I haven’t written a post for a while. I am still in Paris. this post finds me in a raw place. What happens when the people you love want different futures, and you don’t know yet what the answer is? This is the question I have been sitting with this summer.

Since the retreat in Greece I’ve been moving between Brussels and Paris with half-packed suitcases and a decision that has been quietly growing inside me: After fourteen years of living in the Costa Rican jungle, could it be time to return to Europe?

To Brussels.

I miss the city life, the movement, the culture, the proximity to people. The feeling of being in the middle of things.

But Fabrice feels something very different. He is deeply rooted in the jungle, not simply because he loves the place, but because so much of his life and work are woven into it: the land and food sovereignty, the expansive and nurturing space, the simplicity of life, the earth beneath his feet, and the retreat work he has built there over the years.

The jungle isn't simply where Fabrice lives. It is woven into the work he has built there: through yoga, wellbeing coaching, bodywork and retreats that draw deeply on the natural environment. For him the land isn't merely a backdrop to his life. It is part of the work itself.

And so we find ourselves here: I want the city. He wants the jungle. And neither of us is wrong.

What happens when two people in love want different things?

Does one of us give in?

Do we compromise?

Do we find a way to have both?

Do we create two homes?

Do we spend part of the year in Costa Rica and part in Europe? Does one of us let go of something fundamental for the other?

Or is there another possibility that neither of us can see yet?

I honestly don’t know. And that is where the story begins.

Fourteen years in the jungle

Fourteen years ago, when we were expecting our first child, we left the US and chose to create a life in Costa Rica. We didn’t simply move to the jungle. We built a life there, beautiful, incredibly demanding and deeply transformative. We created a retreat place in the middle of nature. A home. A place where people could come to disconnect from the noise of the world, reconnect with themselves, and experience a very different relationship with nature, community, and inner life. And we raised our children there. They were born into that world. They grew up surrounded by trees, animals, tropical rain, open space, and the extraordinary freedom that comes from growing up close to nature. Costa Rica has been our home for fourteen years.

It has shaped me and our family in ways I will always be grateful for. But children grow. And the life that serves a family at one stage doesn’t necessarily serve it at the next. Our children are now entering a different stage of life. Their questions are changing. Their needs are changing. They are asking for different educational opportunities, a football club, informatics and coding classes, more social life, more access to culture, and simply more of the world beyond the jungle. The jungle gave them something extraordinary. And perhaps now they need something else too.

So this question isn’t simply: Where do I want to live?

It is: What kind of life do we want to create for the next chapter of our family?

And there are four people in that question. Our children are part of this conversation. Their needs and voices matter.

Have you ever reached a moment when something that was once exactly right for you was no longer right for the next chapter? What did you do?

So what do we do?

This is the part I don’t have an answer for.

And perhaps that is why I am writing about it.

Usually, when we tell stories, we tell them retrospectively. We know how they end. We understand the lesson. We make the messy middle sound meaningful because we already know what came next.

But I am writing this while we are still in the middle.

And honestly? Sometimes it is uncomfortable.

Because we live in a culture that likes decisions. Choose. Commit. Move forward. Find the answer. But what if some questions need more time? What if making a decision too quickly is simply another way of avoiding uncertainty? What if the wisdom isn’t in knowing yet?

The temptation of compromise

My first instinct is to think: surely there must be a compromise.

You take some. I take some. We meet in the middle.

It sounds fair. It sounds peaceful.

But I’m beginning to wonder whether compromise is always the answer.

What if what I need and what Fabrice needs aren’t simply two preferences that can be divided equally?

What if the jungle isn’t just a place for him?

What if Brussels isn’t just a city for me?

What if both touch something fundamental about who we are becoming?

Then perhaps the question isn’t:

How much can each of us give up?

Maybe the question is:

Is there a way for both of us to remain fully alive?

That is a much harder question.

And perhaps a much more interesting one.

The relationship is the laboratory.

This is where Peace Activation becomes real for me. Because this isn’t a theoretical conflict. This is our life. It isn’t something Fabrice and I teach from a distance. It is something we practice. Our relationship is one of our greatest laboratories. Not because we have mastered it. Quite the opposite. Because we are constantly confronted with the same questions we invite others to explore:

Can I stay connected to myself while listening deeply to you?

Can I hear your truth without immediately defending mine?

Can I make room for your longing without making it mean that mine doesn’t matter?

Can we hold differences without creating distance?

