself: I paid everything in advance, guaranteeing that after a year and a half I would go back to Canada to study—and not spend the money elsewhere. At 27, I started studying again. But the path there was anything but easy.

First, I traveled to Australia, where I met up with a couple I already knew from Germany. Knowing someone who was familiar with the country, the laws, and backpacker life was a huge advantage. They had a car, which made many things easier—especially traveling from farm to farm, the usual way to find work.

In Germany, I had already experienced many rejections, so being turned down on farms in Australia no longer discouraged me. At first, rejection hurts deeply. But the more often you experience it, the easier it becomes to handle a “no.” Eventually, it becomes normal, and you simply keep going. A “no” no longer feels final—it can even turn into a “yes” over time if you learn how to deal with it. Most of the time, a “no” simply means “not yet.” With time, it feels less personal, and life becomes much easier.

Arriving in Australia was incredibly exciting. I was fascinated by the nature and by farm life—the simplicity and clarity of that lifestyle. I must say, I was probably one of the happiest people in Australia. Farm life suited me very well. I was born in a village, and nothing frightened me—not the animals, even though they were different from those in Kazakhstan, not the dusty ground, the simple way of living, or the people. Everything came easily to me, and hard work never scared me. I could do everything, and I felt incredibly confident.

I was fast at every job. The sentence I heard most often in my life—no matter where I worked—was, “Irina, you’re so fast.” Whether it was an office job or farm work, I completed tasks efficiently and quickly. Maybe it’s my numerology: I carry the number 7 five times, a number associated with fast energy. That energy has helped me many times in life. I even earned the nickname “Irina, the fast German.”

That energy also helped me endure the hardest times. There were days when I worked up to sixteen hours. I spent seven to eight hours in the early morning picking grapes outside, then went straight to the shed to pack them.

On those days, my body hurt so much I couldn’t fall asleep. It trembled from the inside. I felt nauseous and couldn’t eat. You were so exhausted that your body couldn’t find rest. And on exactly those days, I knew: I had promised my body I would never do this again. I only asked it to endure this phase a little longer.

Giving up was never an option for me. I was too proud to quit and return to Germany—for many reasons. I knew that if I failed, I would never forgive myself. Could I have done things differently? Absolutely. Less euphorically. Less uncompromisingly. But that was precisely what I was proud of: that strength. Do you remember when it began?

I even remember one packing shed where, after six hours of grape picking outside, I continued working inside, packing grapes. We worked as a group. My task was to pack the grapes into bags after the other two team members had processed them and removed the bad fruit. It was like a carousel of fruit: my job was to select the clean grapes and pack them into boxes, which were later delivered to supermarkets.

Our group was the fastest—only one other group, which had been doing this work for years, was slightly faster. My hands already had blisters from working so quickly, and the plastic bags caused additional cuts. Yet we had only been there for about two months. That earned admiration—and, as so often, a bit of envy.

As a backpacker from Germany, I was different from many others who earned money just for fun. I worked hard toward a clear goal and had a plan for my earnings instead of spending them recklessly. Not that spending was wrong—I simply had a different purpose. My goals taught me to leave when I was being exploited or treated like a slave. I worked through a contractor who also profited from my labor.

One day, there was a meeting. The shed manager berated everyone, claiming that our speed caused the grapes not to be packed perfectly. He yelled at all of us as if we were people who depended on this job and had no other choice.

Many workers there came from poorer countries, supporting families in Nepal and India. They depended on this work, and he exploited that. He made no distinction between people and objects. It felt as if he looked down on all of us.

After the meeting, I returned to our carousel. Anger boiled inside me. I had had enough. One thing I had to learn—and never could accept—was to walk away from people like that. My boxes were fine; otherwise, he would have come to me. He used fear to ensure people didn’t slow down.

That kind of strategy was never something I aspired to—or was willing to accept. I stormed out of the shed and said something like, This kind of work environment wasn’t for me.

Both managers stared at me in shock. My contractor said, “It wasn’t even about you…” He had just lost one of his best workers.

Yes, it wasn’t directed at me personally. But being lumped together and tolerating such treatment would have meant accepting that behavior from my superiors. So I left.

And that feeling of liberation surged through my body. I laughed loudly and proudly because it felt so good to step out of that hamster wheel.

I had something many didn’t: a Plan B. I could always return to Germany. And I had myself. I knew I could find a job anywhere. That knowledge still gives me the confidence to walk away when things become unhealthy.

Later, I found out that a group from Taiwan, working next to us, had secretly timed me to see how many minutes I needed for a full box. Their goal was to outperform me later. The funny thing was that they competed with me without telling me—not out of hostility, but because they wanted to improve and observed me. It was an unfair game. If you want to compete with me, tell me—then I can push myself even harder. Because in truth, you’re not really competing with me.

If someone truly wants to study me, I must disappoint them: I still outperform myself to this day. I am different. I evolve constantly. That is my strength. I am almost always underestimated. Over time, I learned to use that to my advantage.

When I sense that I am being underestimated—which happens often, because I am open, friendly, and approachable, and some people think they can manipulate me—I step out of the fight internally. I don’t play games. And if I do, it’s only in declared battles, never where things are sneaky or unspoken.

Life experience gradually showed me how many people first see me as an inspiration and then try to surpass me—whether in family, friendships, or work. That used to trigger me. But I learned that I inspire people to become better versions of themselves. Once I fully accepted myself, it no longer bothered me—especially because there is one thing I never do: play those games.

When people hide their intentions and turn things into a competition, it reveals not only arrogance but also deep insecurity. And that says a lot about a person. I don’t engage with such “opponents.”

But that confidence came with time. I wasn’t always like this. My self-confidence grew through the long experiences I accumulated—even through fruit picking.

In Australia, I picked mandarins, grapes, blueberries, persimmons, apples, lemons, and more. We spent ten to twelve hours a day outside in the sun. Each fruit came with its own physical challenges. Lemon trees, for example, often had sharp thorns, and sometimes you had to climb trees to reach the fruit. I vividly remember climbing trees with a 25-kilogram bag of fruit while thorns pierced my skin and the sun burned. Sometimes a huge spider—looking like a tarantula—sat there, and it was up to me to stay calm and carefully push it away.

I couldn’t tolerate the heat well, so I wore tank tops instead of long sleeves. My arms were completely scratched. I didn’t care. I knew my young skin could handle it. The pain was manageable—and even gave me a good feeling: proof that I could do it, no matter how hard the work was.

On days between picking seasons, I got into the car and drove to neighboring towns. Distances in Australia are vast—you can drive for hours without seeing anything before reaching the next town. I loved turning the music up as loud as possible and driving straight ahead.

There were hardly any traffic lights—mostly just forest or open land. You drove with the wind, and that’s how I recovered from the monotonous life of a fruit picker.

One of those days, after ten hours of moving like a monkey between trees picking mandarins, I had a lot of time to think. While my hands worked, my mind wandered. I imagined my life, planned my future, and thought about what I would do once I was “done.”

Those thoughts were repeatedly interrupted by one sentence: But if you have a family and children, you can’t do that. Over and over again. Until I realized that I wanted a freer life than that of a mother or wife. Not because I rejected children, but because the traditional family model comes with limitations I wasn’t willing to accept.

I wanted a life for myself. A life where I could live out all my wild dreams without constantly having to sacrifice. Not giving things up just because a child needed me. That’s why I always treated this topic with great seriousness. I knew what it does to a child when they are not loved, not seen, or emotionally neglected. I came from such a family myself. I spent my entire life healing those wounds. I saw how deeply flawed upbringing can affect a child’s life—and I never wanted my child to experience the same.

I also didn’t want a child to live out my unfulfilled dreams. Many parents project their own unrealized ambitions onto their children, without allowing them to live their own lives. I understood the immense responsibility of bringing a child into the world—and the responsibility not to damage that child just because you haven’t made peace with yourself.

That responsibility was always present in my life. And so I often asked myself whether I subconsciously chose partners in a way that relationships never became truly complete—so that children would never happen. Whether that’s true, I don’t know. I never analyzed it deeply enough. But the thought crossed my mind often. Perhaps I will explore it in the next chapter of my life.

One day, while moving between trees in my “habitat,” I suddenly had the idea to cut my hair very short—maybe even shave it completely. That crazy idea wasn’t born in Australia; it had been sleeping deep in my subconscious. To me, it symbolized freedom, rebellion, and releasing the weight of expectations. It was an inner scream that needed to come out. I had probably always wanted it—now I could finally live it.

I asked a friend to cut my hair. That same evening, I had no hair left. At that time, a close friend of mine was fighting cancer and had to lose her hair due to chemotherapy. I wanted to support her in that way as well. It wasn’t a purely selfless act—but the combination of circumstances and timing made it feel right. I lived that moment fully. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to save her life. She passed away later that year, and I couldn’t say goodbye properly—only later, at her grave. That friendship left a deep mark on my heart, and I will return to it again.

The shaved head was also an act of self-protection. I wanted to focus solely on work and avoid romantic distractions. It’s safe to say that men generally prefer women with hair—so I made myself look tougher on the outside because I carried a deep wound inside, one I had brought with me from Vancouver. I was still grieving the man who had opened my vulnerable world, and I wasn’t able to truly engage with anyone—not even casually.

I took my inner development so seriously that I built barriers to avoid distraction. Funny, isn’t it? So many women do everything to please men. I did the opposite: I did everything not to stand out.

And yet, my inner self was still present, and men still noticed me. I remember arriving early one morning at a grape plantation. We backpackers stood waiting for instructions. I arrived in my red car—a small Opel, good enough to get from farm to farm.

A few Italians smirked and said in Italian: “Oh, look at her, coming in her Ferrari, thinking she can work here…” They assumed I was lazy and superficial and wanted to test whether I could actually work. Like so many before them, they underestimated me. What they didn’t know was that I spoke Italian—not perfectly, but well enough to understand. I didn’t reveal it. Sometimes it’s better to let people underestimate you. They’ll see.

And when they later saw me working alone, doing the job of two people, I heard things like, “Wow… she did all that by herself.” I was never convinced with words. I always did it through actions.

In Australia, I did so many wild things that later helped me understand something important: you have to do the things you were never allowed to do as a child. If you wanted to swim as a child and weren’t allowed—do it now. If you wanted a doll and never got one—buy it for yourself. You don’t have to show it to anyone. It’s for you.

When you give your inner child what it was once denied, it heals. The more you do now what you always wanted as a child, the faster that wounded inner child heals. It’s like reclaiming a piece of lost freedom—and it feels incredibly liberating.

Australia didn’t bring only freedom. It also brought something very heavy.

On my birthday in 2013, I was informed that my grandmother had suffered another stroke and was in intensive care. That was my “birthday present.”

Without thinking much, I booked a flight the next day. Within 26 hours, I was back in Germany. When she woke up and saw me, something broke inside me. Seeing my fragile grandmother in that hospital bed filled me with fear and worry.

But she grew stronger. Day by day. After two weeks, she was stable enough to be transferred to a normal ward. And then I faced one of the hardest questions of my life: do I go back and follow my dreams—or do I stay with her?

The inner conflict was brutal. I knew I couldn’t give my life to her. But not staying felt cruel. I had to decide.

At that moment, it was the hardest decision of my life—and the harshest test of self-love: do you give up your dreams to stay with the person you love most? Or do you leave to live your own life?

She had four children. That responsibility could not—and should not—rest on me alone. At least not then.

Saying goodbye was incredibly painful. When I left her, I saw disappointment in her eyes. She never said it, but I felt it. She wished I would stay. And yet, today I believe my role was fulfilled. That my presence gave her the strength to get through that phase. Sometimes love doesn’t mean staying—it means being there at exactly the right moment.

I have never regretted that decision. I was tested by the universe, and I passed. With tears in my eyes, I went down the elevator with my sister and flew back to Australia. My entire body ached, yet I did what my soul demanded.

I always listened to that inner voice—and trusted it. That’s how I learned to stay true to myself.

After returning, I stayed another six months in Australia. During that time, I traveled through Bali, India, Singapore, and Thailand. I was always surrounded by people. That small journey was the crowning finale of my time in Australia. Looking back, I wish I had traveled longer and experienced it more deeply. I was eager to return to Canada to begin my fashion design studies and shortened my stay by half a year. Today, I would do it differently.

My mistake was not living in the moment. I wanted everything at once and couldn’t relax. My constant urge to move forward pushed me on, even though I could have stayed longer.

That’s how I learned a new lesson: living in the present. I realized I needed to learn patience—a quality that balanced my weaknesses. My impatience had often caused financial difficulties because I always wanted everything immediately.

What I took from those countries is the realization that in the Western world, we have everything—and yet we complain constantly. Many people there live impoverished but enjoy nature, life, and simple pleasures. They are often happier and friendlier, despite having far less materially.

And that became my goal: to find a balance between the material and the spiritual world. Only then can one live a truly fulfilled life.

During my time in Australia, a friend from Canada joined me. She was quite young, and we had met in Toronto while working at a golf club. When she heard I was going to Australia, she wanted to come with me. I didn’t hesitate and invited her. Looking back, it was a kind of test for both of us.

She was rebellious, intelligent, but not suited for farm life. She wanted only fun and avoided responsibility for her own life. Somehow, I felt responsible for her behavior simply because we were together. Even then, it was important to me that my environment did not become a reflection of me—that others’ actions didn’t define my life.

Despite everything that irritated me about her, I loved her rebellious spirit. Something about it attracted me—perhaps because I had suppressed that part of myself for a long time or was never allowed to express it. One weekend, we spontaneously traveled to a neighboring city just to spend the day there—without a plan, without a goal.

There, we made another spontaneous decision: a nipple piercing. To this day, I don’t know whose idea it was. We walked past a piercing studio, and I think I was the one who said, “Let’s go in.” Deep down, I had always wanted to do it.

We decided on the spot. Within two minutes, I had a piercing in my left nipple. Why? An act of freedom. A symbol of self-determination.

Today, I know I was raised far too strictly. So much was forbidden. I wasn’t allowed to swim because my grandmother feared I would drown. I wasn’t allowed to stay out late. I wasn’t allowed so many things. I am a “five,” and the worst thing you can do to us is take away our freedom or control us. All that constant “no” created a rebellious energy within me. I was only able to release it fully at 27. But it doesn’t matter when—it matters that it came out. And that’s what I want you to understand: don’t suppress your desires. Live them—even if it happens later in life. It heals.

Our friendship eventually ended when she betrayed me. I won’t go into details. But today, I see that I sometimes attracted people with good hearts but without the inner strength to control themselves. Perhaps they were mirrors for me—a lesson in not being too harsh on myself while working on my own weaknesses.

Later, her mother wrote to me and thanked me. She said she felt safer knowing her daughter was under my care. That touched me deeply and confirmed once again: caring for others also means strengthening them without losing yourself.

At that time, I put enormous pressure on myself because of remaining loans in Germany, which I was paying off monthly with my ex-boyfriend. Moreover, high transfer fees from Australia accumulated every month. It became more expensive, and I told my grandmother about it.

She offered to cover the remaining amount over about eight months so everything could be paid off at once. I accepted her help. I didn’t ask for it—it was her voluntary decision to support me.

But this also became known within the family. To this day, my father reproaches me for accepting her support. My cousin made a strange remark about the word “voluntary.” She couldn’t tolerate that the bond between my grandmother and me was strong enough for her to support me financially.

What was always forgotten: she was a parental figure to me. Do we accuse parents or grandparents of supporting their children? To me, it’s something entirely natural. It doesn’t burden me to this day—on the contrary, it only shows how much jealousy, resentment, and judgment existed within the family, long suppressed.

What they didn’t know: I had always felt it. And years later, it was finally spoken aloud.

But here, in Australia, something else was also born: an open and deep hostility toward me. In their eyes, it was already audacious that I allowed myself to live such a life. And then I even received voluntary support from my grandmother—who had other grandchildren as well.

What they never asked was: how much did I do for our grandmother? How present was I in her life?

Instead, it was used against me: “You’re bad with money—that’s your weakness.” The more I achieved in life, the more this area was scrutinized. It was implied so often that I eventually began to believe it myself.

It was an inner program passed down through generations. It wasn’t mine—and I had to break it. I carry the strength of my lineage within me. I am the one who recognizes and breaks old patterns—imprints, programs, and dynamics passed down through generations. And that makes you uncomfortable. I am not always understood by my family—and sometimes even hated. But that only shows how strong the changes are that I bring.

Not everyone can—or wants to—see someone break the cycle. That’s why it often meets resistance, rejection, or misunderstanding within families. Because change is frightening.

But fear was never something I carried—at least not when it came to change.

And so I continued living my life — without fear.

