I was born in Croatia to a Slovenian mother and a Croatian father. When I was four, my parents immigrated to Austria, fleeing the economic collapse that followed the war in Yugoslavia. That move marked the beginning of six years of isolation, bullying, and social exclusion. I wasn’t just an outsider—I was made to feel like I didn’t belong at all.
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I spent those years mostly alone. Ice skating. Skiing. Wandering forests. Drawing. Watching the world but not really part of it. That kind of solitude didn’t make me shut down—it made me lucid. I stayed close to my own perception. I didn’t get conditioned out of myself. I wasn’t socialized into small talk or approval-seeking. I just watched. And felt. And learned how to listen to what was real.​​​​​​​
Everything after that—my art, my sensitivity, my pattern recognition—grew from those early years of being outside the system. And in many ways, I never really went back in.
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I was raised in a family with a lot of violence and unprocessed trauma. Both of my grandfathers were abusive alcoholics. That trauma shaped both sides of my family, and a lot of it landed in me.
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My mother was extremely abusive—physically, emotionally, and psychologically. I grew up in terror. By the time I was ten, I was already planning my escape. That kind of childhood forced me into hyper-awareness. I became extremely sensitive to energy, emotion, and behavior. I didn’t have language for it at the time, but I could track when things felt wrong.
As a child, I lived between depression and imagination. I didn’t try to tune things out—I was awake to all of it. But I used art, dreams, and future visions to survive. I became a powerful manifester. I held the image of a big, beautiful life—and I made it happen.
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At 18, I won a full scholarship to study art. I later moved to Korea to study filmmaking, and then to Taiwan, where I lived for eight years. I studied Chinese and Zen Buddhism, got married, and spent years trying to find peace through meditation. I practiced Vipassana, went on long retreats, and thought that if I could just get enlightened, I’d finally feel okay.
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But that didn’t happen. Buddhism gave me structure, but not healing. I still didn’t know how to deal with my emotions, my creativity, or the way my brain worked.
Everything started to shift when I found Ayahuasca—and when a Chinese medicine doctor told me I was carrying deep unresolved issues with my mother. Around that time, I joined a women’s mental health support group, and for the first time, I felt understood. That opened the door to everything that came next.
​I started studying psychology, energy healing, and trauma. I learned the Emotion Code. I worked with dreams. I finally began to understand what was actually happening inside me—and what had been happening all along.
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Eventually, I left my marriage and Taiwan. That departure marked the beginning of a new chapter—one that was less about seeking safety, and more about testing everything I thought I knew. I needed to see how I functioned in the real world, outside spiritual systems and long-term relationships.
I moved back to Europe, then to Dubai to work as flight attendant with Emirates. That job became a kind of real-world laboratory. I was working under extreme conditions, watching human behavior across cultures, seeing how people cope, collapse, connect. And I finally had the money and freedom to go to Peru and sit with Ayahuasca.
The pandemic pushed everything further. I suddenly had space—and pressure. I threw myself into everything I could find that might help me understand why I still felt blocked. I trained in Reiki, the Silva Method, energy work, and went deeper into the Emotion Code and dream interpretation. I began connecting dots between trauma, nervous system patterns, and women’s relationships to work, money, and self-worth.
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​That’s when coaching found me—not as a career decision, but as the inevitable outcome of everything I’d been healing, mapping, and integrating. What I had once done to survive had become a clear body of knowledge I could share.
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When my second long term relationship ended, I reached a breaking point. I didn’t understand why relationships were so hard, why I kept burning out, or why nothing truly worked long-term. That led me into a year of deep study of patriarchy—not as a political theory, but as a force that affects everything. And that gave me answers. I began connecting dots between trauma, nervous system patterns, and women’s relationships to work, money, and self-worth.
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Now, I teach what I’ve lived.
Not from a place of being “healed”—but from years of doing the real work.
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I help women exit performance, survival, and false obligation.
I teach them how to receive.
Not just money—but support, peace, and power.
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I don’t believe in fixing yourself.
I believe in remembering who you were before you were broken.
Yours truly,
