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.

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.

Chapter IV. From living rooms to global stages

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.

Chapter III. El Mundo Duele — because the world hurts

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.

Chapter II. Therapy as companionship, and civic practice

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.

Chapter I. When Power Shapes the Soul

I began to associate this season with death — or rather, with transitions. I imagined the mountains of Lhasa, where bodies were returned to the sky, and where people played the Tibetan game of liberation. And through a series of odd, poetic coincidences, I discovered another game: gyān caupaṛ, or Snakes & Arrows, which became both my mirror and my map.

I played obsessively. I began interpreting the board through psychology, myth, trauma theory. I created exercises and questions to dissect my psyche. Many of those same exercises now appear in the ceremonies I guide and the book I wrote — to be published by Inner Traditions in December 2025.

When I was 17, I faced death for the first time. On the day of my high school graduation, my first love was struck by a car. To read about death is one thing. To hold its silence in your arms is another. I was completely disoriented, unable to eat or sleep, crushed under grief. There was a moment when I stood by the windows of my 23rd-floor apartment, sure there was only one way out. But near those windows stood a large bookcase, and in a moment of despair, my eyes fell on the "Encyclopedia of World Religions," open to the chapter on Buddhism. I read about the bardo, the thread between body and soul, and the rebirth of consciousness — and it gave me just enough air to stay.

Grief became my first real teacher. The next spring, my grandmother died. Then three more loved ones, always in spring, while nature bloomed.

In nature, there are no secrets, only different levels of knowledge.