About Us

The Way Back Home

I was born into a world that asked me to grow up too fast.

As a child, I was invisible unless I was useful. I became the caretaker before I even understood what childhood was supposed to feel like. While other children played, I paid bills, cleaned up chaos, and tried to hold my broken family together. My father disappeared after years of violence and addiction. My mother numbed herself with pills and rage. At 13, I left home to live with my grandmother—an angel, but poor. I worked through school just to afford food, books, and later, to feed my younger brother when our mother abandoned him too.

I learned early that safety doesn’t come from love—it comes from control. And so I built a life around that belief: predictable, high-performing, emotionally starved, and always responsible. I married for safety, not love. I took jobs that paid the bills, not ones that fed my soul. I played the role of the strong, competent woman. Provider. Fixer. Savior. Even when I divorced, even when I built a solid career in finance and forensics, the emptiness followed me.

​

From the outside, I had made it.

A respected professional in a high-level corporate role, well-paid, well-positioned, performing at peak. My work had recognition. My results spoke. But inside, I felt like an imposter, constantly anxious, like I was wearing someone else’s skin. The better I got at playing the game, the more disconnected I became from the girl who once wanted to write, to swim, to live with passion. I was managing everything—and feeling absolutely nothing.

​

And then, in 2018, life stopped me.

Cancer. Two tumors. I named them Fear and Anger. I knew I had birthed them with my choices, my silence, my self-abandonment. In that moment, I thought, Maybe I deserve this. But beneath the fear, a louder voice rose: You think you have time? You don’t. This is your life. Right now. And you’re the main character in it.

I cried harder than I ever had in my life. Alone. On my bed. While my partner sat in the next room, ignoring my sobs during the worst moment of my life. That night, something broke—and something else woke up.

I survived the cancer. Left the toxic relationship and for the first time in my life, I was alone—and free.

​

But not immediately.

After my sick leave I returned to my old corporate job. I lasted for two weeks. I sat at the same desk, stared at the same screen—and knew in my bones I couldn’t do it anymore. I resigned. I left behind a six-figure salary and the illusion of security. And I stepped into the unknown.

That’s when I founded YUNO.

An educational platform born out of deep purpose and personal experience—created first for my son, and then for every child who learns differently, who feels unseen. I gathered a team of visionaries who believed in the mission. Together, we did what others thought impossible: digitized the entire national primary school curriculum in 10 months. Over 2,500 videos. 10,000 resources. No AI. No shortcuts. Just clarity, grit, and purpose. But though the time I realized … the old patterns were still there.

​

Overworking. Overgiving. Overperforming. I poured myself into the mission—heart, mind, and body—until there was nothing left for me. I was serving, yes. But I was losing myself in the doing. Again. I had created my mission—but I still hadn’t fully created me.

So I left.

Not for a long time—just long enough to find myself.

he Camino de Santiago called me back to life.

​

I walked 825 kilometers through the North of Spain over four weeks. Week one broke my body—blisters, muscle pain, discomfort. Week two unraveled my mind. Doubt. Overthinking. Control. Week three cracked open my heart. Grief. Tears. Letting go. And then, in week four, I flowed. I became light. Open. Whole. It was there—amid silence and surrender—that I found my faith again. Not the shame-based doctrine I had grown up with. But something softer. Kinder. God as love, not fear. I met Astrid on the Way. She was a Swedish ranger with a warrior’s strength and the spirit of an angel. We walked together, and she spoke of the divine with such tenderness that it melted something in me. She introduced me to the Pilgrim’s Compass—a set of values for the journey. One of them was lightheartedness. That word pierced through years of striving. I had always carried too much—emotionally, physically, spiritually. For the first time, I felt like I could lay it down.

One night, I stayed in a tiny monastery on a hill. Five pilgrims. Three monks. We sat at a long wooden table as they prepared us a simple dinner. Later, in a candlelit chapel, we stood before the altar—tired, dusty, blistered—while the monks offered us a blessing for a safe pilgrimage. In that sacred stillness, something shifted. For the first time, I wasn’t asking for strength. I was asking to receive.