There were countless moments and situations in which even simply listening to my stories made very conservative people raise their eyebrows in disbelief. Yet to me, none of it ever felt especially risky or extreme. It felt natural — like an honest expression of the path that was meant for me.

Along my way, I encountered many fascinating people — people who lived life even more intensely, even more radically, fully embracing the energy of the 13th arcana. I, however, moved at my own rhythm. Carefully at times, sometimes impulsively, sometimes thinking far too long — and yet always willing, at some point, to take the risk.

Because risk was never recklessness to me.

Risk was adrenaline.
Risk meant growth.

What can you truly expect from life if you live it according to the ordinary patterns of others

— patterns they themselves have labeled as “reasonable”?

But what is reasonable, really?
To be accepted?
To be loved?

To never step out of line — and for what, exactly?

So that someday some Karen, who has never dared to live at all, can pass judgment on your life?

Is it truly worth shrinking yourself for that?

I understood very early on that my only true role model had to be myself.

Every day, just a little better than the day before.

Yes, I made many mistakes in my life — because I did not grow up in the best circumstances, because there was no one who could ever understand me one hundred percent, and because, in one way or another, I was repeatedly met with devaluation.

I gave away many years of my life.

So much time to people who fed off my potential — while quietly pulling me further and further down.

This became especially visible in close friendships.

Never openly.
Never clearly.

There was always a layer covering it — a subtle disguise — because I was meant to be kept in their lives.

Not out of love.
But out of need.

Only when I truly began to work on myself did something start to change. Not overnight. Not suddenly. Not loudly.

It was a long process — a quiet journey that strengthened me step by step, made me more self-confident, and eventually revealed the true faces of the people around me.

Not to hurt me — but to finally lead me back to myself.
And so my paths continued to guide me into dangerous situations — moments in which my courage and my patience were tested in a quiet, yet deeply penetrating way.

Still in Australia, one day I set off together with a friend from Taiwan toward Brisbane. We wanted to go shopping, as I needed to buy a suitcase for my upcoming journey back to Canada. The drive took about three hours, and we could easily have stayed overnight in the city. It is well known — almost an unspoken rule — that one does not drive at night in Australia, due to the wild nocturnal life of the animals that makes the roads unpredictable after dark.

And yet, I felt drawn home.

I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I didn’t want to spend yet another night away, surrounded by unfamiliar walls. So we decided to drive back — even though I knew that one does not drive at night in Australia.

That the road from Brisbane leads through dark, endless forests where there is no phone reception.

That kangaroos, wombats, and emus can suddenly jump onto the road — heavy, powerful, unpredictable — and that a collision can not only destroy a car but endanger one’s life.

I knew that massive trucks use these roads, that there are stories of backpackers who disappeared — stories told quietly around campfires at night and pushed away again by morning. And I also knew that even during the seemingly warm months — which in Australia are considered winter — the nights can become so cold that the body begins to shiver without a jacket, grows still, slows down.
And yet, I drove off.

Carried by an inner calm that was stronger than any logic.
Not out of recklessness.
Not out of defiance.
But from a deep, unexplainable pull — as if something within me was whispering that this path had to be taken, even if it disappeared into darkness. And so, it was confirmed.

It was pitch black. We were driving through the forest — without reception, without light, without any orientation other than the narrow road ahead of us. I drove faster than one would normally recommend at night in Australian bushland, but not so fast that it felt truly dangerous. It was that in-between pace — the speed at which you believe you still have everything under control.

Until it happened…

Something jumped from the left directly onto the car.

There was a hard, dull impact — a brutal thud that shook the entire vehicle. The car came to an abrupt stop, and we pulled over in fear and total shock.

I had seen it for a split second — that movement emerging from the darkness — but I had not been fast enough to brake in time.
A few seconds passed before we were even able to understand what had happened. The silence afterward was almost more frightening than the impact itself.

I got out of the car to see what it had been. Was I afraid that something might jump at me?

Yes — maybe a little. But not really. My greater fear was something else entirely: that this being might be dead.

And that was exactly the case.
It was a wallaby — an animal similar to a kangaroo, only smaller and more compact. A kangaroo would most likely have destroyed the car at that speed. After all, it was only a small Opel. But something else caught my attention immediately. Water had begun leaking from the condenser. The impact had probably not come from the animal alone, but from the car hitting a stone on the ground as the collision occurred.

We got back into the car right away. A little saddened by the animal — yet with a clear intention to continue driving.
But something was wrong.
The car jolted.
It would not start properly.
The engine would not respond.
And suddenly, we were simply sitting there.
Without jackets.
It was 9:00 p.m.
In the middle of nowhere.
A car that would not start.
No warmth.
No phone reception.
No lights.
Only darkness, forest — and that growing silence slowly settling around us.

Perhaps it is important to mention that during the summer months — much like wintertime in Western countries — it becomes dark very early in Australia. Yet this darkness cannot be compared to anything known in Europe. It is not simply night. In Australia, darkness is complete.

You see nothing.
Not even a shadow.
No outlines, no movement, no transition between light and blackness.
The world seems to disappear.

In moments like these, thousands of thoughts begin rushing through the mind at once — scenarios, fears, questions without answers.
And yet, something strange happened.

While everything outside became completely uncertain, something inside me grew calm.

I knew that panic would not help now.
That fear could change nothing.
That there was no reason to lose control.

I knew — in a way that cannot be explained — that everything would be alright.

This calm was not new.
It had accompanied me my entire life.
And perhaps it was on that night in the forest that I understood for the first time when it truly
came from.

When I was four years old, my world changed.
At that age, a child does not understand reasons, decisions, or explanations. It only feels that something fundamental has shifted — that the world as it once was no longer exists.

From that moment on, I lived between two worlds.
No longer fully where I came from.
Not yet truly where I now was.

In that in-between space, my inner world began to form.
A quiet place I created long before I had words for it. A space where I found order while everything outside kept changing. A place where I was allowed to remain when nothing felt safe.

There, I learned something essential very early on:
to become calm in order to survive.
Not out of coldness.
Not from a lack of feeling.
But out of protection.
While other children found stability in the outside world, I had to create it within myself.
And this early inner order later became my strength.

To this day, it takes the lead in difficult situations. When uncertainty arises, when danger becomes tangible, when everything begins to sway, something inside me becomes still — not empty, but clear.

This control is not a conscious act. It is memory.

The memory of a four-year-old child who lived between two worlds and learned there how to hold herself.

That night in the Australian forest, I was there again — not as a child, but as a grown woman. And yet it was the same inner voice, the same calm, the same inner space that carried me.

Not because nothing could have happened.

And perhaps this was exactly the moment when the circle closed — between then and now, between childhood and the present, between fear and trust.

I trusted that everything would turn out well. And that is exactly what happened.

After about an hour — perhaps a little longer — the engine suddenly started again. Not because I knew how to fix it, but because I kept trying, without haste, without pressure, carried by the feeling that giving up was not an option.

We were able to continue driving.

About two and a half hours still lay ahead of us. Yet I knew that if we could simply make it out of this dark forest, that alone would be enough. Then there would at least be a road — perhaps a light, perhaps some place where help might be possible.

And indeed, at some point, we reached a country road.
At its edge stood a single house.
A light was on inside.

We stopped briefly, looked at one another, and considered whether we should stop there or keep driving. After all, there were only about one and a half hours left until home. So we continued on.

All the while, water kept leaking from the car, and no one knew what was happening inside — what damage might be forming, which parts might already be giving way, and whether we were still safe to continue driving at all.

But only a few meters later, my inner voice spoke — quietly, yet clearly.
Go back. Ask for help there.

This voice has accompanied me my entire life.
This voice is my protection.
And I learned very early on to listen to it.
Without much discussion, we turned around and stopped at the house at the crossroads.

The people had already heard our car. Before we had even fully stepped out, several of them came outside. It was a family — mother, father, two daughters, and the boyfriend of one of the daughters.
And that boyfriend happened to be a car mechanic.

They welcomed us warmly, as if they already knew us. They offered us food, a warm shower, and a bed for the night. While we finally felt warmth again, the boyfriend moved the car into the garage and began checking what had happened.

Early the next morning, he had sealed the hole temporarily. It would be enough to get us home safely, so that I could later bring the car to a proper workshop.

Everything happened so naturally.
So human.
So quiet.
We were strangers.
In a foreign country.
In the middle of the night.

And yet these people opened their door, their garage, their home — without hesitation, without fear, without suspicion.

In the late afternoon, after the sealant had dried for about eight hours, we said goodbye. We drove off slowly, filled with gratitude, deeply moved, almost speechless — and arrived home safely.

It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.
A blessing.
A moment guided by fate.

A quiet proof that there are still so many good people in this world — people who set their own fear aside to help.

In that moment, I asked myself whether someone in Europe would have done the same. And sadly, a quiet, heavy answer formed within me — because there, danger is often discussed first, before the heart is allowed to speak.

These people, however, acted in the moment.
From inner clarity.
From humanity.
For me, it was a sign — perhaps even a greeting from our angels.
I knew that this night was meant to show me something.

To offer proof of what inner calm can create — and what happens when we do not allow fear to control our thoughts.
Because where trust remains, life always finds a way.

A few weeks after this experience — once the car had been repaired — I returned once more. This time not out of need, not out of fear, but with a box full of beer and sweets in the trunk.

I wanted to say thank you.
Not only for the help that night, but for the humanity they had given us. For the warmth they offered when we were strangers. For the trust they extended without asking a single question.

I wanted to pass that kindness forward.

I wanted them to see that their actions had mattered — that they were not taken for granted, not overlooked, not forgotten.

That such gestures leave traces behind.
Because that was what I truly wanted to show them: that their openness and their support were seen — and deeply appreciated.
And at the same time, I felt something deeper within me.

How much more beautiful this world would be if moments like these were not seen as exceptions — but as something natural.

If help were not filtered through fear first.
If humanity were not explained, but lived.

Perhaps this, too, was part of the message of that night:
that kindness multiplies when it is passed on.
And that every small action — no matter how insignificant it may seem — has the power to make the world a little brighter.
Australia left a special value within me. There, I allowed my inner self to finally emerge — as free, as untamed, and as alive as my soul had always longed to be.

In Australia, I did not enter into romantic relationships. That time was not meant for that. I read a great deal, improved my English through reading, spent countless hours with myself, and began to get to know myself on a deeper level — beyond distraction, beyond external
roles.

On one of those days, while we were waiting for the next picking season to begin, my friend and I were sitting on the farm. We lived in a simple donga — a container-like housing module — and that afternoon we lay outside on the grass on a blanket. I was reading, she was playing on her phone. Everything felt quiet, wide, almost timeless.
Until I suddenly heard her voice.

Very calmly, she asked me not to turn around.
And as human reflex often works in moments like that, I turned anyway.

About one meter away from our blanket, a brown snake was moving — almost dreamlike. It glided slowly across the grass, coming directly from the direction of the field. For a moment, everything felt unreal: the sun glaring brightly, the grass intensely green — and in the middle of it all, one of the most dangerous animals in the world.

It was an Eastern Brown Snake — one of the most venomous creatures on this continent. Its venom acts quickly, silently, mercilessly. A single bite can paralyze the nervous system, destroy blood clotting, and place even a healthy adult in mortal danger if medical help is not
received immediately. Yet its danger lies not only in its venom but also in its unpredictability. It does not strike to hunt, but to defend — often faster than the human eye can react. One wrong step, one careless movement, one moment of panic would have been enough.

Her body was slender, muscular, and perfectly designed for speed. Every movement appeared controlled, almost silent, as if she were melting into the ground itself. She needed no threatening gesture, no hissing — her mere presence was warning enough.

In that second, I became aware of how thin the line between life and danger can be. How quiet it is. And how little it takes for everything to change.

Yet she seemed to ignore us completely — as if we were not there at all.
We froze.
Completely still.
As if turned to stone.
No one knew what to do.
When the snake slowly moved a little farther away from us, my friend began calling out for the former farm worker — a man who was already retired and still lived on the property.

The snake crawled beneath a pile of wood and disappeared.

It was winter in Australia — likely a day in July. Under normal circumstances, she should not have been outside at all. Perhaps that was why she seemed so sluggish, so slow.

The man’s name was Mof.

He came outside, visibly confused that we had pulled him from his midday nap. With a questioning look, he asked what was going on. We explained the situation. Without many words, he walked back into his trailer, fetched a broom, and began striking the woodpile forcefully to drive the snake out.

And then she appeared again.

She slithered out—not aggressive, not attacking, rather disoriented.
Mof struck her several times along the spine until he was convinced she was dead. We could hardly believe what we were seeing — her body continued to move. Calmly, he explained that a snake’s body can keep moving for up to an hour after death. Eventually, he lifted her with the broom and placed her into a large bowl.

He told us that one must always break a snake’s backbone — that is how it is killed.

An animal rights activist would probably be upset by this situation. Yes — I found it sad that the snake had to die. And yet I was also aware that it could have been one of us instead, had she not been driven away from the area. And once again, we were protected by a guardian angel.

Yes — we had acted correctly. We had stopped, paused, and not reacted impulsively. That inner calm made it possible for the snake not to perceive us as a threat — and for us not to be attacked.

Had we reacted out of fear, everything might have turned out differently. Perhaps I would not be able to write this book today. Because fear is loud, uncontrolled, visible. It radiates unrest — and unrest is perceived as a threat in nature.

But instead, everything remained still.
And once again, it became clear that inner calm is not weakness, but a deep protective instinct — a force capable of guiding a human being safely even through the most dangerous situations, if one dares to trust it.

The universe sent us a guardian angel.
This time in the form of Mof.

Not spectacular.
Not otherworldly.

An old man holding a broom — and yet at exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

Perhaps guardian angels are sometimes precisely that: people who act without hesitation when others are still debating.

And perhaps life reminds us through moments like these that we are never truly alone — as long as we are willing to trust.

Mof was seventy-five years old. An Australian of the old school. A man who had spent his entire life around such animals — with respect, but without fear. After work, he would drive every evening with the other farm workers to a small local bar.

That was where the entire village met. They drank a few beers, exchanged stories, and knew one another.
Mundubbera was a small rural community, located about 400 kilometers northwest of Brisbane, along the Burnett River. Just over a thousand people lived there — and precisely for that reason, everyone knew everyone else. Life was simple, calm, almost timeless.

And that was the social fabric of this place: community, closeness, and simple conversations after a long day — nothing more, and nothing less.

This scene stayed with me deeply. Not because of the snake — but because of the naturalness with which life was lived there.
Raw. Real. And completely present.

In September 2014, the time had come for me to go home. I left Australia with deep gratitude for all the experiences and inner growth this chapter had given me, and stopped in Germany for one week before continuing on to Canada — to the place where my studies would begin.

I visited my grandmother and my family and felt that I was ready to begin a new life. A life in Western civilization. For me, it meant welcoming the material world back into my life — consciously, mindfully, and with the awareness that it was no longer meant to be my measure, but merely one part of my path.

That week in Germany felt like a quiet transition — a conscious pause between two chapters of my life.

During that time, one of my cousins got married. My ex-partner was also invited to the wedding.

He arrived at my sister’s place, and we had consciously decided to meet after the separation in a protected setting. It was the first time we would see each other again since our farewell.

There were still a few pieces of furniture we had once stored at his uncle’s place that needed to be collected.

We handled everything calmly and respectfully, dividing the belongings — some went to my parents, others I sold.
But this meeting was not about objects.

It was about emotional release.

I did not want our family to witness our reunion during the wedding. I did not allow something so personal to be placed on display.

When he arrived at my sister’s home, I opened the door — and fell into his arms. It was a healthy feeling. The reunion with someone who had once been deeply important in my life. We had parted on good terms. And in that embrace, everything that still existed revealed
itself: appreciation, gratitude, and respect for what we had shared — and at the same time, the clear knowing that emotionally, I was already walking a very different path.

I was grateful for our time together.

But my life had long since moved forward.

Shortly after my cousin’s wedding, I left Germany once again — this time with a clear plan in my heart: Canada.

A new chapter was already waiting for me.

And so my airplane from Germany landed once again in Vancouver.

It was not just a landing on another continent. It was a landing into a new phase of life.

I arrived with a deep wish in my heart: to study fashion design. But in truth, I wanted much more than that. I wanted to create a life for myself — one in which I would live according to my own vision. The way I had dreamed of for so long, and had already begun to live for some time. Not adapted or predetermined. But consciously chosen.

What fascinated me so much about Canada?

It was this feeling of being different. Different stores. A different culture. Different people — with so many diverse characters, so many individual expressions. And above all: life here seemed less bound to a rigid system like the one I had known in Germany.

