From as early as five years old, I remember sitting quietly and wondering about the mysteries of life. I wasn’t like most children who were content to play or chatter about the day’s adventures. My mind often slipped into vast spaces of imagination and questioning. I would look up at the sky at night, see the stars stretching endlessly, and ask myself: “If God created us, then who created God? And what came before that?”

The questions felt endless, like a spiral that wound deeper and deeper the more I followed it. Each time I tried to solve the puzzle, my mind met the same wall: there was no neat or final answer. Instead of settling the matter, the thought only created more wonder, more awe. Sometimes it almost hurt to think about — a feeling as though my young mind had reached the edge of what it could grasp. But even in that confusion, there was a spark of excitement. I knew, even then, that life was full of mysteries bigger than anyone could explain. That awareness never left me.

Even as a child, I often felt a little different. Not in a way that made me sad, but in a way that set me apart. While others seemed completely absorbed in the day-to-day world, I found myself drifting toward big, unanswerable questions. The people around me were grounded, practical, and focused on the physical world. I, however, was curious about the unseen — about what lay beyond what eyes could see or hands could hold.

Looking back now, I can see that this made me both sensitive and intuitive. At the time, though, it sometimes left me feeling on the edge of things, like I was observing life from a slightly different angle. Much later, I discovered that I had ADHD. That diagnosis gave me one framework to understand the restless mind, the questioning nature, the way I could never quite shut down the stream of thoughts. But even that explanation didn’t fully capture what I felt.

Because I don’t believe it was only ADHD. I also believe those endless questions and restless imaginings came from a wise, intuitive part of myself — a soul that had always been searching. My curiosity was not simply distraction or difference; it was a gift, a call toward something greater. It came from a part of me that already knew life held much more than what was visible on the surface.

Amidst that questioning and difference, there was one place where I felt utterly at ease: singing. From the moment I began to sing as a child, I felt an immediate shift. The busy chatter in my head quieted, the restlessness dissolved, and I slipped into something like peace. Singing was natural, effortless. It flowed through me and left me feeling lighter, freer, and connected to something both within and beyond myself.

In those moments, I didn’t feel different or apart. I felt aligned, whole, and present. Singing was not only expression but also healing. It was my first spiritual practice, even if I didn’t know it at the time. The vibration of sound, the release of breath, the joy of melody — it gave me a taste of the harmony I would later seek more deliberately through other practices.

That love of singing stayed with me as I grew, shaping the way I understood peace and showing me that connection can sometimes be found in the simplest things. To this day, I still believe music is one of the most direct ways we touch the soul.

At the age of 26, a turning point arrived. I discovered yoga. Walking into my first class, I had no idea what to expect. I only knew I was searching for something, though I couldn’t have put it into words. But as soon as I began, I felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity — as though I had come home to something I had been missing for years.

The movements felt natural, the breath felt freeing, and the stillness at the end felt like a return to the peace I had once found in singing. But yoga gave me more than peace. It gave me a way of understanding life.

The questions that had haunted me as a child suddenly felt different. They were no longer puzzles to be solved with logic. Instead, they became doorways to experience. Through yoga, I realised that some things are meant to be felt, not answered. That the connection I had been searching for could not be explained with words but could be lived through presence, breath, and awareness.

Yoga became my anchor. It opened a new path — one where my restless mind could soften, where my intuitive side could flourish, and where I could feel a sense of belonging not outside myself but within.

At the age of 30, my journey deepened further when I discovered Pranic Healing. Once again, it felt like destiny. The practices of energy healing confirmed something I had always suspected: that there is more to life than the physical body, and that wellness is about energy as much as it is about flesh and bone.

Through Pranic Healing, I learned that everything is alive with subtle energy — thoughts, emotions, even spaces themselves. I discovered that blockages could be cleared, balance restored, and harmony encouraged by working with this unseen force. For me, it was like opening a door into a reality I had always known existed but never had the words or tools to access.

This practice didn’t only heal me; it also awakened in me a desire to support others. It was as though all the questions of my childhood — all the wondering about “what else is out there” — had guided me here, to a path where I could finally put that sensitivity to use. I began to see that my life wasn’t just about my own searching. It was also about sharing, helping, and holding space for others on their journeys.

Now, at 47, I look back and see how all the threads connect. The child filled with wonder, staring into the night sky; the young girl who sang for peace; the woman who stepped onto a yoga mat and found home; the seeker who discovered Pranic Healing and stepped into the world of energy.

Each part of me has played its role. Each stage of my journey has added to the whole. What once felt like difference now feels like guidance. What once felt like restlessness now feels like calling.

I can see now that none of it was accidental. The questions, the challenges, the moments of not quite fitting in — they all shaped me into someone who could walk this path, someone who could create spaces for others to feel safe, seen, and connected.

Today, that is what I do. I hold space for people. I guide them through practices of yoga, breath, sound, and energy. I help them slow down, listen inwardly, and reconnect with the parts of themselves that may have been lost in the noise of everyday life.

The work is not about giving answers. It is not about solving life’s mysteries with logic. It is about guiding people back to themselves, back to the inner wisdom that already knows what is needed. It is about helping them find the peace that I once found through singing, yoga, and healing.

I believe wellness is not about perfection. It is not about reaching a point where everything is flawless or all questions are resolved. Instead, wellness is about balance, presence, and connection. It is about honouring the body, calming the mind, and nourishing the spirit. It is about remembering that we are whole, even when we feel fragmented.

When I work with people, I remember my own journey. I remember the child who wondered about creation. I remember the teenager who sang to feel at peace. I remember the young woman who found yoga and the seeker who explored energy. I bring all of those versions of myself into the room, so that when I hold space for someone else, I do it with compassion, patience, and understanding.

Helping others has become my greatest joy. Each person I meet teaches me something new. Each story I hear reminds me of our shared humanity. And each healing, class, or moment of connection affirms why I am here: to guide others toward the same sense of home that I discovered within myself.

When I look back at the five-year-old girl lying awake at night, trying to puzzle out who created God, I smile. She didn’t have the answers then, but she was already on her way. Every question, every note of song, every restless thought was part of the path.

Now, all these years later, I honour her journey by living a life of service, wellness, and healing. And I know the path is still unfolding. My journey is not finished, and perhaps it never will be — because growth, like the universe itself, has no end.

But if I can use what I have learned to help even one person feel peace, to help even one person reconnect with themselves, then every question and every step was worthwhile.

And so, I continue: walking this path, singing when I can, teaching what I know, and always learning from those who walk beside me.