And then after five full weeks came Santiago. The official end of the pilgrimage. But it didn’t feel like the end. I entered the square early in the morning to have a private and intimate experience. It didn't do much for me. I stayed there for hours watching other pilgrims’ arrivals. There was applause, laughter, tears, celebrations. For me it all felt hollow. Like closing the book one chapter too early. My soul wasn’t done walking.

So I kept going.

I chose Muxía—a quiet, intimate village perched on the cliffs where land ends and the ocean begins. On the morning, I left for that final stretch, I emptied my backpack. All the extra clothes, all the “just in case’s—I laid them out in the hostel for other pilgrims to take. Letting go of them felt like shedding the final layer of my old identity.

When I arrived, I followed the winding path toward the small church on the cliffs. A choir of men’s voices echoed across the rocky shoreline—booming, sacred, haunting. The music seemed to rise from the earth itself. I walked into the church, breath held, heart wide open.

After sitting in prayer and silent gratitude, I wandered into a small shop tucked behind the altar. I wanted to buy something—anything—to hold this moment in my hands. A bracelet. A token. A memory made physical.

But they only took cash.

And I had none. I had arrived at the end of the world with empty pockets. It hit me harder than I expected—how I had nothing to offer but myself. I had to walk away without the souvenir. And quietly, I told myself the memory would be enough.

As I walked down toward the ocean—over the smooth, rounded stones scattered across the cliffs—I felt a wave of gratitude crash over me. The sea in front of me was endless. The sky wide and soft. My tears came quietly at first, then all at once. Joy. Release. Grief. Wholeness. I had finally come home to myself.

And then, I heard a voice behind me.

“Signora, signora!”

I turned around to see a dark-haired boy in a football shirt running toward me. In his hand was a bracelet—the one I couldn’t afford. He placed it gently into my palm, then pointed back to his father standing in front of the church. The man nodded with a peaceful smile, his eyes kind. I gave that child a hug, barely holding myself together. As he walked away, I stood there, trembling—completely overcome.

And then I broke.

I fell to my knees on those sun-warmed rocks, holding that small bracelet to my chest as my soul cracked wide open. I sobbed—deep, silent, holy tears. For every moment I had felt alone. For every time I believed I wasn’t worthy of kindness. For all the years I thought I had to earn love.

The message was clear: You are never alone. You are seen. You are always, always provided for.

I returned home reborn. Clear. Calm. My compass was reset. I had met my soul. I promised myself I would never lose the peace I found on that cliff. And I never have.

Today, I live in alignment. I no longer tolerate manipulation, self-sacrifice, or roles that make me shrink. My panic attacks are gone. Claustrophobia gone. I am no longer afraid to fly.

A year ago, I couldn’t even board a plane alone.

Now, I fly across oceans.

In November, I attended my first business retreat—with the clear intention to scale my mission internationally.

It was a bold step, and a turning point. Surrounded by people from different stages of their paths, I saw how deeply my story and vision resonated. My mission touched them—not because of credentials, but because it was real. And for the first time, I felt recognized for who I truly was, not just what I had built.

And there… I met him. A partner who met me at my frequency. Who believed in vision. Peace. Presence. What drew us together wasn’t instant sparks—it was something quieter, more sacred.It was the way his story echoed with mine. The way he listened—with presence, not performance. The way his mission felt like a mirror to my own.

There was no rush, no chase—just a slow, steady unfolding. A growing admiration for each other’s work, resilience, and hearts. We met in truth first. In values. In vision. In the parts of ourselves we had never fully shared before—because no one had really understood before.

We didn’t collide.

We aligned.

Gently. Honestly. Unmistakably.

And in that alignment, something rare began to grow—something rooted not in need, but in recognition. Not in fantasy, but in foundation.

Love, finally, had somewhere real to land.

Now, we’re co-authoring this book together.

Not just to tell our stories, but to open a space—for others to see themselves, to recognize their own patterns, pain, and power.

To remember that healing is possible. That alignment is real. That love—true, rooted, expansive love—can meet you when you meet yourself. I’m writing this from Florida, sitting beside him, building something rooted in love, mission, and joy.

This is not a comeback story.

It’s a coming home story.

To the little girl who was once invisible:

I see you.

I love you.

We made it.