Being born in 1972 as the daughter of a seventeen-year-old girl brought its own challenges. Added to this was a hip that was genetically incomplete. The only photo from my baby time shows us looking at each other with a gaze that asks: what are we going to do with this situation.

My mother quickly lost custody. My father, already eighteen at the time of my birth, was charged with abuse of a minor. The future of this relationship lay in the hands of the authorities; love had little place in it.

So I grew up with a sister of my grandmother, on a farm, between long periods in spread plaster casts and a series of surgeries. Healing phases that literally had to be caught up.

Two mothers in constant conflict. Rejection and psychological violations shaped everyday life. Punishments alternated with playtime in a locked pantry. Physical violence was part of it as well. Situations that, for me as a child, became habit.
In the neighborhood children experienced the same. A climate of harshness and silence. What today would be described as traumatic experience was then considered ordinary everyday life.
Pain that I felt was seen as meaningless. Children were said to have no pain. Any expression led to additional work, to more driving. At five I already knew: effort rarely brought recognition.
At school I received top grades for essays, while spelling became a stumbling block. Teachers rewrote entire texts; the final grade remained sufficient. At home animals, kitchen, workbench, fields were waiting – tasks with immediate effect.
I spent almost the entire first school year in the plaster bed. On Fridays the teacher brought tasks that I already knew. “Dreams,” in which I went to school with the children in the morning, carried me into the classroom, let me see and hear what happened there. Only many years later did I understand that these had been astral journeys.

On a day of particularly great pain a golden light opened. A being in a golden cloak, the face hidden under a hood, wrapped me in the fabric. Pain left my body. In front of me a curtain. A voice spoke: if you go further, the way back will be closed.
My answer came from deep exhaustion: here the hurting ended, here love carried, what task would I have down there. In that moment my foster mother called my name. Awakening.
Her explanation for leaving the body consisted of one word: death. In me, however, certainty formed. Truth felt different. Mobility I found in the spirit. Adults called it childish fantasy. For me it remained quiet knowledge, well kept for years.

Besides that the farm. Tasks that simply had to be done, even though no one had ever taught me. Sewing, cooking, baking, garden, animals, even mechanics and engines. I did it, tried, learned by doing. This became a foundation that carries me until today.

The spiritual and energetic life remained limited to the two-dimensional image that living as a direct neighbor to the church provided. The tears I shed there stood outside, in the recognition of supposed guilt and inadequacy. Yet deep inside the question remained: why do people go there, when they leave with more burden than they entered. Prayers like “deliver us from evil” raised more questions than they gave understanding.

Most of the time I lived as a childminder. I could not become a nurse, so at least I wanted to make sure that no child had to experience a childhood full of envy and resentment towards the parents, as I had lived through myself.

With the children came the overstrain. Years of effort until my body could no longer carry what I demanded of it. In 2017 only the carpet remained, on which I lay, with the way to the bathroom as the greatest effort. Helplessness filled the days, medical knowledge gave no answer.
In this darkness I asked the heavens: what am I supposed to do with the second half of my life. Then an image unfolded. Two great white wings, bodiless, and a voice that spoke: you are here to take many people under your wings.
I laughed, exhausted, and asked back: how is that supposed to work. I lie here, unable to walk, and am to take many people under my wings. Shortly afterwards I came across a talk about recurring spirals of thought and how we keep fueling our tragedies again and again. Words that opened a new door.

From there my path led through trainings, through hypnosis, EMDR, energy work, channeling, frequency healing. Tools that turned my own suffering into insights. Tools that taught me to analyze clearly and at the same time to trust the intuitive.

Thus, out of the pains, the questions and the many ways I have walked, my Healing Atelier grew. A flow of the heart in flight.