My offerings are rooted in the practices, teachings and places that continue to shape me personally and professionally.
My path has been shaped by the guidance of ancestors, teachers, spiritual leaders, elders and ordinary, inspiring people whose wisdom and presence have illuminated a path towards a world with more presence, kindness, and justice.
All of these experiences have left a deep imprint in my body and in the way I understand care, resilience, and what it means to heal in context. They continue to guide how I listen, how I show up, and how I accompany others.
I lost my mother when I was seven. Her passing was followed by moments of chaos and instability in my household. Grief and anger settled quietly into my body, shaping how I moved through the world. For a long time, I didn't have a safe space to process any of it.
Growing up in Colombia, I also witnessed the weight of war, injustice, and collective loss. Without knowing it, I absorbed these experiences into my nervous system — layers of pain that lived in me long before I had the tools to work with them.
I was living disconnected from my body until one day excruciating pain, anxiety and panic attacks started to kick in. I knew I had to pay attention to what my body was saying. So I decided to begin my healing journey.
I now understand that pain and trauma are not only personal. As Nkem Ndefo writes, it unfolds in rings — shaped by all the different layers of our existence that forces us to sacrifice safety, dignity, or belonging.
My own journey has been held by time, silence, community, and wellbeing practices. It continues to teach me how profound loss and pain can coexist with meaning, love, and connection — because I have known both. And how we can hold all of it at the same time. It has allowed me to find purpose and be of service.
My body was also carrying pain in other ways. Heavy, debilitating periods began when I was very young. I ended up in the ER many times, only to be told: "Your pain is normal. You are a woman."
But it was not normal. And that normalization has been part of the problem.
I lost count of how many times I couldn't get out of bed — or pushed through anyway because I needed to be productive. How many plans I cancelled, how many times I felt misunderstood, how many times I had to ask for validation.
In 2013, an OBGYN in Colombia finally validated what I had been living and suspected I had endometriosis. In 2014, surgery confirmed it — Stage IV endometriosis and adenomyosis. Years of birth control followed. The surgery helped for a while, but when I stopped the pills to try to get pregnant, the pain returned harder than before.
I decided to freeze my eggs before a second six-hour surgery in 2021 in which one of my fallopian tubes was removed and I got 15 stitches in my colon. My doctor said she couldn't believe I had been walking and functioning with the lesions she found inside me. The recovery was painful and slow. I felt miserabe and profoundly sad.
It was during this time that I began to understand the many layers of this disease — and to work with all of them. The grief of losing my mother young. The unprocessed stress and trauma. The prolonged survival mode my nervous system had been living in. My body had been screaming for help.
I started a deep healing process — one that has brought me understanding, repair, and wisdom I couldn't have imagined. I learned what triggers pain and inflammation in my own body, and what helps my nervous system find balance. There is no one-size-fits-all. Every journey is different. But one thing has remained constant: true transformation came from the lived experience of my body.
Against all odds, I got pregnant in my first IVF round with a single embryo. It was a wild ride — full of anxiety and pain, but also full of presence, ritual, and wonder. I surrounded myself with a community of people who held me. And I learned, deeply, that we don't have to do this alone. That community, practice, and rituals are medicines for the soul.
Today I am the mother of a beautiful three-year-old boy named Rio. My master, my inspiration.
With time, I have come to understand that pain is also here to guide us toward the places that need our attention and care. I have slowly learned to discern when to stay with the pain and when to give myself permission to pause and look away — to build the container that sustains me, and to meet myself there with compassion and grace, even in anger, in sadness and in frustration.
It has been one of the most transformative journeys of my life.
I'm here to share it — and to walk alongside other women going through something similar. You are not alone. We are not alone.