Here, there seemed to be space. Space for individuality and uniqueness. Space for being different.

Everyone was different in their own way — and that was normal. It was completely normal not to function strictly according to societal rules. At least for the most part. That constant message of “You have to be this way” was quieter. Softer. More distant.

What touched me deeply was the friendliness of the people. You could be approached on the street — just like that. Not because someone wanted something. But because they wanted to share something kind. A compliment. A smile. A friendly word.

In Canada, people do not hesitate to say in passing, “You look great.” “What a beautiful coat.” “You have a wonderful smile.”

This openness had something healing about it. It was as if you were being seen — without being judged.

It was this positive, open nature of people that touched me deeply and immediately appealed to me. You were not judged so quickly. That rigid categorizing mindset I had known barely existed in my everyday life here. And if it did exist, it did not affect my life at first. I was simply allowed to be.

Only later — in professional life — did that change. That was where competition began. That was where people started searching for weaknesses. That was where I felt again that familiar field of comparison and evaluation. But in those first moments in Canada, there was above all one thing: freedom.

The most important desire of a person who carries the 5 energy is freedom. Freedom in everything.

 
And so I lived my life — for a long time unconsciously. Not because I already knew it. But because I followed my inner voice. I listened to that quiet yet clear knowing within me. That feeling of “This way.”

Only when I later began to study numerology more deeply did I realize how strongly I had prioritized freedom in my life. How consistently I had always chosen it. How uncompromisingly I had sought it.

It was my inner motor. My invisible compass.

My greatest wish was always to be happy and free. And at some point I understood: one cannot exist without the other. At least not for me. Happiness without freedom felt like a golden cage. Freedom without inner happiness felt like disorientation.

And that was precisely why I kept slipping into situations that were meant to teach me what true freedom really means.

Not the freedom to run away from something or to break rules. But the freedom to choose consciously.

The freedom to take responsibility for my own life. The freedom to set boundaries. The freedom not to make myself smaller just so others could feel bigger.

Looking back, I can see: every situation that felt restrictive was not a coincidence. It was a mirror. It showed me where I was still limiting myself. Where I acted out of fear. Where I adapted even though my soul was already ready to move forward. Where I still needed to grow.

The 5 energy seeks movement and expansion. It seeks experience. And I collected these experiences as if they were something sacred.

I gathered experiences with an inner devotion, as if every encounter, every decision, and every journey were a puzzle piece of a greater picture. For me, experiences were never just events. They were initiations.

At some point, back in Australia, a friend recommended that I should write a book about my life. And he was not the first. But his words remained in my subconscious — quietly, yet present.

In that moment, the idea seemed completely unreal to me. I simply smiled and said that I still needed to live a little more before I would even have something to tell.

And that was precisely how it was.

I still needed to collect more experiences. To live more. First, a path had to form — a path that could actually be followed, a path where development would become visible.

And so the idea of this story slowly began to mature.

 
And it was my experiences that healed my inner world. Because each one showed me a new image of myself. How I learned to handle situations. What I felt. What I was allowed to learn. And what I still needed to heal.

No book in this world could have replaced that. No degree, no university, no academic title can give a human being what their own life experiences teach them. Life itself was my true teacher.

And so my studies began at a private fashion school in Vancouver.

How fascinated I was. A new school building in a big city. New subjects. New people around me who all shared the same goal — to let creativity come alive.

Each one talented in their own way. Studying at a Canadian private school felt like a privilege to me. And I had paid for it myself. Which made it even more valuable in my eyes. Only I knew how much sweat, pain, and exhaustion were behind every single cent I invested into this education.

At that time, my English was still limited. It was enough for service jobs — working in a restaurant or on a farm. But the technical language of a creative, intellectual profession was new to me. Many words I was hearing for the first time.

And so I absorbed everything almost obsessively: dress forms, fabrics, measuring tapes, patterns, sewing machines, industrial machines, mood boards, sketchbooks, draping on mannequins, textile science, construction, pattern making, and more.

All of it entered my life — and I was so excited. It felt as if I had finally stepped into a space where my creativity could breathe. Where I could finally be myself.

And of course — alongside all this excitement — I not only had to study but also work.

I had paid for the school in advance. But there was nothing left for living expenses and rent. And anyone who has ever been to Vancouver knows how expensive everything is — especially housing. So I continued working in service jobs until, after about six months, I got a position at an international fashion chain in the men’s department.

I owed that job to a connection through my roommate. She already worked there and was able to arrange an interview for me. So I started part-time, because with a student visa I was only allowed to work a certain number of hours. And of course, that was reflected in my finances.

Money was always tight. And that was exactly where my money issues began…

I shared an apartment with five other girls. I rented the living room — with a makeshift divider. Which also meant that I heard everything. When someone went into the kitchen at night. When a roommate turned on the washing machine at midnight — one meter away from my sofa bed.

 
And yes, there were conflicts. I could not accept a certain level of arrogance and inconsideration. At the same time, that was another lesson for me: recognizing my boundaries. Not only feeling them internally, but also expressing them.

These were the first steps in standing up for myself.


At some point I was completely exhausted. Our school program was so intense that in a single year we were expected to learn what a traditional fashion degree would teach in four years. The homework never ended. Truly never.

And I was not naturally a passionate seamstress. What fascinated me was design — the creative process, developing ideas, drawing silhouettes, and watching a vision emerge on white paper. I also loved selecting fabrics: feeling materials between my fingers, comparing textures, and coordinating colors.

Pattern making and sewing were not my greatest passions—but I had to master them. So I learned. With discipline. With persistence.

After school. After my work hours.

Often I stayed awake until two or three in the morning because there was still so much to do. I remember coffee and Baileys after 10 p.m. just to stay awake. And early the next morning everything started again. It never stopped.

My roommates saw everything. They saw my light on at night, heard me working, felt my exhaustion. And they encouraged me to keep going. They told me again and again that I would succeed. Maybe it was also their belief in me that kept me from giving up. And I am deeply grateful to these girls. With some of them, I am still in good contact today.

The only real reason to give up would have been money — and the feeling that my finances were not enough to support this lifestyle. Because in Germany, in many ways, life would have been easier. My standards there had once been high.

But my way of living in the previous years — especially after Australia — had humbled me deeply. It taught me to live with less, to live more simply, and to endure. So I continued.

Often with clenched teeth. And at the same time with an inner certainty: I will make it. If others can do it, I will make it too.

I was not the only one from abroad here. And I was strong. Yes, many international students had wealthy parents who paid for their education and living costs.

But there were also others — people who carried everything themselves.

The difference was: many of them came from difficult circumstances and were seeking a better life. I, on the other hand, came from better conditions — and still wanted more. And that was exactly why it sometimes felt so uncomfortable to move one step down materially. Because my inner standard had once been different.

And I was already in my late twenties.

A glimpse of light in this tunnel was an encounter that — at least that was what I believed at the time — was meant to pull me out of this hamster wheel.

On one of my workdays, I was sent to the women’s department because the cashier had called in sick. The lines there were much longer, and I was supposed to help process customers quickly.

While I was working, I was being observed — by a woman from a higher-end fashion brand who was herself standing in the line. When it was finally her turn to pay, she slid her business card toward me and simply said that I should contact her.

I had already mentioned that the 7 energy is the energy of movement and speed. That it allows a person to make a quantum leap.

And that was exactly how it felt.

I had always been fast. In everything I did. And that was precisely what she noticed. I was recruited.

At that moment, it seemed like a wonderful opportunity. A step upward. A door opening. But inside, I felt something entirely different. Within just a few minutes, I realized:

I did not like this person.

There was something in her energy that immediately made me alert. I felt that it would be difficult to connect with someone carrying such an energy. My intuition was there — clear and unmistakable.

And yet I also knew: this could be my path into a better future. Better income. Easier work. And perhaps even a special professional perspective.

After long consideration, I decided not to listen to my intuition. I resigned from my job — and moved to a higher-end brand.

That was in June 2015.

In numerology, the digits of that year add up to an 8 — a karmic number. A number of balances. Either everything expands. Or everything becomes heavier. Depending on what my soul had created in a previous life — or in this one.

Outwardly, everything improved. A slightly better salary. A higher brand — something that holds meaning for people who look at status.

And that was exactly why people like me, who were not yet firmly established in the country, were easily exploited. In their eyes, it was already a privilege to be allowed to work there. My “reward” was not the salary — my reward was belonging to that name.

 
Very often, on my days off, I had to come into the store last minute for a few hours because my boss wanted to go out for coffee with someone during her shift. Because I wanted to be good. And I came every single time.

I could not even allow myself to go somewhere for a weekend. Unconsciously, I was put under so much pressure that my entire life revolved around whether my boss was in a good or bad mood. My mood depended on her mood.

I wanted to be good.

I did not realize how deeply her narcissistic layer was changing me. How strongly she was manipulating me. And how easily I allowed it to happen.

Even though I consciously felt that it was not good, I continued. Because I had a goal.

I wanted to stay in the country later. And for that, I needed a perspective. I was striving for a fixed, official position — as a visual merchandiser—so that I could later present my documents and be allowed to remain in the country.

The company promised me this position. I was trained and took on the responsibilities — in addition to my regular sales job.

But although I was already carrying the responsibility, they kept postponing making it official. And so I worked another year in a role I had already filled — without truly owning it.

They kept me waiting. So I would not leave. So I would stay. So they could keep me “on the hook.”

Until they finally made it official.

And I promised that I would stay only one more year and then leave. I was told that I simply had to endure that one year.

One would think that with so much work, my finances should have been very good. But it was exactly during these years that debt began to form.

In this phase — when I was constantly under internal pressure, being pulled down, and life seemed to test me from all sides — my finances also suffered.

Only later did I begin to understand how closely everything is connected energetically.

When a person is breaking internally, they search for an outlet. Some numb their inner world with alcohol or drugs. Some suppress others to feel bigger themselves.

For me, it was money — and spending it on beautiful things.

I allowed myself to buy beautiful coats from the store, with a fifty percent discount. I allowed myself not to count every single penny. Saving had never really been my way.

My inner justification was always the same: I had lacked so much in life. As a child, I was allowed to have so little — now I was allowed to give myself something.

 
In truth, it was my attempt to cope with the enormous stress. I convinced myself that buying things was self-love. That I was giving myself value through them.

But exactly there, a much deeper development began.
‍
It was the moment when I should have truly integrated all the books I had read. And exactly there, I realized something honest:

I had interpreted much of what I had read in a way that fit into my everyday life — in a way that felt right to me. Not necessarily in the way it had truly been meant.

I had shaped meanings from the content that explained or justified my behavior, without even consciously noticing it.

Allowing yourself something because you love yourself does not mean spending your last penny on a taxi ride — simply because, in that moment, you do not want to admit that you actually cannot afford it. This feeling of “not being able to afford it” was directly connected, for me, to the emotions and memories of where I came from. And that was exactly what I had wanted to suppress my entire life.

Later, I read somewhere that one of the most common reasons people remain impoverished or accumulate debt lies in the fact that they do not accept their own reality. That they want to forget where they come from.

And I began to understand: my problem was not that I could not handle money. My problem went much deeper. Every time money became scarce, I was instantly reminded of my childhood — of my family, of the reality in which I had grown up.

I thought of my grandmother, who always saved, always sacrificed, and rarely allowed herself — or me — anything. And at the same time, I thought of my parents, who lived the exact opposite — who spent everything, without limits, without security.

I had grown up between these extremes. Between control and excess. Between fear of lack and the attempt to cover it up.

And my inner reflex was exactly that: to forget. To forget where I came from. To forget how it felt not to have enough.

So I allowed myself everything — even when it meant that afterward I had no money left and slipped even deeper into debt. In those moments, it was never truly about money. It was about a feeling. About distance from the past.

And in this phase of life, I began to recognize that everything is a lesson. That it is okay to gather experiences — even difficult ones — because they show something, teach something, and change something within us.

How often do people not even begin certain things because they are afraid of ending up in an uncomfortable situation? Because they are afraid of making mistakes? So they avoid it — and then call it “perfection.” Because if you never try, you cannot do anything wrong.

But people who make no mistakes also learn very little. They follow the norms.

That is also a path — but it was never my path. I always learned through my own experiences.

True strength is not created through caution, but through experience. Not by risking nothing

— but by making mistakes, falling down, understanding, standing up again, and continuing forward.

Because the most important realization lies exactly there: our inner world begins within ourselves.

The people who truly knew me and loved me understood that. I always had very good people by my side. They admired my strength — my refusal to give up, my determination to keep going. Even when it came to my finances.

I could have returned to Germany at any time. To an easier life. To safety. To structures I already knew. But I did not. I continued. Always forward.

Because somewhere deep in my subconscious there was a quiet realization: this issue ran much deeper. And it was not truly mine.

It was larger than my current situation. It was something that worked through me — shaped by experiences, by patterns, by stories that had begun long before me…

And a part of me knew: if I went back now, I would not truly face my themes. I would only avoid them. So I stayed. And I walked through all of it.

Outwardly, I was always well-groomed, well-dressed, and presentable. No one would have thought that my debts were growing. Only the closest people knew. My family noticed when I called my grandmother more often and asked if she could lend me a few hundred euros — because all my money had been spent on the expensive life, and sometimes I could not even afford groceries anymore.

And exactly this information was passed on. Collected throughout the entire extended family. After all, one must know everything about the person who is changing her life, growing, and working on herself. One must know all the “dirt” so that it can be used against her one day

— so that one can stand better oneself.

And my own problem in all of this was the inner conflict. A part of me knew very clearly that it was not good. That I was harming myself in the long term. And yet, in that moment, I could not solve it differently. I felt that I would not be able to manage everything if I did not at least allow myself this small feeling of luxury alongside all the stress.

And looking back, it was not even luxury as one would normally define it. They were small things — a moment of beauty, a sense of control, a brief compensation for the inner pressure.
 
That was exactly why the judgment of others hurt me so deeply. I always wanted to keep it secret because I was not truly in agreement with it. Because I knew it was not a healthy path — but at that time, it was the only one I knew.

Those who knew about it kept pointing again and again to exactly this one aspect — as if it were the worst mistake in the world. As if I were a bad person simply because of the way I handled money.

But the most painful realization was recognizing that the person closest to me — the one through whom everything should have remained confidential — had continued to pass this information on. Not out of concern. But because it increased her own value according to others. So that she would appear better.

This inner comparison within families often exists beneath the surface. And precisely in the moment of your weakness, something paradoxical happens: outwardly, you are helped — and the moment you turn your back, it is told to others. So that everyone knows you are not truly who you appear to be. So that you are not perceived as stronger, more successful, or better than them.

And that is where the real pain lies. Not in the mistake itself. But in the betrayal of trust.

Because some people believe that if someone were truly growing, they would never end up in such situations at all.

And how naïve that thought is.

It often comes from people who have never seriously worked on themselves. Only those who know the constant struggle with themselves understand that it is both the strongest and the weakest battle at the same time. That one always remains the strictest judge of one’s own actions. And how difficult it is to gather the courage to work on one’s own weaknesses.

But I always knew that only I could change all of this. And so I kept going — with my dreams.

And one of my dreams was fulfilled after just one year of studying.

I was allowed to present my own small collection on the runway at the graduation show.

Each student had to create three outfits entirely from scratch — design, develop, assemble, sew, fit them on models, adjust them, and change them until everything was finished.

The moment when the models wore my outfits and walked across the stage was something exceptional for me. I was so proud of what I had created…

The feeling of achieving something that only a year earlier had been nothing more than a dream is almost impossible to put into words. That experience gives you such deep confirmation — that everything is possible if you stay committed and do not give up.

To this day, it remains one of the proudest moments of my life.
 
After my one-year program, I still had to complete an internship in the fashion field. The company agreed that I could do it within my regular working hours. Still, I wanted to improve my sewing skills even more.

So through the school, I received a recommendation to a tailor and helped there a few days a week for several hours.

But every time I needed to go there, I was suddenly called into the store. My boss loved preventing me from moving forward.

With a brief smile, she congratulated me on finishing my studies — yet at the same time she overloaded me with unnecessary tasks in the warehouse. Sorting clothes. Organizing garments by size and type. All background tasks. The kind where my mind was supposed to become numb. The places where I could not sell.

Because when I sold, I always reached my sales targets. And that meant my performance would be noticed by upper management.

My name was known in all the branches of this company because everyone knew that I worked more than necessary.

I had the feeling that I belonged to this store. A place where millionaires would buy four or five coats in a single day. Seven thousand Canadian dollars for one coat — completely normal.

I remember one day when I sold a couple of clothing worth 21,000 Canadian dollars and had to process the transaction. My hands were shaking. Probably because in that moment I realized that my entire education had cost about that much — and that I had worked for a year and a half to save that amount.

