The soulfulness of small things

written in Oslo, with a slow breath and a tired but grateful body

Some parts of my life have always felt big.
Big in intensity.
Big in knowing.
Big in what I could feel long before I had words for it.

I used to think I had to pull away to feel clearly.
That depth required distance.
That if something mattered, it had to be mysterious —
and if it was simple, maybe it wasn’t deep enough.

But something in me is softening.
Something is returning.

I’ve been looking at my birth chart again.
(Yes lately, I do that often.)

I’m most at home in inner landscapes, in things that can’t be said out loud.
I know what it is to be the quiet one in the back of the room,
watching everything, holding space for others to figure themselves out.
I’ve felt the pull to disappear, not to escape, but to feel safe.

But the stars, and my life, are asking something else now.
Not bigger. Not louder. But closer.
More here.

“So what do you actually do?”
someone asked me recently, during a facial treatment that had quietly turned into something else, something deeper.

I smiled.
And I said,

“I help people come back to themselves.
Sometimes through touch.
Sometimes through words.
Sometimes through a moment of silence that lasts just a little longer than expected.”

And it’s true.
I don’t want to teach people how to fix themselves.
I want to create space where nothing needs fixing to begin with.
Where care isn’t a performance. It’s a return.
To rhythm. To presence. To being real.

I’ve also spent time guiding others.
As a teacher. A coach. A facilitator.
But this season of my life, I’m rooted in something quieter.

I work with skin, but really, I work with what’s underneath.
With nervous systems. With rhythm. With remembrance.
I listen to faces the way others read maps.
I ask the stars for timing, not predictions.

And I’m learning — day by day — that it’s okay to speak simply.
To be clear, instead of clever.
To offer what’s true, instead of what’s expected.

So now I ask myself: What part of me still believes I need to disappear to be real?

Maybe you’ve asked yourself those things too.

Maybe your care, like mine, is quieter now.
Maybe your truth lives in the small gestures,
not the big answers.

If no one ever gave you permission:
You don’t have to shine like a billboard.
You can glow like a bedside lamp, steady, soft, always there when it matters.

You’re allowed to take your time.
To show up in pieces.
To build a life out of tea breaks, deep breaths, and tiny brave things.

That is the magic.
And honestly? That’s more than enough.