I didn't lose myself all at once.
I lost myself slowly.

So slowly that, for a long time, I didn't even notice.

There was a moment in my life when I realized I no longer truly knew who I was.

I knew my roles: wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, colleague.

I knew my responsibilities: family, work, career.

From the outside, everything seemed in place. Maybe even more than that.

I appeared strong. Stable. The one who holds everything together. The one who figures things out. The one who seems to effortlessly juggle it all.

And in many ways, I did.

I pushed hard. I hid in responsibility. Work-family. Family-work.

Quietly, with a thought that kept driving me forward: "Even when I can't anymore, I can still go a little further."

For my three children, the greatest blessing of my life, I felt I had to be a constant example. For everyone around me, I had to remain the strong one.

I couldn't shake. I couldn't show it. I had to hold.

And without realizing it, something inside me began to fade. Not suddenly. But slowly. Little by little.

Through roles. Through expectations. Through the rhythm of life.

It wasn't just that I no longer knew who I was. I had stopped choosing myself. I was no longer a priority in my own life.

Then came burnout.

Followed by two major surgeries, deeply challenging, especially on a psychological level for any woman.

On top of that, long-standing health issues, carried since adolescence, began to take their toll.

It took me years to realign.

Years in which, from the outside, I still looked like the same strong woman. But inside there were cracks.

Dance held me. Nature held me. Faith held me.

And many times, I held on to one song, repeating it within me like a breath line: Oceans (Where Feet May Fail).

They carried me forward.

But at some point, they could no longer hold the cracks together.

Not because they weren't enough, but because I needed to go deeper.

At the same time, my professional life began to shift.

I could no longer find my place in jobs. The last ones started and ended too quickly.

The lack of stability deepened something more difficult: impostor syndrome.

And the lack of financial income, for someone who had always been independent and often the financial pillar of the family, translated through my own lens into a loss of value.

Because, without realizing it, I had learned to tie my worth to what I do, not to who I am.

I didn't feel good enough. I didn't feel valuable enough. I felt like I constantly had to prove something.

And still, I kept learning.

My curiosity and love for education never stopped.

Alongside my initial degree and master's, I pursued another master's. Then an Executive MBA. Then a PhD. Along with numerous certifications.

To this day, I don't know if it was purely a love for learning or also a need for more. For validation. For status. Maybe a bit of both.

I knew a lot. I understood a lot. But I no longer felt myself in my own life.

And despite everything I had accumulated, I felt incomplete. Something wasn't right.

And I felt myself drifting further and further away from me.

On a personal level, I no longer recognized myself.

I didn't feel seen. I didn't feel appreciated. I didn't feel loved in the way I needed.

But I said nothing. Because for me, vulnerability meant weakness. And I had to remain the strong one.

From the outside, everything looked fine. I was there for everyone. Available. Strong. Balanced.

But I was disappearing.

I was hiding inside roles. Inside responsibilities. Inside what had to be done.

And eventually, the question became unavoidable: Where am I in all of this?

A long period of searching followed.

Beyond research, I turned toward applied exploration.

I explored many paths: from shamanic practices of discovery and balance, to family constellations, reiki, mental reprogramming, faith, spirituality, and other forms of inner work.

I didn't fully find myself in any of them. So I kept only what resonated. Little by little.

I didn't find a perfect method. But I began to see myself.

To understand my fears. My beliefs. My limitations.

And slowly, I began to rediscover myself.

I was still there. I just couldn't see myself anymore.

Piece by piece, I started to refine my inner world. And I returned to my essence.

I found that pearl again.

I understood that the power I needed was already within me. The answers too.

I just had to return to myself.

I have always loved being there for others. To help.

But I didn't know how to do that without taking on their weight.

I didn't know healthy boundaries.

I gave a lot. Too much. Until too much became too heavy.

I knew how to give constantly. I didn't know how to receive.

I knew how to offer help. I couldn't accept it.

I was gentle with everyone. But extremely harsh with myself.

There is a simple saying: "If you were as hard on your friends as you are on yourself, you would have no friends."

And yet, this is exactly how we often treat ourselves.

It took me years to understand something essential: I cannot truly support those I love if I collapse.

Putting yourself first is not selfish. It is love.

I was reminded of this through a simple analogy: on an airplane, you are told to put your own oxygen mask on first, and only then help your child.

The first reaction is resistance. But if you can't breathe, you can't help anyone.

Sometimes, getting lost feels like the end. But it can also be a recalibration.

Like a GPS saying: "Stop. Recalculating route."

You can take many paths, until you find your own.

In one of those moments, in a deeply personal experience, I saw myself.

With light. With purity.

And for the first time, without searching for flaws.

Just there.

And slowly, I felt myself being reborn. Like a phoenix rising from its own ashes.

Ru. was born from this journey.

From getting lost. From exhaustion. From searching. From returning.

From years of tears, sacrifice, and understanding.

Today, I don't offer solutions. I don't offer answers. I simply hold a space.

A space where you can pause. Hear yourself again. See yourself again.

And return, through your own power, to your essence.

There is no formula. No magic solutions. No guaranteed results.

There is only your path.

And what I can do is walk alongside you, with clarity and gentleness, in this return.

Because you were never truly lost.

You only stopped choosing yourself for a while.

And your essence has always been there, waiting to be seen again.

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