Everything suddenly felt different. The contrasts in my life were so extreme.

This world sparkled. It smelled of luxury. Of power. Of exclusivity. And yet, internally, it was cold.

And yes, at that time I also believed it was something special. That there was a higher value in being part of that world. Because I had not truly accepted my own background until then. I had suppressed it. I did not want to acknowledge it.

A part of me believed that external advancement would create internal value. Because I was suddenly surrounded by people who possessed a great deal of money. And so it felt like a step upward.

But internally, I was being deliberately, consciously, and painfully destroyed. And the most shocking part was: for this person, it was entertaining.

Today I understand: it was a karmic encounter. The most intense one I have ever experienced.
 
From this point on, I was meant to learn what it means to be first admired by a narcissistic personality — and then systematically diminished.

It was, to this day, the hardest school of my life.

No book. No relationship. No friendship. Nothing has taught me as much about myself as this connection with my boss.

Here, I had to learn what self-worth truly means. What self-love truly means.

Why a person elevates you — only to later control you. What mechanisms are used? How manipulation works. How exploitation begins — subtle, charming, almost invisible.

And I had to learn not to lose myself within it. And if it did happen — how do you remember yourself again? How do you step out of that state of being lost?

But what I recognized on an even deeper level was something else: this pattern was not new to me…

It was as if my entire life were unfolding once again — only in a different form. I recognized the same dynamics that I had known from my extended family.

In my family, I had never heard that my achievements mattered. That I was beautiful. That I was good at something. Instead, there was always criticism of my weaknesses. Not openly enough to be clearly named. Always with an undertone. With a slight hint that was just subtle enough not to be immediately recognized.

With one difference: in the family, despite everything, there was still something human present.

But the techniques here — they felt as if they came straight out of a textbook.

And again and again, my background was used — just as it had been in my family, now also at work.

It was used as justification for her behavior — and in her eyes, even as validation. In her perception, it gave her permission to portray me as smaller, to make herself appear bigger.

And at some point, I began to understand that I myself — unconsciously — had believed this my entire life. I believed that I truly deserved it.

And because I accepted it deep within — not with words, not consciously, but silently and invisibly — it became easy for others to treat me the same way.

I had to learn that people often treat you exactly to the extent that you allow them to.

And you only allow as much as you deeply believe you deserve. That you are worthy — or not.

From the moment of my birth, I had been treated in a certain way. My system had learned these patterns. And because they were familiar, because I already knew how to navigate them, I kept attracting similar people into my life. Not because I wanted to — but because it felt known.

By putting me down, they placed themselves on a pedestal. Not because they truly stood higher — but because they needed someone beneath them.

And at some point I understood: those who make others small rarely do it from strength. They do it from their own lack — a lack they themselves do not want to see.

That was exactly where I began to turn inward. That was where my spiritual development began.

I no longer wanted to live that way. Not in a world where people allowed themselves to exploit or diminish me — often out of fear of my own potential.

And I was allowed to understand: I was always held back by those who secretly feared that I might go further than they ever had.

My boss too. She had seen my light. And it made her angry. Not because I hid it — but because it was simply there.

I was always positive and, even in the most difficult moments, I could still see something valuable — the possibility of learning and growing from it.

Some light is earned over years. Through pain and awareness. Through growth. And some is given — through background, through circumstances, through position. Perhaps that was exactly the point.

I had earned my inner light through experience and through hard work on myself. And that cannot be bought, inherited, or imitated.

My strength had been formed through my experiences. Through hard battles. Through continuing even when it became difficult.

Her strength, in contrast, was artificial — built on forced titles, manipulation, and the suppression of others.

Deep inside, she probably knew that she did not have the potential to be an excellent leader. And the pain of seeing an authentic, hardworking, dedicated person right in front of her was difficult to bear.

That is why she had to keep making me small. So that I would not step into my power. So that I would not continue believing in myself. So that I would not eventually become better than her.

 
A colleague later even told me that my boss once said that new employees who showed particularly strong performance should be brought down immediately afterward — that their “wings should be clipped.” So they would not fly too high. So they would begin to doubt themselves.

I believed it instantly.

Because I experienced exactly this pattern again and again. Every time I had an especially strong sales day, when my numbers were high, when my displays were praised, or when customers complimented me, shortly afterward there would be a phase where I was diminished again.

That is why she deliberately focused on my weaknesses — weaknesses that I showed openly, almost on a silver platter. She repeatedly pointed them out to me.

And it would have been wrong to claim that I was perfect. I was not. I had many weaknesses. And I knew it.

She also knew that I always wanted to become better. That I had high expectations of myself. And precisely for that reason, she knew exactly where to strike.

Because a person who constantly wants to improve is also particularly vulnerable to doubt.

If you repeatedly show such a person where they are supposedly not good enough, you can slowly take away their will. You can destabilize them. You can cause them to begin doubting themselves — even when objectively they are performing well.

But what she — and many others in my life who used the same techniques — did not understand was this: they were teaching me to accept my weaknesses.

That was, of course, not the outcome they had hoped for. But I always transformed pain into strength.

Dirt into gold.

Attack into awareness.

And that is why today I want to thank everyone who ever tried to pull me down in life. Yes — thank you. Because of you, I was forced to look. I had to recognize my weaknesses — to accept them or to transform them. And through that, I became even stronger.

Perhaps not in the way you had imagined. But stronger within myself.

My power lies in transforming negative energy directed toward me into light and love. The more you tried to attack me, the clearer I became. The more conscious.

And truly — this is how I understand karmic souls today. They do not come into our lives accidentally. They come with a purpose. To create balance.

They remind us of what we once began. Of what had not yet been healed. Of what was meant to be learned.

 
The souls of these people — on a subtle energetic level, even before we all incarnated here

— made a promise: to accompany me on my path so that I could learn my lessons. Not as punishment. But as part of a greater plan our souls already knew before we met here as humans.

And they fulfilled it. All of them.

That is why I thank everyone who hurt me or tried to hurt me. You fulfilled your role. Even though I do not wish to have contact with you in this life anymore, I thank you from my heart for your presence. Because your behavior allowed me to grow. I wish each of you a beautiful, fulfilled life.

I carry no resentment within me. I simply made the decision that our paths would separate once your role in my life had been completed — regardless of whether you were family or not.

And yes — none of them ever tried to apologize. And I am certain that some of them will read these lines. The ones who watched me quietly from a distance.

They had followed my path closely — even though some told me directly that they never spoke about me. And only minutes later hinted that they knew everything about me. It was astonishing how often they contradicted themselves.

And what exactly was I supposed to do with that information? That others believed they knew things about me that I had never told anyone? Why should I have worried, simply because someone was convinced they knew something about me that they considered negative?

Who decided what value another person’s opinion should have for me?


I wondered whether they truly believed they could shame me with such statements. Who were they, that their words should hold such power — God?

Shame is a tool. A method of manipulation. An instrument of control.

It was naïve to believe that anyone had the privilege of using such tools against me. That power existed only as long as I allowed it — and that time had long passed.

But how could they have known that, when they were so busy searching for weaknesses in others while overlooking the weeds in their own garden?

Yet one thing I knew with clarity: everything I had done in this life happened consciously or unconsciously. And I am ashamed of nothing. I live. I make mistakes. I learn.

At the same time, I recognized that some people, even many years later, were still revolving around the same themes. Having the same conversations — often about others.

And so what remained within me was primarily one thing: gratitude for everything that had been. And the inner decision to let go.

We are often taught that we must forgive. And yes — that is true. Forgiveness does not happen for the other person, but for oneself. So that resentment, bitterness, and the bound negative energy can leave one’s own system.

And yes, you may understand why someone acted or spoke the way they did. But understanding is not a reason to continue accepting it. Forgiveness does not mean allowing everything to continue. Grow. And never allow the same thing to repeat.

And for a person with many 7 energies in the matrix, there is nothing more valuable than looking deeper and deeper within oneself. And I kept looking…

Through an acquaintance, I heard at that time about a sanctuary in Mexico. A place where

— as I was told — many spiritually connected people gathered for a few weeks. Vegetarians. Vegans. Seekers. People who wanted to live consciously.

At that time, I was already vegan. I had barely mentioned this part of my journey before. I had become vegetarian in Toronto — shortly before I went to Australia. And around 2014, I consciously chose the vegan path.

My true motivation was love. Love for animals. And the clear realization that I no longer wanted to be the reason for the death of another living being. That was how it began.

Today, my health and the environmental aspect are also part of it. But initially, it was a decision of the heart.

And yet, I was never someone who told others how they should live. You can ask me — and we can gladly talk about it. I can share a lot about my experiences. But I will never tell you what you should do differently.

Such a decision cannot be forced. It cannot arise from pressure. Not from moral superiority.

It must grow consciously and organically. From inner conviction. Because only what arises from within you has stability. Only then does it carry you — rather than you carrying it.

I would say that my conscious spiritual development had already begun before this transformation. But when it comes to energetic healing, that phase truly began in 2015—exactly during the time when I was working in that prestigious store and was exposed daily to the attacks of a narcissistic personality.

Because what was happening there was a permanent cycle. And her karmic role was to awaken me — so that I could understand that the real cause did not lie outside of me, but within me, in a deeper pattern of my own system.

At times, I was showered with gifts — once she even gave me her Louis Vuitton bag. A huge gift, presented as “compensation” for her games.

This is how such dynamics function. First you are idealized. Then you are destroyed.

Then comes a gesture of “love.” Perhaps something homemade. A smile. Praise. And then you are made small again. It is a cycle.

 
An emotional alternation between elevation and devaluation. Between reward and withdrawal. And exactly within this cycle, I began to understand that my healing would not be found outside — but only within me.

I had to look closely. Why had I allowed this person to treat me this way at all?

That question led me back into my childhood. To where patterns are formed. Where boundaries are either strengthened — or crossed.

I had to dig up old memories. Look at old feelings. Understand old imprints. And exactly there, I began searching for different paths to heal my soul.

No longer outside. No longer through performance as a form of struggle.

And almost like a metaphor — yet completely real — I began kickboxing during that time. At first simply as a sport. The security guard from our store, who worked there on weekends, inspired me to go to the gym. And that became the beginning of a new era for me.

Alongside my spiritual development through Reiki, I began training in kickboxing. After five or six months, I started participating in tournaments. The punching bag became, quite literally, my outlet. I was able to release my frustration there. I could discharge the psychological games from work.

The discipline of competing in tournaments — and winning all of them — gave me confirmation that I was good. A confirmation I had never received in the store.

Because so often we search for our validation outside ourselves — in passed exams, in praise from others, in titles, in status, in money. And I, too, believed that our value increased with every certificate, every promotion, every visible success.

I pushed myself. I functioned. I performed more than necessary — just to be seen, just to receive confirmation that I was “enough.”

And only this combination — an aggressive sport and very soft, energetic healing — changed so much within me. I was allowed to heal my inner child.

Do you remember how, as a child, I loved fighting with boys? Now I was finally allowed to live it out. Now I could release this fire energy within me. And through that, a part of my inner child was healed. I allowed myself everything I had once wanted but could not have — because there was no opportunity, or because it had been forbidden.

And so I decided to continue following the call of my soul. It led me to this sanctuary in Mexico that my friend had told me about. For five days, I made the journey.

It was a privately run house. A place where — as I joked back then — the “hippies of the world” gathered. Free spirits. Seekers. People who lived differently.

There I met many interesting souls. And there I had my very first Reiki experience.

 
When the Reiki master entered the house, I was the second person allowed into the room. This treatment fascinated me deeply. I felt safe. A deep, unfamiliar calm. My arms became so heavy, as if they were paralyzed. I could hardly move them. It was as if my body entered a state I had never known before — somewhere between being awake and letting go.

When I left the room, I initially noticed nothing spectacular. No fireworks.

And yet — when I was back in Vancouver — I knew it with absolute certainty: I had found something. Something that would help me heal my soul.

And so I allowed Reiki into my life. Very quietly. Without great announcements.

With every treatment, I became stronger. More open. Clearer in my mind. Something within me began to straighten and rise.

My self-love awakened — not suddenly, but gradually. With every layer I shed. With every truth I admitted to myself. And that truth was anything but easy. Yet the tears that flowed when I acknowledged my own weaknesses were tears of relief.

They cleansed me.

The deeper I dug, the more I began to accept myself as I was. With my light. With my shadow. With my wounds.

And the more I accepted myself, the less patience I had for disrespectful behavior.

My work on my weaknesses and inner wounds changed my energetic field. What I had once tolerated, I could now feel immediately — through growing self-respect.

And so — after almost four years — the final break came.

Once again, a narcissistic situation arose that I could no longer endure.

It was mainly about the fact that I no longer played her games. That I no longer obeyed. I no longer reacted the way she was used to. I no longer allowed myself to be provoked. I no longer sought validation from her.

But it went even deeper. My new clarity was a provocation for her. My presence — calm, yet firm — made it clear that she could no longer control every step I took. And that had become too obvious.

She felt that she was losing control over me. And exactly there, the escalation between us began.

One workday, I arrived significantly earlier at the store because I still had to complete a task she had assigned to me before opening. Officially, only one and a half hours had been scheduled for it. But I already knew that this would be impossible to accomplish in that time.

It involved work in the stockroom — new coats had to be unpacked, plastic removed, sorted, and arranged by size. She had no understanding of how long such work actually takes,
 
because she had never done it herself. I, on the other hand, knew exactly. I knew precisely how much time I would need.

I was also aware that if I did not complete it on time, she would later use it against me. So I came earlier, to have enough time to do everything calmly and not under pressure.

At the same time, I knew these additional hours would probably not be paid. And still, I agreed to it — because I wanted to do my work properly.

But this voluntary effort revealed something else as well: I had begun acting strategically and placed less and less value on her assessments. By that point, I had already recognized that she had little practical experience — beyond giving instructions and raising her voice. I had long been organizing and completing many things independently, often more than she even demanded. There were moments when my ideas were first presented as wrong — only to appear later, slightly reformulated, as her own when she spoke to upper management.

During this heated discussion, she finally told me that she would not pay me for the additional hours I had worked voluntarily.

And in that moment, I said a sentence that changed everything:

“I am not your slave.” Then I left the store.

It was never about the money. It was about what her reaction revealed.

I had voluntarily invested more time, taken responsibility, and acted independently — and that was exactly what triggered her. My actions questioned her authority. Not through words, but through competence.

Instead of acknowledging my effort, she attempted to exert control. In that moment, I understood that it was not about hours. My actions had touched her authority — exactly at the point where her own doubts lived.

And right there, I knew I had to leave.

That was my liberation. From an almost four-year trauma that continued to echo in my system for a long time afterward.

I cannot and will not write everything here. With the publication of this story, I pursue a different goal than bringing someone to court — even though there would certainly be aspects that, upon closer examination, could be legally questioned.

But one thing I know: it was the most painful and at the same time the longest awakening of my self-love—especially in my interactions with people outside my safe circle.

After that, my language changed. Toward myself.

I stopped internally recognizing hierarchies. No title, no status, no money, and no influence placed anyone above me.

From that moment on, I stood on equal ground — with everyone. And I never placed anyone above my own worth again.

And I never allowed it again.

The moment I felt that someone positioned themselves above me, I left. Without conflict. Without explanation. I simply disappeared from the lives of those people.

They did not need an explanation. They knew exactly what they had done.

If, back then, I believed that the previous years had already been the hardest years of my life, today I would say that this belief was an illusion.

Because what still lay ahead of me on an emotional level would reveal itself as another deep test of my life.

Before sitting down to write this chapter, I asked myself this question countless times: Should I really write it down?

And even more importantly:
Is it advisable to share this experience with others?

Not because I was afraid that people might talk about it or judge me. That was never the reason.

What made me hesitate was something else entirely.

It was the thought of sharing something with the whole world that had once broken me internally in a way for which there are hardly any words.

It is this vulnerability — this naked, unfiltered truth about what happens inside a human being.

And yet I deeply believe that we should not hide our feelings.
That truth — even when it is painful — deserves a place in this world.

Because this is how healing happens.

And if someone reading this blog believes that I have not yet processed what happened and sees it as a sign of weakness, I would like to say something important:

Every story and every healing journey needs closure before it can be shared with others. This chapter of my past is already complete.

I share this experience because perhaps someone reading these words might recognize themselves in it — someone who may be going through something similar right now — and perhaps take something meaningful from it for their own path.

I share this experience because perhaps someone reading these words might recognize themselves in it — someone who may be going through something similar right now — and perhaps take something meaningful from it for their own path.