Can I tell you what I need without turning your needs into the problem?

Can we stay connected when we don’t know what the answer is?

These are not abstract questions when you are sitting across the table from the person you love and discussing where your family should live.

And perhaps the hardest one:

Can I trust our relationship enough not to need an immediate resolution?

We want to know. We want to secure the future: where the children will go to school, where we will live, what happens next.

Uncertainty activates us.

But perhaps another capacity is being asked of us.

The capacity to remain present. To listen. To experiment. To come back to the conversation. Sometimes our conversations are easy. Sometimes they are frustrating. Sometimes we go around in circles. Sometimes one of us needs to step away before we can come back. But increasingly, we are learning how to stay in relationship through the tension. And something beautiful happens when we do. Our communication gets deeper. Our trust gets stronger. We understand each other more. And we discover that intimacy doesn’t necessarily come from agreeing. Sometimes it comes from being brave enough to tell the truth and trusting that the relationship can hold it.

A season of visibility

There is another layer to this moment that I have been thinking about. This New Moon and eclipse feel, for me, connected to visibility. Not simply being seen. But asking: Where do I want to be seen? And: How willing am I to truly see someone else? Perhaps this is part of what is happening in me. I am becoming more visible to myself. I can no longer pretend that the life I want is exactly the same as the life I wanted fourteen years ago. I can honour the jungle without pretending I don’t long for something else. I can honour the woman I was without asking the woman I am becoming to remain there.

And perhaps Fabrice is being asked to do something similar. To allow me to be seen in my longing. And for me to see him in his. Not to persuade. Not to win. Not to make the other person wrong. Just to see.

A beautiful note Sophia wrote recently reminded me of another dimension of visibility: perhaps this moment isn't only about allowing ourselves to be seen, but about learning how to see others more fully.

And I think that is powerful. Because what if the answer doesn’t come from one of us convincing the other?

What if it comes from seeing each other so clearly that a possibility we cannot currently imagine becomes visible?

I don’t want to choose between myself and us.

There is a particular kind of peace I no longer believe in. The peace that comes from one person giving themselves up,so that everyone else can be comfortable. I don’t want to move back to Brussels and ask Fabrice to abandon the jungle. And I don’t want to stay in Costa Rica simply because leaving might be difficult for him. Neither of those choices would be peace. One would be self-abandonment. The other would be asking him to abandon himself. We are not on opposite teams. We are trying to understand what our family needs. And we are trying to do that without losing ourselves in the process. So we are exploring something more complicated:

How do we honour our individual truths while remaining a united family?

I don’t know yet. And I am learning that not knowing can also mean that we are listening.

Maybe there is another possibility

Perhaps we have become too attached to the idea that there must be one answer. One home. One place. One decision. One solution.

But maybe there could be two homes.

Maybe there could be a rhythm between Brussels and Costa Rica.

Maybe one of us spends more time in one place for a period and then it changes.

Maybe we experiment for six months.

Maybe we try something and discover that it doesn’t work.

Maybe we change it. Maybe our children spend time between both worlds. Maybe something entirely different emerges.

And maybe, in a year, we look back and realise that the question itself has changed.

I find that strangely liberating. Because it means we don’t have to design the rest of our lives today. We only have to be willing to take the next honest step.

One of the things we teach in Peace Activation is that conflict doesn’t only happen between two people. There is something else present. A field. The space created between us. That field can become a battlefield. Or it can become a place of possibility. When I become anxious about the future, the field changes. When Fabrice feels that his way of living is being threatened, the field changes. When either of us starts trying to convince the other, the field contracts. But when we slow down enough to listen, not just to the words, but to what is underneath them, something else becomes possible.

Curiosity. Tenderness. Humour. Sometimes even relief. And we remember: We are not each other’s opponents. We are two people trying to build a life that can hold all of us.

This is what peace asks of us

Peace Activation isn’t a methodology that tells you what the right answer is.

It isn’t a formula for making conflict disappear.

It is about developing the capacity to stay present long enough for something new to become possible.

To hold tension without rushing to resolution.

To listen without collapsing.

To speak without attacking.

To stay connected without abandoning yourself.

To tolerate uncertainty.

To remain curious when you would rather be certain.

And perhaps most importantly:

To trust the relational field enough to let it surprise you.

Perhaps one of the deepest lessons of this chapter is that love doesn’t require sameness.

We don’t have to want the same life to love each other.

We don’t have to have the same relationship to place.

