While exploring the psyche, I was also earning a Master’s in International Relations. I wanted to understand not just human consciousness, but what shapes it — geopolitics, memory, religion. Even atheists are steeped in religious discourse; even inner wounds often echo colonial histories. That’s why I can now work with people raised between cultures, religions, revolutions.
As part of my journey, I worked with Maghrebi immigrants, listening to their stories of displacement, trauma, and hope. Their pain was never just personal — it was geopolitical. I also conducted PhD research on Latin American artists who resisted dictatorships through conceptual poetry, installations, performance — the art of defiance as a form of historical memory, repair, and civic resistance — a way to encode protest when speech is censored, to remember when archives are burned, and to activate collective consciousness when public discourse is silenced.
Meeting personal pain was what first led me to explore the psyche. But it was through art that I discovered the tools to investigate it — not as aesthetics, but as a language for what cannot be said aloud. While interviewing Latin American artists who defied dictatorships, I met not classical painters or performers, but journalists, political leaders, and social visionaries who turned to art because the public space had been blocked. When words were censored, metaphors remained. Art became resistance — not just expression, but survival.
At the same time, I worked closely with Maghrebi immigrants in Europe. Their stories were soaked in silence and shame, yet their pain wasn’t individual — it had been authored by policy, migration regimes, colonial residues. These encounters helped me see how much of what we carry is not "ours" — but inherited from history, produced by social constructs, embedded in ideologies.
Through these experiences, I began to notice recurring myths, patterns, archetypes that quietly script our lives.

I work at the intersection of archetypal method, theosophy, trauma literacy, and contemplative practices. My office is sometimes a Zoom window, sometimes a circle, sometimes a piece of paper with a drawn board of snakes and arrows.
What we often do together:

• Recalibrate nervous systems hijacked by low self-esteem, caregiving exhaustion, burnout, grief, anxiety, panic attacks, prolonged uncertainty, difficult life transitions, inner conflicts, identity crises, and inherited family patterns.
• Explore archetypal patterns to uncover hidden territories in the psyche — because every persistent problem often hides a secondary benefit. We work not only to dissolve symptoms, but to understand what inner need they’re trying to protect — and to find more life-affirming ways to meet that need.
• Build inner governance that can sustain the outer work you came here to do.

I co‑founded and serve an NGO called El Mundo Duele. We offer psychosocial support to activists and defenders of life and the planet. We design protocols of accompaniment, retreats for repair, forums for shared intelligence, and spaces for the children of activists who inherit both courage and exhaustion.
Our premise is simple: care is strategy. You cannot ask people to hold the line for the living world while abandoning their inner worlds. So we build bridges between therapists and movements, between grief and policy, between burnout and new forms of collective resilience.

My work moves between intimate rooms and international conversations — community circles, universities, conferences, including spaces like Nobel Peace Talks. I speak about eco‑social consciousness, psychological sustainability, the politics of grief, archetypes as civic technology, and why movements need repair, and robust inner architectures as much as they need strategies and spreadsheets. These inner architectures are essential for adaptation. In the face of climate breakdown, social rupture, and collective overwhelm, the ability to adapt without numbing, to feel without collapsing, and to stay lucid without burning out is not just personal—it’s political. Adaptation begins inside, in the emotional infrastructure of those who carry the future.
To amplify voices of those already doing this work, I created an interview project called Happy End of the World. In it, I speak with people who have transformed their pain into projects, their grief into vision. Artists, activists, thinkers — individuals who refuse despair not because they’re naive, but because they’re rooted in action. These stories are not meant to console, but to ignite: to inspire others to live with an active social position and to contribute, in their own way, to a world still possible.