In the exact moment you truly accept it, every story loses its power over you — and with it, the world around you loses its power as well.

And yet what happened back then shook me so deeply that even my roommate at the time felt unsettled by it.

I remember her telling me once that she was almost afraid to look at me.

And still, I had the feeling that from the outside no one could truly see how bad it really was.

And perhaps that is precisely the strange part of it.

Because if what could be seen from the outside already seemed disturbing — imagine how it must have felt inside me.

After leaving that glamorous world in the prestigious company, I was hired as a sales manager at a local fashion company.

Interestingly, I had actually applied there several years earlier.

At that time, I wanted to deepen my knowledge in fashion design and continue developing my skills in that field.

However, after the second interview I received a rejection.

That interview had been conducted by the right hand of the company’s leadership.

Even back then, I had a strange feeling. Something about her told me that she did not personally like me.

The management itself had actually liked me and only wanted to hear a second opinion. But because she was considered particularly competent, she eventually conducted the final interview with me — and she was the one who gave me the rejection.

At the same time, I was aware that my salary expectations did not fully match what the company was able to offer. So I explained the situation to myself by simply assuming that I had not been the right match for the company.

A few years later, however, something unexpected happened.

I posted on my LinkedIn account that I was planning to start studying at the local university, UBC, in September. Shortly after that, the company’s management contacted me again. This time, they invited me to an interview for the position of Sales Manager.

At that moment, I was still working at the company that had been trying to keep me small. But by then I had already made an important decision for myself: I had to continue my education.

Back then, I often explained my insecurity to myself by believing that there was still so much I did not know. I had the feeling that I could only take the next step in my career once I was absolutely certain that I already knew everything required.

Looking back, however, I realized something that many women will probably recognize.

We often tend to accept a new position only when we believe we are already completely ready for it.

Men, on the other hand, often take opportunities even when they know they will have to learn many things along the way.

Paradoxically, it was exactly this constant belittling by my manager that made me realize something important: there were still things I needed to learn if I truly wanted to become successful. And that realization pushed me to begin acquiring this knowledge on my own.

Studying at a university also meant something else for me.

It meant that the high school diploma I had once failed would no longer define my path. And yet that earlier failure had followed me for years. It had settled deeply inside my system.

That was why I needed to prove something to myself.

I wanted to show myself that the failure back then had been caused by circumstances — not by a lack of intelligence.

Now that my life was finally becoming more stable, it felt possible.

So I applied for a three-year diploma program that I would attend twice a week after work. It was designed to help me grow professionally in Canada.

The program was called Sales and Marketing Management.

Around that time, I was interviewed again by the company’s management and their advisor.

The right hand of the leadership — the same woman who had rejected me years earlier — happened to be on vacation at that time.

During the interview, I spoke about my plans for the future. I shared my sales experience and the successes I had achieved in the company where I was still working at that time. I also spoke about the desire that had been growing inside me — the desire to continue growing, to develop myself, and one day to become truly successful.

In the end, they actually offered me the job.

However, the salary was significantly lower than what I was already earning at that time. So I answered honestly and explained that I could not accept the offer under those conditions.

What I did not know then was that only a few weeks later, my situation with my boss at the time would escalate.

And when that moment finally came — when I walked out of the store after telling her that I was not her slave — I suddenly realized something.

I had a Plan B.

So I wrote my resignation. Shortly after that, I also emailed the other company, letting them know that I was now interested in the position after all.

And just like that, I did not even have a full week to truly recover before I was already starting my new job.

The company worked closely with Indigenous communities and sold clothing from Canada to small boutiques and stores across the country and in the United States. My role was not to work directly with the end customers. My clients were the store owners themselves — people who owned and managed small as well as larger boutiques.

For me, it was an entirely new world.

A world that fascinated me immediately.

Life in the office felt surprisingly calm and relaxed. No one rushed you. No one controlled your every step. By then, I was already in a managerial position where I was responsible for many accounts and had an assistant who packed and shipped orders for my clients.

The onboarding process moved quickly. Everything was new, and yet the energy of this place felt completely different from anything I had experienced before.

My boss was a woman who had built her company entirely from the ground up. She was someone who inspired me — a person I could truly learn from.

She had built her name through authenticity and incredibly hard work. Not because she was wealthy or because she had inherited her position from her family.

And because of that, the circumstances were more modest. The salary was lower, and the clients were different from those I had worked with before. There was no pretentious glamour like in my previous world.

And yet, in its own way, it was beautiful.

The clothing was produced entirely in Canada. Everything was created locally — from the first sketch to the final button on each garment.

It was not luxury fashion. It was sustainable fashion. Fashion with meaning.

The value of these clothes did not lie in the name of a big brand, but in the story behind each piece. The designer incorporated the artwork of Indigenous artists into her clothing, and they received a percentage of the royalties for their work.

And perhaps it was exactly because of that that, for the first time, I truly felt at home there.

But even there, another feeling slowly appeared.

It felt as if, once again, I had taken a step down.

I loved the purpose of the company. The idea behind it, the collaboration with Indigenous artists, the awareness and respect for their art — all of it felt right on a deeper level. And yet, deep inside me, there remained this quiet feeling that for me personally it was another step backward.

The world I had come from before had shaped me strongly. In that world, there was an unspoken rule: what looked like money had value. What did not shine was often overlooked.

And of course, it also had something to do with my own story. I had always felt closer to poverty than to wealth. That is why every step that felt like going backward was particularly difficult for me to accept.

But by that time I had already learned something important.

Sometimes a step backward prepares us for a bigger leap forward.

From the outside, it may look like a setback. Some people take a big step forward and experience visible — sometimes even faster — growth.

But constantly moving forward, even when it sometimes includes small steps backward, creates a different kind of growth.

A growth that builds itself steadily, again and again, step by step.

And that is how growth becomes truly real.

And through that process, we remain humble — and often learn far more.

This job also changed something within my inner world.

The feeling of being in a job that, at that moment, truly felt right was something exceptional. The strong contrast to everything I had experienced before made something obvious to me.

Often, we as human beings do not even realize how deeply we have already become entangled in a situation.

Sometimes because no one ever shows us something different. And sometimes because we are surrounded by an environment shaped by narcissistic dynamics.

It is astonishing how deeply we can lose ourselves when we live in such an environment for a long time — whether in our careers, our private lives, or even within friendships.

Only when we leave such an environment do we begin to truly understand what was actually happening.

And suddenly we realize how strong we really were.

But at the same time, we also recognize how blind we can sometimes become when we allow things that we should have never accepted.

In this position, I suddenly experienced a kind of freedom I had never known before.

I was able to plan my own workdays, visit clients, and nurture relationships. Very often, I would even drive the company car to a nearby island, take the ferry there, and visit existing customers to maintain our connections and help them grow further.

It was an entirely new way of working for me.

At one point, I traveled with my boss and our social media manager to London for Fashion Week to present her collection there. That trip became an unforgettable experience for me.

I was also able to attend many events across Canada to present the brand and build new connections.

I was even entrusted with the company business card to cover my expenses while traveling. It was a different kind of trust — money was being entrusted to me.

It almost felt as if the universe was reminding me once again that it constantly sends us signs — small indications pointing toward the areas of our lives that we still need to look at and understand.

In that moment, I realized that my financial challenges were ultimately also in my own hands.

It felt as if I had stepped into a completely new world — a world so different from anything I had known before.

I gathered experiences, learned an incredible amount, and grew with every encounter.

On another occasion, my boss sent me on a one-week trip to Alaska on a cruise ship. During this journey, I contacted local stores in Alaska, introduced them to the collection, and at the same time had the opportunity to experience the journey and the world on the ship for an entire week.

That trip gave me one of the most powerful moments of my life.

It was only the second time in my life that the beauty of nature brought me to tears.

As the ship slowly moved through the glacial landscape, surrounded by massive walls of ice and a deep, almost sacred silence, an Indigenous woman stood on deck and began to play a shamanic drum.

It was a kind of tradition on the ship — a moment of pause to honor the land and the power of nature as we passed through this extraordinary landscape.

The water was completely still. The glaciers felt timeless and powerful.

And in that moment, something opened inside of me.

I felt the greatness of nature in a way I had never experienced before. I simply stood there, overwhelmed by the feeling — and suddenly tears began to run down my face.

To this day, I remain very grateful for that period of my life.

Even though after one and a half years I eventually moved on and left that position as well.

But in that job I was also able to witness another side of the working world — the effects that jealousy and competition between people can create.

Relatively quickly, I noticed that the right hand of the company’s leadership did not really like me. Again and again, my pronunciation was pointed out, or small mistakes in my English were highlighted. Every time I brought up an idea or suggestion, it was rejected in a polite, almost friendly way.

Yes, it was different from my previous boss. It was not as aggressive. But the tendency was the same.

I was not really supposed to speak.

In that moment, something became even clearer to me than before: it hardly mattered where I worked — people did not really want to hear what I had to say.

My ideas were softened, minimized, or simply dissolved in long conversations.

I had experienced something similar earlier in my extended family. When I spoke about other people, everyone listened with wide-open ears. But the moment I spoke about knowledge, ideas, or thoughts, I was often laughed at or silenced with comments like, “You’re crazy,” or “That’s nonsense,” and similar remarks.

As is often the case, I no longer remember the exact words.

But the feeling those moments created in me has stayed with me until today.

And perhaps someone might say, Maybe those ideas simply were not good enough.

But I was very aware that not every idea can be perfect.

Yet many of my thoughts were never even given the space to unfold.

Because truly listening would have meant that I could show even more.

More competence.

And that was precisely the fear.

Even in later jobs, I sensed this same dynamic again and again. The right hand of the leadership would actively search for my mistakes or highlight them in great detail. In her eyes, I was supposed to appear incompetent.

And perhaps the paradox in all of this was that my bosses themselves always liked me.

Many of them openly told me that I was one of the best employees they had ever had — some even said I was the best.

But the others always tried to make it visible that I did not truly deserve that position.

And it was exactly at this point that something became clear to me.

Many of them seemed to believe that I wanted their job.

That one day I would take their place.

Or that through me they might lose their influence over the boss.
They had enormous influence over her. They did everything for her, were constantly available, and over the years had built a strong position for themselves.

In their eyes, my ambition automatically became a threat.

But what they did not know was something entirely different.

I never wanted their position. For me, a life as someone’s “right hand” would have felt far too narrow. Far too small. I love freedom too much.

My goal was never to take another person’s place.

I wanted to walk my own path. I wanted to build my own business.

But that was something they could not imagine.

Because in their eyes, I was not good enough.

And at the same time, they saw themselves as much better — and even they would have never dared to attempt something like that. So how could someone like me possibly even think about trying it?

The truth was simple: they would have never believed in themselves enough to try, let alone have the courage to actually make it happen.

And yet, perhaps they were not entirely wrong.

Deep inside of me, there was always a quiet insecurity.

Because there were still many things I did not know. Because in some areas I truly did feel incompetent.

I remember one situation clearly. My boss was talking about something that, as a sales manager, I felt I should have known — at least that was what I believed at the time.

In that moment, I experienced something that today I would probably call imposter syndrome.

My face suddenly felt numb. My eyes wanted to close. A deep sense of shame rose inside of me because there was something I did not know and I could not contribute anything to the conversation.

In that moment I thought, maybe I am really not good enough for this job.

The word manager carried immense pressure for me. It was my first leadership position, and that title had enormous meaning and weight in my mind.

Back then, status still meant something to me.

I had already begun to stop placing others above myself. But the patterns I had learned for so many years were still living inside of me.

And I still had to learn something important: the beliefs we carry for our entire lives do not simply disappear — even when we have already taken the first step to free ourselves from them.

Words can hold tremendous power over us.

And in my case, they had that power especially strongly.

Because throughout my entire life I had never truly learned how to say what I wanted to say. Again and again, I was interrupted. Again and again, someone else spoke louder.

And so I never really learned how to use my own voice.

And yet, my results at work continued to improve.

And for that reason, I decided — for the first time in my life — to negotiate my salary. I asked for a raise.

I had absolutely no experience doing this before. Everything I knew about negotiating a salary increase came from audiobooks and books that I studied.

In the past, I would never have dared to do something like that because I would have been afraid of losing my job completely.

But the more I learned to value myself and to recognize what I was actually contributing, the easier it became to ask for what I believed I deserved.

Yes, it was difficult, but I managed to negotiate my salary to a level that I felt was fair.

It was not a huge amount, but it was my small victory. And it meant far more to me than many people might believe.

My boss was very upset about it — but she had no choice. She knew that I actually deserved even more. Perhaps she was also angry because I had finally recognized it myself and no longer felt ashamed to ask for it.

As I mentioned before, the more you begin to value yourself and truly see what you contribute, the less afraid you are to expect your worth.

And when people see your real value, they will often give it to you.

And if they do not, then you know what to do.

But the path toward that realization had been very long for me.

And that was probably exactly what the right hand of my boss did not like.

She had to watch as I was not only good at my job and appreciated by the boss — she also saw that I was earning more money.

Perhaps that was precisely why, at some point, she began to increase my sales targets retroactively.

In the middle of the month.

At a time when I had already reached those targets — which meant I would have been entitled to a higher commission.What she did was technically illegal.

By raising the targets after the fact, she ensured that I would receive less commission, or sometimes none.

By that time, I had already suspected that, especially through my commissions, I might actually be earning more than she did.

So I realized what had happened.

I discussed it with my boss.

The next morning, before work even started, the right hand of the company leadership drove directly to my boss’s house.

When she later returned to the office, access to the spreadsheet had already been blocked.

It seemed as if my boss had confronted her about it.

That was probably the reason why she revoked my access to the commission page.

Later, my boss explained to me that it had all been a misunderstanding. According to her, I had simply misunderstood something

Whether the right hand of the company had told my boss a different story, or whether both of them were already involved in the situation together — I still do not know to this day.

But at that moment, I made an obvious decision.

I could have taken legal action.

What had happened was not right.

But at that time, I was in the middle of the process of obtaining my permanent residency in Canada. I did not want to create additional stress or complicate my life with legal conflicts.

So I decided to leave.

My boss tried to convince me to stay.

And perhaps that was exactly the moment when something inside me finally became clear.

It was the continuation of a new attitude in my life.

From that moment on, I responded to disrespect with my absence — without arguments, without conflict. If someone allowed themselves to treat me as if I were stupid, I simply left. Without justification. Without explanation.

I left them with their own karma.

Because the moment you begin to defend yourself or spend energy trying to prove to others that things are not the way they claim or believe, you take on the negative energy they are projecting onto you.

When you remain still, they remain with their own karma.

And despite everything, I am deeply grateful for that experience.

The universe placed me in a situation where I had to make a decision — and I was able to live that moment in a way that ensured what had happened in my previous job would not repeat itself in this one.

Even when everything else appears perfect, the moment you allow someone to treat you with disrespect once, it will most likely happen again.

In that sense, I had passed the test.

I addressed the problem.

But it was never truly acknowledged. Instead, it was minimized, and my perception — my truth — was presented as nothing more than a misunderstanding.

In English, this is called gaslighting.

Gaslighting is a form of psychological manipulation in which a person tries to make another person question their perception, memory, or feelings to destabilize them. Over time, the person being manipulated may begin to doubt their own perception, even though their experience is real.

Gaslighting often happens gradually. A problem is minimized, responsibility is shifted, and the feelings of the other person are presented as an overreaction or a misunderstanding. This creates the feeling that one's truth is not relevant.

And that was exactly where my decision lay:

What would I do next?

Leave — or pretend that nothing had happened and allow the pattern to continue.

I chose to leave.

It is also important to mention that during this time I had taken on a second job to finance my studies. What I was earning was not enough. I had to pay for school, and I also carried debts on my shoulders.

So I worked a full-time job in the office as a sales manager. In addition, I worked another job on weekends as a concierge in the residential building next door. It was only four to five hours per day, but it still meant around ten additional hours of work each week

And moreover, there was my education. Twice a week after work, I had to attend evening classes — and of course, I still had to study.

I have to say, it was anything but easy.

I was constantly exhausted, and school was very challenging for me. Everything was extremely business-oriented. I had to prepare presentations, work with spreadsheets, and create financial calculations.

There was no one I could lean on.

In the end, there was only me.

Yes, many things are possible when you truly want them. Yes, I was always strong. But even today I sometimes wonder how I managed to carry all of it.

Alone.

It was also during that time that I met him

He lived in the residential building where I worked, and I noticed him immediately. One day he came to pick up a package because deliveries were often left at the concierge desk with me. In that moment, we truly looked at each other for the first time.

And if something like love at first sight exists — then that was it.