We don’t have to move at exactly the same pace.

I can understand why Fabrice wants the jungle without deciding that I must live there.

He can understand why I want Brussels without deciding that he must leave Costa Rica.

Perhaps love is not about making our lives identical. Perhaps it is about making room for each other to become.

And our children are part of that conversation too. Their development matters. They have grown up in one world, and now they are asking to experience another. There is something deeply humbling about recognising that, as parents, we don’t get to decide forever what kind of life our children need. We can give them roots. And then we have to listen when they begin asking for different wings.

Fourteen years later

There is something poetic about standing at the edge of a possible return to the place where part of our journey began.

The jungle taught me slowness. Nature. Simplicity. Silence. Strength. A different relationship with time.

If we do return to Europe, I don’t see that as a rejection of what we created. We didn’t make the wrong choice fourteen years ago. We made the right choice for who we were then.

And perhaps we are now being asked to make space for who we are becoming. I am not the woman who left Europe fourteen years ago. Fabrice isn’t the man who left with me. And our children certainly aren’t the children we brought into that jungle. We have all changed. So perhaps the question isn’t: Where should we live? Perhaps the deeper question is: Who are we becoming, and what kind of life can hold all of us?

This is why Peace Activation is so close to my heart. It isn’t something Fabrice and I teach because we have figured it all out. We teach it because we are living it. We know what it means to sit across from someone you love and feel completely certain that you are right. We know what happens when fear becomes defensiveness. We know the temptation to withdraw, convince, control, or protect ourselves. And we also know what becomes possible when we choose something else. When we pause. When we listen. When we speak from vulnerability rather than accusation. When we make room for the truth of the other person without abandoning our own truth.

A new chapter, not yet written

So here we are. Fourteen years after leaving Europe. Fourteen years after choosing the jungle. Standing between Costa Rica and the possibility of Brussels. Between my longing for the city and Fabrice’s deep connection to the jungle. Between what our children have known and what they are now asking for. Between the life we built and the life that may be emerging. We haven’t decided. And perhaps, for now, that’s exactly where we need to be. Maybe there will be two homes. Maybe there will be one. Maybe we will move between worlds. Maybe one of us will release something for the other. Maybe the children will teach us something we haven’t yet understood. Maybe something completely different will emerge. I don’t know. And for once, I don’t feel that I need to know. Because perhaps the answer isn’t something we have to find. Perhaps it is something we have to create. Together.

Perhaps peace is having enough trust in the relationship to say:

I don’t know yet

Let’s try something.

Let’s see what happens.

Let’s listen again.

Not the peace of everyone getting an equal piece of what they wanted.

Not the peace of finding the perfect compromise.

But the peace of trusting that something new might emerge when we stop trying to force the answer.

Maybe the future doesn’t need us to know exactly where we are going.

Maybe it only asks us to take the next honest step.

And then listen again.

For this New Moon

• Where in your life are you trying to force an answer because uncertainty feels uncomfortable?

• What might happen if you gave the question a little more space?

• Where are you being asked to become more visible?

• And who are you being invited to truly see?

  Perhaps you don’t need to know what happens next.

  Perhaps you only need enough courage to take the next honest step. And then listen again.

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There are conversations that leave you with answers. And then there are conversations that leave you with a question you continue to live into long after the conversation has ended. My conversation with astrologer and teacher Debra Silverman for the Peace Activation Podcast did both.

I asked her a simple question: What does peace feel like? Not peace as an idea. Not peace as a policy goal. Peace as a lived experience. She didn’t answer directly. She invited me into a practice instead — right there, in the middle of the interview. “Just be aware right now for a moment that peace is waiting for you,” she said. “It’s all around you. It’s absolutely in the room.” Then she invited us to stop. To breathe. To exhale peace.

For a brief moment, nothing outside of me changed. The world was exactly as it had been a few seconds before. But my attention changed. My awareness changed. My relationship to the moment changed. And that changed everything. It was, in its own small way, a return to rhythm …

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There was something I did not expect to hear during our recent 7-Day Embodied Peace & Conflict Mastery Immersion in Greece. It did not emerge during a formal teaching. It emerged quietly, almost reluctantly, in conversations over meals, during walks, and in those moments when people feel safe enough to tell the truth. Several of the men present, peace activists, community leaders, facilitators, fathers, and professionals shared a similar confession:

They were tired.

Not physically tired.

Soul tired.

