I know what it feels like to be disconnected from yourself.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that anyone would notice from the outside. But in that quiet, persistent way — where you move through your days feeling slightly removed from your own life. Where your body carries something your mind cannot name.
I grew up in Hungary as an extremely shy, deeply sensitive child. My father was an alcoholic, and our home was filled with tension, fear, and a particular kind of silence that children learn quickly — the silence of making yourself small. I learned early that it wasn't safe to be seen. So I turned inward.
I found refuge in books, in meditation, in the unseen world. I was opening upwards — spiritually, energetically — from a very young age. That part came easily to me. What was harder was being here. In the body. On the ground. Present in this world.