He was very charming and kind, and his voice was so gentle. He looked a bit like a cuddly teddy bear, with a little softness in his face and body, yet at the same time he was tall and strong.

In his presence, I immediately felt safe.

You might even ask yourself, how is something like that even possible?

But it was one of those moments when it felt as if my soul recognized him.

At first, it was just a little flirting — perhaps from me, perhaps from him. But in that moment, there was definitely something between us. I am quite sure of that.

After two months, I left that job because the workload had simply become too much for me.

And then one day, I came across his profile on a dating app.

I gave him a like — and he liked me back.

So I wrote to him:“Hello, neighbor.”

Later, he told me that at first he had not immediately recognized me. But eventually he admitted that he had already noticed me in the building before and that he had liked me even then.

And that is how this beautiful story began.

He was a gentleman. The way he treated me had something special about it. I felt safe— and from the very first moment I felt in love, almost like a little girl.

He was very communicative, great at small talk, and also very successful in his career. He held a director position in a software company and carried a great deal of responsibility.

He was exactly the kind of man I had always imagined — externally, internally, and in terms of his career. Someone who always wanted to grow, someone who was always learning, someone with whom life would never feel boring.

In his spare time, he loved spending time in nature. He had traveled a lot and was very well-read.

All of these were things I had always wished for in a partner.

At work, I constantly found myself thinking about him and the time we spent together.

He called me his princess, and in his arms I felt like a little fairy resting on his broad shoulders. Three Irinas could have easily fit inside one of his hugs.

And I loved his hugs.

And that is why it felt to me like the end of the world when one day he told me that he needed to focus on his work and did not have time for a relationship.

My world shattered.

I could not believe what I was hearing. I did not understand where this version of him had suddenly come from—how he could destroy everything we had with just a single sentence.

He said that this realization did not change the fact that he liked me.

I was aware that he was using a very reasonable explanation — one that would be easier for me to accept, because he understood how sensitive I was. At that time, I believed he did not want to hurt me. He wanted us to part in peace.

Our relationship probably lasted only one or two months.

But eventually I understood something.

He had realized that I was not the right woman for him to build a family with.

And in that moment, a painful realization hit me — that maybe I was simply not good enough for a man like him.

At that time, I tried to explain it to myself differently. I told myself that maybe I was too strong for him, that he wanted someone weaker.

But deep inside me, another realization slowly began to grow.

He wanted a different kind of woman.

Someone who came from a good family. Someone who had not experienced deep trauma. Someone who did not constantly have to prove that she was good enough, but who simply lived with that certainty.

Someone who could also show, in the material world, that she came from stable circumstances — from a wealthy family, without heavy internal programs that first had to be painfully worked through.

Perhaps he would never have approached me himself, because he already knew this.

And when I wrote to him, maybe he simply saw it as an opportunity for a beautiful time together. He allowed himself to enter the connection because I had taken the first step.

This realization came only after very intense reflection — thinking about who he was and what I did not have

And in that moment, I became aware once again that our background does not only influence friendships or professional paths. It also shapes romantic relationships.

People often choose partners from the same circles — with similar values, similar habits, and a similar understanding of how the world works.

Yes, he liked me.

But he did not follow his heart.

Or perhaps he simply did not feel for me what I felt for him.

He followed his logic.

Can I blame him for that?

No.

Because at one point in my life, I also believed that this was the right path.

And yes — it is the easier one.

What he perhaps did not know back then is that people can change.

They can grow beyond the circles they were born into.

They can transform the internal programs that shaped them and dissolve them and become exactly the kind of person who one day changes the circumstances of their family.

I am sure he was intelligent enough to understand that this path would take years — and he wanted someone who did not have to go through all of that, or someone who had already completed that journey.

At least today, I believe that this was exactly what he was looking for.

Sometimes we meet exactly the right person — but if the timing is wrong, we lose the chance to truly live that connection.

Inside, something in me died.

The realization that I was losing the love of my life because I did not come from the same background — because I was not on the same level, and that this was the very reason he rejected me — destroyed me.

I died inside.

A week later he wrote to me, telling me that he missed me.

I answered — and soon found myself again in his arms.

And so this continued for several months.

We would see each other for a week, and then I would disappear again because I knew it was wrong. But then he would write to me again. He knew exactly how to reach me emotionally. He made it almost impossible for me to ignore him.

And he lived only one house away from me.

During that time, I learned what emotional manipulation can look like—how manipulative people can become when they know that you have feelings for them.

They use those feelings.

At some point I was at his place again.

All I had to do was walk across the street to reach his apartment

That day we simply lay together and took a small nap. We were cuddling, nothing more. I fell asleep for a brief moment.

When I woke up a few minutes later, I heard an inner voice.

It was so clear and intense that I could not ignore it.

The voice said, “Ask him if he is seeing someone else.”

The voice was so strong that I actually asked him.

He looked surprised and asked what I must have dreamed to ask such a question. But eventually he told me the truth.

Yes, he was dating other women.

If I had still held on to any hope that he might change his mind about me, that hope disappeared in that moment.

He made it clear that while he was searching for his future wife, he could still spend a pleasant time with me.

And once again, something inside me died.

I exploded in anger.

I told him that he had wasted my time.

With tears in my eyes, I decided: this would be the last time I would ever step into his apartment.

As I was leaving, I hugged him one last time — angry, hurt, and with the deep pain of knowing that this would also be the last time I would ever hold him.

The feeling is impossible to describe.

It feels as if a piece of your own soul is being torn away.

Every part of you wants to stay. Every part of you wants to do anything just to remain with that person — no matter the cost.

And yet, you love yourself enough to understand what it would do to you — and how wrong it would be to continue walking down that path.

I told him that I wished him a beautiful life.

Then I left his apartment without turning around.

And I never came back.

This situation taught me once again to stand up for myself. I had stayed longer than I should have because I always tried to see the good in people and was always willing to work on a relationship. But I had to learn that a relationship can only work if the other person is also willing to work on it.

And once again I experienced how important it is to listen to the inner voice.

That inner voice had guided me out of dangerous situations before — especially when it came to romantic relationships.

After that, it felt as if I was slowly sliding into a depression.

Despite everything, I understood that I had done the right thing by distancing myself from him. The decision was clear, logical, and necessary.

But my heart felt something entirely different.

It felt as if it were being torn apart.

It was once again the inner battle I already knew so well — the battle between my heart and my mind.

My mind knew the path.

But my soul had to live through the pain.

And not only internally. Something in me also began to change on a physical level.

During that time I started to develop heart-related symptoms. At first I did not know whether they were truly physical or whether they came from a deeper emotional layer.

My heart hurt in a way that felt different from the usual heartbreak after a breakup.

I experienced heart palpitations, strong irregular heartbeats, and deep stabbing pains in my chest that simply would not stop.

These were not short moments.

They stayed.

They returned again and again and would not allow me to rest.

Eventually, I decided to see a doctor.

From there I was sent to the hospital, where many tests were performed. My heart was examined thoroughly — I even had to wear a heart monitor for a longer period of time to observe the rhythm.

But the result did not surprise me.

On a physical level, my heart was completely healthy.

All the values were normal.

There was no organic illness and no medical explanation for the pain.

It almost felt like a phantom pain — as if my heart was feeling something that medical devices simply could not measure.

And in fact, there are scientific explanations for this.

Severe emotional stress, such as a breakup or the loss of a loved one, can trigger real physical heart symptoms.

In medicine, this is known as Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, often referred to as Broken Heart Syndrome.

In such cases, people can experience chest pain, heart palpitations, or stabbing sensations in the heart area — even though medical tests prove that the heart itself is physically healthy.

Studies also show that emotional pain activates similar areas in the brain as physical pain. That is why a deep emotional wound can actually feel like physical pain in the heart.

I spent countless hours in my room, often lying in bed with a completely tear-stained face. It felt as if I were crying my soul out of my body.

The tears simply would not stop. They came in waves, one after another, as if all the pain I carried inside me was trying to find its way out.

My roommate at the time sometimes looked at me as if she were seeing a ghost. Her eyes were full of concern. Sometimes she would quietly come into my room, sit beside me, and try to comfort me. She kept telling me that he did not deserve me.

But it was also during that time that something slowly became clear to me.

This encounter had come into my life to show me something.

It was like a mirror — a mirror reflecting my own inner weaknesses. I began to understand that my insecurity was part of what had made me so vulnerable.

Perhaps that was the exact moment when something inside me started to change.

From that realization, a new desire began to grow within me.

I wanted to become stronger.

Not only internally, but financially as well.

I began to focus more on my financial independence. Deep inside me, the desire grew to one day build a life where I could feel secure — supported by my own strength.

So that my children would never lose the love of their life because of money or status.

Today I can only say this: if it had truly been love on his side, he would not have let me go.

But in moments like that, our logic often works differently.

Many men are looking above all for stability — a stable personality and a life that already appears structured and secure. They look for a woman with whom they can build a family, a woman who will one day raise their children.

They are looking for someone who feels grounded within herself — someone they can trust.

But the way I lived my life often showed something different.

My life reflected that emotionally I was not truly stable. Deep inside, I did not always choose what was perfect for me, and I was not always consistent in my decisions.

About four months later, I decided to speak with him again.

At that time, I told myself that I simply wanted to understand what the real reason for our breakup had been. For me, it was a form of closure — an attempt to find inner peace.

I believed that if I spoke with him one more time, I would feel better afterward, and that it would become easier for me to let him go.

Today I know that this was not the whole truth.

Deep inside, I simply wanted to hear his voice one more time — even if it was only through a camera.

And yet, even that distant closeness was enough to awaken all the feelings I had been trying for so long to sort out within myself.

During our conversation, he apologized for hurting me. When I mentioned the reason for our breakup — the way I had come to understand it for myself — he responded with only a short sentence.

He said, “You really thought about it.”

In that moment, he indirectly confirmed what I had already felt deep inside: the real reason for our separation was that we came from entirely different backgrounds and worlds.

And so I realized that I had to face and heal a trauma that came from my own family — a trauma that had also shaped my relationships.

Often, our relationship with men begins much earlier than we realize.

It begins with our first relationship with a man — our father.

At the same time, I realized that I also needed to take control of my finances.

Even though I was internally broken, I still tried to create something positive out of this experience.

That had always been the way I lived my life.

Somewhere deep inside me, I always knew that even the things that brought me pain carried the possibility of being transformed into something beautiful.

I had learned that even the darkest experiences we face can sometimes become the beginning of something new — if we find the courage to transform them.

I felt that it was my responsibility to find a way out of the debts and circumstances I had been born into—to grow beyond the family status I came from.

So I began to see this experience as a lesson from the universe — a reminder to once again look at my own weaknesses and work on them.

And I am incredibly grateful for that experience.

It marked the beginning of a new era in my life.

I created a spreadsheet for my finances and began to approach everything differently.

From that moment on, I had to slowly gather myself again — step by step — while at the same time trying to keep my career, my studies, and my finances under control.

And also dealing with his constant messages and attempts to convince me to come back to him.

And while I carried all of this alone, there were people in my extended family who believed they had the right to judge my life.

People who had never lived on their own.

People who had moved directly from a well-provided parental home into their own families, where the men carried the responsibility while they themselves only had to make sure the kitchen was shining — and that was considered their greatest achievement.

And yet these were exactly the people who believed they had the right to judge my life.

They had not experienced even a fraction of what my sisters and I had gone through simply because we were born into a certain family.

And these were the same people who later asked me why they themselves had never ended up in such situations.

Yes, Sabine — what do you think the reason might be?

Do you truly believe that everything you have is solely your own achievement?

Or did you simply have more luck and now mistake that luck for your own merit?

And what have you actually created from your seemingly perfect starting point?

And the ironic part is that these people would not even understand what the term “Sabine” really means in this context.

That alone says a lot about the depth of such comments.

Very often, these are the same people who enter your home and start looking for dust.

They believe they have the right to offer their opinions and advice — even when no one has asked for them.

And yet they have not accomplished or endured even a fraction of what I have experienced and achieved in my life.

Often, the loudest judgments come from those who have created the least.

But at some point, I understood something important.

The opinion of other people only carries weight when their lives represent something you truly admire or aspire to.

And that was not the case here.

So I continued moving forward with my life and my career.

When I finally resigned from my job after the commission access had been blocked, it was January 2020.

I did it without having another job waiting for me.

I had a broken heart and a large amount of debt.

Once again, I had to start from the beginning — and face the consequences of my past and my decisions.

And yet, in that moment, it still felt like the right decision.

And it was exactly during that time that the whole world welcomed Corona

Before I write about the time of the pandemic, I want to share one more story — a story that, in many ways, forms the background for much of what unfolded later. It is about a friendship that moved through different phases over the years and, in its own way, taught me a great deal about expectations, closeness, and personal boundaries.

At that time, I was still working at the company while also holding a second job as a concierge at a neighborhood house. During this period, I received my first visit from someone coming from Germany. It was something very special to me, because until then, no one from my family had come to visit me. I had invited my sister several times, but she usually responded with hesitation or rejection. Often, she would simply say, “What would I even do there?”

Over time, I began to feel that something between us had changed. After I had moved away, a certain distance developed — one that became more and more visible as time went on.
For me, it often felt as if a deep resistance toward me had grown within her, stronger than ever before. This attitude revealed itself more openly with time. She made it clear that she had neither the interest, nor the time, nor the financial willingness to come and visit me.

Perhaps it was exactly for this reason that it felt so meaningful to me when a friend from that time actually made the journey to see me.

However, our friendship had already gone through a difficult phase before that. For about three years, we had no contact at all. The reason for this distance lay in a situation that had occurred during one of my visits to Germany.

At that time, she was studying medicine in Lübeck. She really wished for me to come and visit her there. For me, however, that would have meant a train ride of about four hours one way. Visiting her would have taken at least two full days. At the same time, I only had ten vacation days per year. In Canada, it was quite common for some companies to offer only ten days of vacation annually.

Three of those days were already used for the flight, and the remaining time I wanted to spend with my grandmother and my family. My grandmother always held a very special place in my heart. When I came to Germany, it was deeply important to me to spend as much time with her as possible.

So I decided not to travel to Lübeck. For me, this decision felt natural and self-evident. But for my friend, it was difficult to understand. For her, it seemed to feel very different. She told me that for me, she would have been willing to travel halfway across the world to visit me in Canada — almost as if it were a favor I should feel grateful for my entire life.

I could understand her feelings, and yet my decision remained clear. My grandmother came first for me. Looking back, I realized that in that moment, she had placed her own expectations onto me — and that her disappointment had less to do with my decision, and more with the image she carried of how I should have acted.

At the time, I still tried to offer another possibility. Her parents lived in Braunschweig, not far from the city where my own family lived. So I suggested that she could visit her parents, and that we could meet there, even if only for a few hours. To me, it felt like a natural compromise. This way, she could spend time with her family, and we would still have the chance to see each other. But sometimes, people carry different expectations within them — and not all expectations meet at the same moment.

From this situation, a deeper tension gradually arose between us, and our contact broke off for several years.

Looking back, I now see this time with more calmness. But back then, I felt very clearly that our perspectives were not yet aligned. She was a few years younger than me, and I had the sense that we were in very different stages of our inner development.

For me, it felt right to continue our paths separately for a while. Not out of resentment, but from a deeper understanding that sometimes, each person needs their own space to gather experiences and grow.

And so, several years passed without contact between us.

After about three years, it was she who reached out to me again. She wrote that she had thought of me many times during that period and would like to know how I was doing. And so, she decided to visit me in Canada.

When she finally came to see me, we initially spent a very beautiful time together. Much felt familiar — almost as if the years of distance between us had never truly existed. Our conversations were alive, and it felt comforting to reconnect with a piece of that old familiarity.

But over the course of those days, a situation arose once again that reminded me of earlier dynamics. There was a moment when she expected me to be there for her in a way that no longer felt aligned for me. By that time, I had already begun to release many of the expectations others placed on me — especially within friendships. I had learned to feel my own boundaries more clearly and to respect them.

And so, a small conflict emerged between us.

We were in a spa area, and after a long day, we went to take a shower. I came out a little earlier than she did. When she came out, she couldn’t open her locker because it had some kind of malfunction. This made her upset — especially because I was already outside and hadn’t noticed. I was a few meters away, already drying my hair with the blow dryer.

When she finally managed to open it, she came over to me and started blaming me for not being there for her. I looked at her, surprised, and felt something shift inside of me — a kind of anger began to rise. I was expected to stand next to her and wait until she was finished — to follow her every step until her “queen” had completed everything. What is she — three years old? Especially since it wasn’t a dangerous situation or an unsafe place. It was a women’s area where everyone was relaxed.

I would have understood if she had generally felt unsafe in such an environment. But that was not the case.

For the first time in this friendship, I expressed myself so clearly and pointed out that she could have at least called me if she needed help. How was I supposed to know that she had a problem?

This situation was not a major one, and it did not lead to us breaking off contact again. Yet for me, it was a quiet indication of how different our inner attitudes still were — and that, in this regard, not much had truly changed.

Perhaps only one thing had intensified: over the years, she had become a person who held unrealistic expectations toward the people around her. She had achieved a lot and appeared more confident in her own skin from the outside — which, in its own way, can also be something very beautiful. And yet, something in this dynamic reminded me of a very early experience in my life — of a long-term best friendship that I had eventually also needed to let go of.

At the same time, I had the impression that the material world and the elite status she often spoke about were increasingly shaping her behavior. It showed itself in the expectations she placed on the people around her — expectations that sometimes felt as if others were meant to serve her in some way, or align themselves around her needs.

And at this point, it is important for me to say that I most likely would have acted differently in the past — but at that stage of my life, I needed my freedom, free from the expectations of others.

When she left, I tried not to take the situation too seriously. After all, I didn’t have to spend every day with her. But somewhere deep inside me, a small seed had been planted. From that moment on, I began to observe her patterns more consciously.

When COVID appeared in the world, I was already living outside the city. Shortly before that, I had moved into a house with a friend. There, I was able to rent a room for significantly less than I would have paid for an apartment in the city center.

This step was part of a plan I needed to follow in order to slowly free myself from debt. At first, it felt like a step backward. But at the same time, I knew it was necessary. I had to reduce my expenses in order to rebuild stability in my life.

Looking back, much of what had happened before felt almost like preparation. As if life — or perhaps the universe — had been guiding me, step by step, toward what the world was about to experience.

I continued to focus on my career and my studies. And during my time at university, there was a moment that moved something very deeply within me.

I have often mentioned how deeply I feared public speaking. Speaking in front of people used to feel like something that quite literally took my breath away. Even the thought of it made my heart race.

I remember a situation after the first year of my studies. We were required to prepare a group presentation. Based on everything we had learned during the first year of the Sales and Marketing Management program, we were asked to analyze a local business, identify its weaknesses, and then develop a business proposal — an improvement concept — outlining how the company could operate more successfully. From this, we had to create a presentation.

Working on it was actually something I enjoyed. But the moment I thought about standing in front of the entire class and the professors, presenting in English, it felt as if I was going to die.

And this was despite the fact that, at that point, I had already been living in Canada for many years and had frequently conducted product knowledge meetings in local stores — as part of my role as a Sales Manager.

And yet, standing in front of a group, especially a group of young people who had learned the same things I had, remained a challenge. Despite all my experience, there was still this quiet, unexplainable fear of standing in front of others and making mistakes.

As a child, I didn’t have this fear. It only developed later, after we moved to Germany. It was a trauma that deeply shaped me at the time, because I was afraid of saying something wrong…
But anyway…

I still remember the exact moment when I stood in my hotel room, just before we had to leave for the event. It felt as if my inner world was collapsing under the weight of fear. Our entire class had traveled to the mountains, to a hotel where such events were often held. That was where we were supposed to present.

Our group consisted of four people. One partner and I had invested a particularly large amount of time into the project, which meant we also had to take on most of the presentation.

When the moment came to step forward and present, there was no way back. I didn’t want to win any prize. I simply wanted to get through it — to survive it and be done. The presentations were graded, and they made up a significant part of our final mark for the year.

Which made it all the more surprising when, later on, we were told that our team had won first place. Our names were even engraved on a trophy.

For someone who had experienced public speaking as their greatest fear, winning an award for a presentation felt indescribable. I couldn’t believe my ears. It’s not that the content of our analysis wasn’t good — but I had judged myself based on my weakness, and that is why I was so surprised that we had won. The audience had clearly valued something else.

Yes, standing in front of people and presenting requires a great deal of courage, and no one truly pays as much attention to how you say things as you might think. And yet, I know that we would not have taken first place if it had been poor — especially considering that the majority of the class were native English speakers.

What did I take from this experience?

Was it easy? No.
Was I perfect? No.
Was it easier because I wasn’t standing there alone? Yes.
But it showed me something deeper — that I carry within me the energy of the fifth force: the gift of communication. A talent I was born with, yet one that, through the experiences of my life, had seemed to be taken from me for a long time. It was also a step toward facing and healing my fears and weaknesses.

Because fear is often the path itself.
Where our fear lives, our greatest growth often lives as well.

This story is meant to show one thing above all: everything is possible — and many things become easier — when we direct our energy toward improving something, instead of focusing only on fear, on everything that could go wrong, and therefore not even trying at all.

Shortly before that, I had found a job as a Sales Manager at an international fashion company. I was hired and began this new position full of hope. But I remained in that role for only one week.

At the beginning of March, Canada suddenly announced far-reaching measures. Stores were required to close, especially in retail. Within a very short time, the doors of the shops stood still.

For me, it meant one thing above all: no money, no work.

All of this happened in March, in the early days of a time when no one truly knew how deeply it would change the world.

In the weeks that followed, all leadership meetings moved online. We held regular meetings, I continued to be trained, and together we developed strategies for a possible reopening of the stores.

But one day, the news came that the downtown location where I had been hired would enter a renovation phase. No one could say how long it would last.

So I waited. For a while, I still hoped that everything would soon become clear. But after some time, I realized that I no longer wanted to remain in that uncertainty. Eventually, I decided to let go of the position and began looking for other opportunities.

During this time, the Canadian government introduced a support program for people who had lost their jobs due to the pandemic. The program was called CERB, and many people received 2,000 Canadian dollars per month (approximately €1,250) for as long as this uncertain period continued. I, too, was supported by the government during this phase.

While many people experienced these months as one of the most difficult times of their lives, this period became something very different for me.

Looking back, they may have even been the most beautiful six months of my life.

For the first time, I didn’t have to perform, prove anything, or force outcomes.

For the first time, I could simply be — without feeling guilty.

For the first time, I was truly allowed to come to rest.

And I knew that none of this situation was my fault.

And during this time, I managed to pay off a large part of my debt — even with this relatively small amount of money.

This phase gave me space — space to turn even more deeply toward my inner healing. And precisely because I took this time seriously, something new slowly began to emerge from this quiet period.

During this time, I spent many hours with books. At the same time, I continued to run regularly, as I had done for a long time before. Even back then, I had set the goal of running a marathon one day. However, I didn’t have enough specific training for it, even though I had already completed a half marathon in 2018. At that time, I was also still training in kickboxing, which made me overall much more active.

During the COVID period, I was determined to maintain my physical activity. The whole world had suddenly become still, and I knew that if I didn’t keep my body in motion, I would quickly become sluggish. Health had always been one of the most important things in my life. That is why I paid very close attention to my nutrition and my physical activity.

So I began to prepare for a marathon in my own way. But at some point, pain developed in my knee. After consulting a doctor, I was eventually advised to stop running.

It had only been a few months earlier that I had separated from the love of my life. That separation had already set many things in motion within me. During this time, something deep within my soul began to loosen.

I had reached one of the lowest points of my life — deeper than I had ever experienced before. And yet, at the same time, I felt a kind of freedom I had never known: freedom from the programs and expectations that had been placed over my life for so long.

If I could learn to be with this feeling — and grow through it — then there would be nothing left that could break me.

With every cry that left my soul, a part of the feeling of not being enough began to dissolve. Every tear that flowed down my face became a quiet proof that I was stronger than I had believed for so long. Each tear became a piece of self-worth. And with every tear, something new began to grow within me.

Slowly, I began to rise — like a phoenix from the ashes…

The thoughtsand memories of our time together kept returning. But instead of running away from them, I allowed them to bethere. I listened to every thought, even the darkest ones. I looked at mywounds and no longer ran from them.

Instead, I began to heal them with patience — as if I were rebuilding my own soul from the ruins.

And from within that process, a sense of fullness slowly began to form inside of me — a feeling that was no longer dependent on anyone else.

I began to see myself as enough…

And with every piece of “being enough,” my self-confidence began to grow. I started to see my life as if it were a film playing before my eyes — everything I had accomplished up until that point.

And suddenly, it became clear to me: this was exactly what I had always wished for as a little girl — to be enough for myself.

Many people spend their entire lives searching for this feeling — and never truly find it. They try to reach it through status and material things, and for a brief moment, they may feel a sense of arrival… but then it returns again — that quiet feeling of not being enough.

The real answer lies in seeing yourself as enough — even without anything in the external world.

Over time, a deep joy grew from this, along with a new sense of security within me. A feeling for which some people spend thousands, trying to attain it — and yet no wealth in the world can truly replace this inner foundation.

And yes, from the outside, my life may have looked chaotic, perhaps even difficult. But within me, I had reached something I had been searching for a long time: inner peace.

I loved this feeling. And that is exactly why I continued my healing. I didn’t want it to remain just a fleeting moment — I wanted it to become something stable within me.

Because I began to understand: our outer world only truly begins to change once our inner world has become safe and steady.

In the end, the separation from him felt like the cherry on top. It was the final step in a process that had begun long before. I was not searching for a new relationship, nor for distraction. Instead, I turned even more consciously toward my own healing.

Reiki continued to accompany me on this path. Spiritual books found their way to me — and one of them touched me especially deeply.

This time became a phase of reflection, of understanding, and also of inner action.

I began to realize that it was me who had not truly been ready for a family — even though for a long time I had believed that this was the natural next step, even though it had never been my deepest desire.

Sometimes, this thought arises almost automatically when we meet someone we love. As if there were an invisible order suggesting that the next step must always be a family.

But the more I reflected, the clearer it became that this desire had never truly come from my own heart — but from expectations that had long been placed upon my life.

I cried, because this realization brought me a deep sense of relief. It lifted a weight from my shoulders, and at the same time created space — space to focus on other areas of my life and on my own strengths, instead of continuing to direct my energy toward something that had never truly been my own path.

It is almost paradoxical how such realizations arise. For a long time, we believe we must follow a certain path — until one day, it suddenly becomes clear that this path may never have truly been our own. And in that very moment, a new kind of freedom begins.

The experience with him changed something deep within me. It is often said that a person changes once they have truly loved.

Before that, I had no point of comparison. I had never experienced a transformation that reached so deeply. But he was the person who set many things in motion within me.

Today, I see him differently. In a way, he was a healer in my life. Perhaps his role was to shake my inner world — to reveal old patterns and structures that had built up over the years. Only through that disruption could so much begin to dissolve. And through that, I was given the opportunity to gather myself again and rebuild in a new way.

This is how karmic encounters often work.

On a deeper level, the soul of another person promises to touch us in this lifetime — sometimes even to shake us — in order to awaken us. And when I later analyzed this karmic connection through numerology, it was once again confirmed to me that his role had been to awaken me — to teach me to say no, to no longer allow anyone to play with my feelings.

A situation arises that invites us to work on ourselves and to recognize certain patterns within our ancestral line. And for that very reason, I remain deeply grateful for this encounter to this day.

In our last conversation, he told me that it was important to him that the people who leave his life take something with them — that he could, in some way, have been meaningful or of value to them. And he was, for me as well — despite the pain I had to go through.

Because through this encounter, I was able to grow, to gather myself again, and to develop in a way that might never have been possible without this experience.

Through this process, I began to release the shame I had carried for so long about my origins. And in doing so, I did something that many generations before me had not been able to do. I broke the patterns of my ancestral line.

I stopped seeing money as a measure of a person’s worth. And I no longer placed anyone above myself. No one.

After this time, I also began to look at my relationships more consciously. I became more selective with whom I shared my energy, and I learned to let go of people when I felt that a path was no longer aligned.

Yes, I had changed. And not everyone around me was able to meet me in that change.

And perhaps this is the right moment to mention another friendship.

We had met a few years earlier, when I was still studying fashion design. She also came from Europe, was a few years younger than me, and had a very charming presence. It came naturally to her to draw people in. Many felt quickly attracted to her. She was beautiful, intelligent, and highly communicative.

It was easy to feel comfortable in her presence. Many people were drawn to her — and perhaps that was exactly why I liked her so much. She had something I also desired. The way she communicated felt very attractive to me, and because of that, I ignored the red flags.

For a long time, I didn’t truly notice certain things. And even when I occasionally felt something, I would overlook it. Perhaps also because, at that time, I was still very used to seeing the good in people first, and not immediately interpreting the difficult as a warning sign.

But over time, I began to notice things I could no longer ignore. In the past, I might have brushed them aside, but by then, I had learned to listen more deeply to my inner voice.

When I met the love of my life, I consciously chose not to tell her about it at first. Something within me sensed that she had a way of quickly drawing situations toward herself. And sometimes, there are people with whom you instinctively feel that you don’t necessarily want to bring them close to something so personal.
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Her charm was strong. She had a unique ability to captivate people. At times, it almost felt like a game — as if she would gain someone’s attention, only to withdraw from it once she sensed she no longer needed it. It seemed as though she enjoyed the dynamic and the power of attention itself. And in truth, it appeared difficult for her to keep people in her life over a longer period of time. Gradually, many began to recognize the patterns behind these dynamics.

I remained longer than anyone else before me within her words.

Ironically, it had been me who had helped her get the interview at the company, in that prestigious store. Over time, a close connection also developed between her and my former manager — a woman who occasionally used our friendship for her own power dynamics.

Little by little, I began to notice how she started mirroring my manager’s behavior. In conversations, there was sometimes an exaggerated enthusiasm in her voice, while other ideas were subtly diminished. It was a quiet way of reinforcing dynamics I had already experienced during my time there. It almost seemed as if she wanted to imitate my manager. She appeared fascinated by her manipulative nature and began to adopt some of her behavioral patterns — something I found increasingly difficult to tolerate.

And slowly, I began to understand that this friendship, too, was developing in a direction that no longer felt aligned for me.

If a friend is close to someone who continuously puts you down, it is wise to distance yourself from that friend as well. How can you trust someone who wants to appear good to everyone? At the core, they are deceiving themselves — and can you really expect that they would never betray you? The betrayal already begins the moment they pretend to be your friend.

During this time, I also learned something else about trust. When you feel, around a friend, that you wouldn’t truly want to leave your partner alone in their presence, it doesn’t necessarily come from insecurity. Sometimes, it is a deeper inner knowing of the dynamics a person carries within themselves.

There are people who treat attention like a game — and who might even be willing to risk a friendship just to prove that they can win that attention. And at a certain point, you are invited to ask yourself an honest question: Do I really want someone with this kind of energy so close to my life?

This question does not apply only to friendships. It applies to all relationships in life — even within family. Because closeness should be a space of trust, not of silent power plays.

And during this time, another seed was planted within me. Of course, I had been observing people and their behavior for a long time. But until then, I had often tried to understand why someone was the way they were — almost as if I was always searching for an explanation, just so I could remain by their side.

But after my experience with this man, and the inner healing that followed, a simple “why” was no longer enough.

I began to understand that conversations in such situations often change very little. These were grown individuals — no less aware or intelligent than I was. If they chose to act in a certain way, then it was their decision to be that way. And it became my decision to step away.

From that moment on, I began to let go of such friendships — whether they were new connections or long-standing relationships, it made no difference. Sometimes, I would write a respectful letter, without long explanations or justifications. Because I did not want anyone to change because of me.

A person should only change for themselves — only then is change truly real. And I was no longer willing to spend my time maintaining relationships that no longer felt aligned for me.

During this time, something else also became very clear to me. The moment someone began to use my time and my energy for their own games — to lie to me and then present themselves as the victim — I would step back.

And in those very moments, I often heard the same sentence:

“You’ve changed.”

In the past, those words might have hurt me.

Today, they have become a compliment.

Because often, this sentence is not spoken because change says something negative about you — but because someone had hoped you would remain the same, in a way that felt comfortable for them… within the boundaries and expectations that fit their own worldview.

Yes, I have changed.

And I am grateful for it. I have changed through deep inner work. And because this transformation was born from true realization, there is no path back to the person I once was.

When a person begins to set clear boundaries, it can feel uncomfortable for others. Sometimes they respond with blame, or they begin to reshape the story in a way that makes it seem as if you have become the problem. Today, I can see this with calmness. When people invest their energy in talking about me, in creating stories or even lies, it ultimately reveals more about them than it ever does about me.

In truth, change often reflects only one thing: that someone has begun to take themselves seriously.

And perhaps that is exactly what touches something within others — because it reminds them of where they themselves have remained stuck. Or simply because you are no longer convenient.

But that is no longer my problem.

If someone were to ask me today when the exact moment came that changed me, I would say: it was not a single moment. It was something that unfolded over time.

It almost feels as if my entire life had been preparing me for this point. And when this man entered my life and moved my inner world so deeply, I could no longer just understand this transformation — I had to live it.

My whole life had been like a training ground. But after this experience, it felt as if I had completed that training and was now stepping into the world to truly live what I had learned. From that moment on, there was no other way but to embody it.

At first, this change may have appeared harsh to some people. Some told me that I was no longer empathetic enough. Others were surprised by how calmly and without hesitation I began to end connections that were holding me back or no longer aligned with me.

But it was not because I lacked heart or did not value human connection — quite the opposite.

My real challenge had always been that I had too much patience for others… and far too little for myself. And that was where the imbalance lived. I gave my potential, my energy, and my patience to others — while my own inner world was left behind.

And yes, when I began to express my opinions more directly in my professional life, it felt unfamiliar to some people — sometimes even harsh. Many had not expected this clarity from me.

There is a moment when everything has already changed within — yet the body still needs time to follow. Old movements, familiar facial expressions, habitual reactions remain for a while, as if they are slowly letting go of the past.

But as I have already said: I have stopped living my life according to the expectations of others.

What others thought about me, or what expectations they placed upon me, gradually lost their importance. What became far more meaningful to me was a different decision: that I would no longer betray myself — for anyone.

Of course, such a mindset is not comfortable for everyone. Some people had long believed they had influence over my self-confidence and my decisions — that they could shape me through subtle and skillful control. They would even become upset when I remained firm in my own perspective.

And when they realized that they had lost that influence, they began to tell stories about me— stories that fit better into their own version of reality.

But their words lost their power over me. They were never my role models, and their opinions were never the standard for my life.

So why should I care about what others say about me?

No matter who they are.

At the end of summer 2020, I found a new professional opportunity.
I applied to a company that had advertised a hybrid position in sales support with responsibilities in accounts receivable.

They were looking for someone to support the sales team in the background—someone who would enter sales orders into the system, manage new customers, and at the same time oversee payment processes. This included recording incoming payments, monitoring outstanding invoices, and keeping the entire payment processing under control.

At first glance, this position seemed almost like a step backward for me. In my previous professional roles, I had already held leadership responsibilities and accumulated many years of experience. In this role, however, I would primarily support sales—almost like an assistant.

And yet, while reading the job description, I felt a quiet inner resonance.
The accounts receivable area, in particular, spoke to me. The description mentioned that this responsibility would evolve with the company’s growth and that, in the long term, an independent position in this area could develop.

This felt like an opportunity to me—a path slowly opening.

The company itself had been founded in Texas and was still in its early stages. At that time, it had about sixteen locations, most of them in the United States. One of the newer locations was in Vancouver, and another in the United States had just been established.

So I joined a company that was still in a growth phase.
This meant many opportunities.
Space to develop.
And the chance to grow together with the company.

Financially, this position was also a significant step for me. The salary was much higher than anything I had earned before. People often say that most money is earned in sales. Yet, in my previous sales positions, that had not really been the case. Either the companies were too small, or the bonus programs were structured so that only limited additional income was possible.

That’s why I decided to take this new position.

My first interview was directly with the investor and the company’s general manager. Afterwards, I had further interviews with a member of the sales support team and with the company’s senior accountant. At this point, it is important to mention something I only learned later.

Over time, I developed a closer relationship with some employees in the company. In confidential conversations, I was eventually told that the senior accountant had actually been against hiring me at first. Although the member of the sales support team and the general manager already had a very positive impression of me and basically just wanted a second opinion, he had reservations.

In the end, the decision was still made in my favor.

Interestingly, this very person played an important role in my professional life in the following years. He became one of the bosses closest confidants—essentially the right hand of the general manager.

When I learned this later, I couldn’t help but smile inwardly.

It wasn’t the first time in my professional journey that someone close to the executive leadership—someone whose voice carried weight—had initially been against hiring me. And yet, my path always eventually led me exactly to these places.

Even in these first encounters, I felt that a new chapter of my professional journey was opening.

This position helped me step by step out of my debts.

For the first time, I felt that I was not only walking a new path externally but was also able to truly live my inner transformation.

Externally, not much had changed yet. My facial features, the way I carried myself—I still appeared rather shy and reserved. But internally, I was stronger than ever before.

Something had shifted within me.

My work attitude and my ability to quickly navigate a fast, dynamic work environment were quickly recognized in this company as well. After about a year, I was finally fully transferred to accounts receivable.

I was incredibly relieved. Finally, I no longer had to work in sales support.

But before that happened, something interesting occurred.

After about two months, the sales director approached me. He wanted me on his team—as an account manager. Exactly the position I had once dreamed of when I began my three-year study in Sales and Marketing Management.

He offered me $20,000 more than I was earning at the time.

He explained that he had already recognized that I worked hard, was professional, and ambitious. He said he wanted someone like me on his team.

And yet, I declined the offer.

For two reasons.

The first reason was very personal.

I never wanted to allow anyone to divert me from my own goals again.

I had once had a dream—in fashion design. My former boss, however, had overloaded me with energy-draining tasks so much that, in the end, no strength remained to pursue my own dream.

When I started this new position, I had set a clear goal for myself: I wanted to work in finance.

And by now, enough healing had taken place within me that I could put myself and my own goals first.

But the second reason was even more important.

This man reminded me in a strange way of two people from my past—a mix of my former boss and the man who had once broken my heart.

He was young, charming, ambitious, and very self-assured.

But behind this aura was something else: the expectation that everyone around him should do everything for his goals.

In such constellations, you quickly become a tool. Your performance is credited as their success. And in the end, they build their own house with your energy.

By now, I had learned to observe people very carefully.

I could often recognize their motives before they had even fully expressed them.

And I had learned something that had once seemed almost impossible: To say no. Without fear. Without guilt. Without shame.

I stood firm.

The sales director tried a few more times to get me onto his team. Theoretically, it could even have meant that I would earn much more in the long term than he had originally offered.
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But I also knew that this could put me back into a situation where my energy would be exploited.

Some people reading this might ask: Why “exploitation” when it is a better position?

But with certain personalities, it is not about your development—it’s about their benefit.

They smile at you. They praise you. They speak kindly to you.

But a sensitive person—and a person with experience—immediately senses the truth behind the words.

The message is often unspoken, but clear: You can work under me. But next to me, you will never stand.

Such people use others as a means to an end.
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And at that time, I already knew with a clarity I hadn’t had before:
I would never again allow myself to become a tool for someone else’s goals.

And all the more ironic it was when, a few years later—when I was already back in Germany—one of my family members said I would do anything for money.

I could only smile quietly at the time.

Because they only ever saw the image of me that fit into their own notion. They had no idea what I had truly experienced on my path—and what decisions I had to make to preserve my inner peace.

And this decision was precisely one of the most important of my life.

Many people probably would have taken this opportunity.
Many might have said: Oh, just pretend a little—it’s what everyone does.

And indeed, many people live exactly like that.

They hate the environment in which they work.
They don’t like their job. They don’t like their boss. But they stay—because the job pays well.

Yet internally, something slowly begins to die. Not because of the work itself, but because they betray themselves in the process.

This is not a judgment on others. It is merely an observation.

And perhaps also an example of how it can feel when one stops betraying oneself just because external circumstances seem more important than one’s inner balance.

Of course, many people do not always have the freedom to simply leave. Some bear responsibility for a family. Food must be put on the table. Bills must be paid.
And some might say: If I lived alone, I would also make this decision.

Perhaps.

Our circumstances may be different. But one thing we all have in common: We make decisions.

And unfortunately, many people eventually make decisions against themselves.

Perhaps this example can give someone in a similar situation the courage to choose themselves.

Did I regret it financially?  No.

Because ultimately, I received that sum anyway—just in a different way.

I stayed in my position and developed further with the company. Within about three years with the company, my income increased by around 45%.

Yes, I had to work longer for it. And yes, I could theoretically have earned this money much earlier.

But the price would have been high. I would have had to sell a piece of my soul.
And that would have taken me right back to where I once came from.

I had made a promise to myself: That I would never do that again.

And I have kept this promise to this day.

In this company, I had the opportunity to truly live everything I had learned and healed internally.

Every time my integrity was questioned, or even a sign of disrespect appeared, I addressed it openly. I no longer silently endured things.

Of course, this did not go without reactions. In such moments, I was quickly labeled “not empathetic enough.” They said I was too hard or not flexible enough. Interestingly, such comments almost always came from people with somewhat narcissistic personality traits.

But this time, it no longer bothered me. I kept my boundaries clear and firm.
Others could continue their behavior if they wanted—but they could no longer bring me down. I had by then become too experienced and had developed too strong a self-confidence.

Especially people in higher positions often find this difficult. Especially if they themselves have never truly worked on their inner development but have rather made their way by pushing or controlling others.

Sometimes I could almost see the astonishment in their faces. They wondered: How can someone be so self-confident and yet not have a leadership position? Where does this strong character come from?

But I simply went my own way—without the need to prove anything to anyone.

Never again.

And yet my work was noticed. I frequently had to step in for locations in the U.S. The managers even sometimes jokingly remarked that they would have to clone me because I was so valuable to the company. My boss once told me not to work too well for the American locations, or else they would try to take me away from them.

It became especially intense during a period when I had to support my colleagues in sales support and simultaneously manage several U.S. locations in accounts receivable.

For three weeks, I worked 14 to 16 hours a day.

The overtime was paid, which in turn helped me pay off my debts faster. My financial situation improved significantly. At the same time, I felt increasingly comfortable in my own skin.

It was still the time of Corona, and until then, I had no political interest—I never felt affected. But when the vaccinations came and it was expected of us to get injected, I was initially unsure whether I would follow. I had little medical knowledge to make an informed decision, yet at the same time, my intuition began to speak clearly.

My spiritual development played a crucial role during this time. The Reiki sessions I practiced regularly—even if only with my friends—helped keep my third eye wide open. This inner awareness strengthened my intuition and helped me recognize the subtle energies around me. I immediately sensed when something was off and could make decisions that were not only rational but deeply aligned with my inner truth.

During this time, it became even clearer to me that true strength does not lie in fulfilling others’ expectations but in the ability to listen to one’s own inner voice—a skill continuously nourished by my spiritual practice.

Even the mere thought of the injection made my stomach tighten. My gut feeling told me clearly: “No.” And with that feeling, the inner impulse to resist grew.

In Canada, at some point, it became necessary to present a vaccination passport to visit restaurants or events, or to board a plane. For me personally, this was not a problem. Until then, I had learned to value my own life and my own company and knew that I did not need social contacts to be happy. Envy, expectations, or external pressure could not affect me.

Still, I was one of only two people in the entire office who had decided not to take this injection. Interestingly, I was even directly confronted by the manipulators in the office, who called my decision “irresponsible”—an attempt to morally pressure me. To this day, I wonder if they learned anything from it…

Once, however, the situation was taken to the extreme: I was supposed to fly to Texas for an internal training—and vaccination was expected. I spoke openly with the company controller and explained my situation. His response was clear: I did not have to fly. I was spared. My boss always respected me in this regard and never pressured me.

This experience confirmed once again: my resistance was not an act of rebellion against society, but a protection of my own integrity. Had it been necessary, I would have even given up my job—but I did not allow myself to be pressured. Even when a subtle social test from the outside occurred to see how easily people give up their decisions against their inner voice, I remained steadfast. I realized: true strength lies in remaining faithful to oneself, no matter how much others try to exert control.

At the same time, I began to consciously distance myself from negative people in my life.

During this time, I also ended friendships with some friends. One of them I had already mentioned—the one who also came from Europe.

She even tried to influence me through my new friend. I gradually noticed that her behavior was no coincidence, but a deliberate attempt to gain control.

When she came to the store where this friend still worked one day, she directly addressed her about me. But my friend replied that she actually had no contact with me anymore—which was completely unexpected for me. It seemed as if she wanted to test how loyal my new friend was to me, or observe how I would react—a quiet attempt to gain the upper hand and subtly unsettle me. Yet my new friend did not engage. She ignored the attempts to be manipulated and thereby confirmed her loyalty and integrity. To this day, she remains one of the most reliable and loyal people in my life.

The manipulation became even clearer through her behavior online: she would read my messages, not respond for weeks because she was supposedly busy at work—yet she always viewed my Instagram stories first. This pattern showed me that she was trying to attract my attention while observing my reactions without direct contact.

Gradually, it became clear to me: this was not random behavior but a conscious attempt to destabilize me and exert control.

These were typical gaslighting patterns.

When she finally reached out again, I calmly told her that I was ending our friendship.

I explained that I neither had the desire nor the time to explain what bothered me—because she already knew. It was also not my job to educate anyone or explain how to behave respectfully.

I wished her all the best and went my own way.

She replied that she had never expected this and that I would always be welcome in her life if I ever wanted to come back.

Interestingly, even after all these years, she still did not understand how I make decisions.

When I leave, there is no going back for me.

Because before I make such a decision, I have already thought everything through: every sentence, every situation, every gesture. I do not act out of a spontaneous emotion. I leave because I have realized that nothing will change anymore.

And why should I keep someone in my life just because we have known each other a long time—if everything else no longer fits?

At this point, I want to explain something important.

When we accept things that weigh on us internally, that constantly make us doubt or generate unnecessary thoughts, inner stress automatically arises.

And stress is one of the greatest triggers of illness.

So why should I spend my life with people who weaken my life energy?
Why should I sacrifice my health just to make everything appear “reasonable” from the outside?

For me, reason means something different.
Reasonable means taking care of my own health and inner balance.

It was also during this time that I was finally able to move into my own apartment downtown—without debt, with a good income, and a sense of security in dealing with life. We were still in the middle of the Corona period, and I was overjoyed that, in my eyes, I lived in the most beautiful part of the city: a small, bright studio that belonged to me.

I slowly began to furnish everything anew and buy things—an idiosyncrasy that many might consider a “quirk.” I wanted no old items, no used clothes, no furniture carrying other people’s energy. For me, it was not just about the appearance of old things; I feel the subtle energies objects carry and know they can influence my life and well-being.

I am not a fan of second-hand stores unless the items come from people I truly trust. Because some objects can carry negative energies that settle in a home and burden life. That’s why everything had to be new—step by step, as I had just paid off my debts. My savings were still minimal, a small amount that I had cautiously invested, yet I felt ready to build my own energetically clean home.

And yet, a voice began to speak—growing ever stronger inside me, like a quiet but persistent heartbeat: If I cannot fly now and something happens to my grandmother, I may never see her again. This fear had long been with me. My greatest fear was receiving a message from my sister one night that my grandmother was gone. I could see it before my inner eyes, felt the pain in every fiber of my body—and I did not want it to happen this way. I wanted to be with her in her final days, hold her hand, be close to her, show her my love.

I had finally understood that she was the only person in my life who had loved me unconditionally. Everything I could give, I wanted to give her—my time, my attention, my heart. Even if it meant giving up everything I had worked for so long. She needed to know: I am here. You are infinitely important to me.

In 2021, I finally received my permanent residence permit, which also came with a condition: within five years, I had to remain in Canada for at least two years. By that time, only a year and a few months had passed. If I had left then to be with my grandmother, I would have had to return by August 2025 at the latest. That would have meant risking everything I had painstakingly built—my security, my professional position, my newly gained stability. I would have had to start from zero again, losing everything I had worked so hard for.

And yet, the desire to be with her was stronger than any reason, stronger than any fear. She was worth risking everything.

My grandmother had shown me what it means to be an honest, upright person, to stay true, and to give love without conditions. I wanted to give all of that back to her. I wanted her to see how much she meant to me—to know that her heart lives on in mine.

Despite all risks, despite all uncertainties, I felt deeply inside: I had to be with her. I needed to show her that she was infinitely important to me. I wanted her to feel: I am here, I am with you, no matter what happens around us.

I made the decision to go. I gave notice on the apartment where I had only lived for six months and sold everything I had bought up to that point.

But before I left, I spoke with my boss. I explained that I didn’t really want to leave and that I would love to continue working with the company—if he allowed it. I knew it was risky and that he would most likely say no. But he said, “Because it’s you, I will make it possible.”

He also said that he trusted me so much that he knew I would deliver my highest performance even from the North Pole.

This trust made so many things incredibly easier for me. I could continue my work while connecting my life with my grandmother—everything fell into place effortlessly. Even my apartment was only leased for six months; the contract seemed perfectly timed, as if the universe had already known I would take this path.

There were no obstacles for me. Everything aligned, everything was made possible—by the universe, by my ancestors, by the intuition guiding me. In that moment, I knew deep inside: it was the right decision. I was carried, supported, and strengthened on my path, both in heart and in life.