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This week on the Peace Activation Podcast Episode, Reggie invited everyone listening to stop for a moment.

To breathe.

To notice the body being supported.

And I realized how unfamiliar that has become for so many people.

One of the simplest practices he offered was also one of the most powerful: Sit in a posture that feels supported, spacious, and stable.

Notice the body.

Notice gravity holding you.

Breathe slowly enough that you can actually feel yourself arrive.

Simple. But not insignificant. Because every time we pause consciously, we interrupt the momentum of unconscious living. And perhaps this is where peace begins. Not somewhere far away. Not once is everything fixed.

But here. In this breath. In this moment.

We live in a culture that rewards urgency, productivity, speed, and constant reaction. Many people are moving through life without ever truly arriving in themselves. There is always another demand, another crisis, another distraction pulling us away from the present moment.

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I have sat with men in conflict zones, in leadership circles, in private conversations after workshops, and I keep noticing the same thing:

Many of them have never truly felt safe enough to be fully human. and I keep wondering, not what is wrong with men. But what becomes possible when men no longer have to perform their strength at the expense of everything else?

This week on the Peace Activation Podcast Episode, I sat down to speak with Hawah Kasat, a global humanitarian, author, non-profit founder, and host of the Everlutionary Podcast. Hawah has spent more than two decades working with boys and young men, beginning in Southeast Washington, DC, and what he has witnessed over those years is something I believe we are only beginning to understand as a society.

Many boys grow up never feeling safe enough to express what they carry fully.

That senten…

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I recently sat in conversation with writer and speaker Charles Eisenstein and J’aime, the producer of the Peace Activation Podcast. One idea stayed with me long after we finished speaking: peace is not an action. It is a state.

That distinction matters more than I think we realize.

We often approach peace as something we need to create, fix, or achieve. We treat it like a project, something external and dependent on circumstances, systems, or the behavior of other people. But what if peace is not something we manufacture? What if peace is what becomes available when we are no longer in conflict within ourselves?

That question changes the entire conversation.

Because suddenly peace is no longer separate from integrity. It is no longer separate from how honestly we live, how we relate, or how willing we are to face what is unresolved inside of us.

During the conversation, we spoke a lot about repair. Not repair as performance or saying the “right” thing, but repair as a genuine willingness t…

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In this week’s episode of The Peace Activation Podcast, I sat in conversation with Haneen, a Palestinian writer and mother from Gaza. What stayed with me from that exchange was not just what we spoke about, but what it revealed about the reality of practicing peace in the middle of ongoing loss, displacement, and uncertainty.

We often talk about peace as something that becomes possible once conditions improve: when violence stops, when systems stabilize, when there is space to process. But this conversation challenged that assumption. What does peace look like when none of those conditions are present? What does it mean to stay connected to yourself and to life while holding both personal grief and collective trauma at the same time?

Haneen spoke about the loss of her father while also carrying the reality of what is happening in Gaza. There was n…

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These past couple of weeks, I’ve been having many conversations with my family and friends around the world trying to make sense of what is happening right now.

Conversations where dignity, grief, rage, and love are all present, often at the same time. Conversations where even those committed to justice and liberation struggle to remain in relationship with those on the other side, conversations where I, too, find myself confronting the limits of what I can hold.

Let’s stop pretending that hope is harmless. Because the way most people are practicing hope right now, it is not creating peace. It is enabling avoidance. We say we “hope for peace” while consuming war-like content. We say we “hope things get better” while reinforcing the same narratives that keep us divided. We say we “hope for humanity” while dehumanizing anyone who does not sit on our side of the line. This is disengagement dressed in softer language. And nowhere is this more visible right now than in Israel and Palestine…

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For a long time, peace felt like something to arrive at. Something to reach. Once enough work had been done, once enough had been understood, once everything that needed resolving… was resolved. But what keeps returning, again and again, is something much simpler. And much more confronting.

Peace is not a destination. It is a relationship.

And that relationship begins in the body.

Recently, the Peace Activation Podcast hosted a conversation with Fabrice Renaudin.

Fabrice is not only a collaborator on this work, but also my life partner and the father of my two boys.

We met on a dance floor at Burning Man in 2008.

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For most of my life, I believed that wisdom was something to learn.

Something to study.
Something to earn.
Something that would come from books, mentors, or experience accumulated over time.

I was working in conflict zones, advising on gender and human rights, moving from one country to another, from one crisis to the next.

I thought I understood power.
I thought I understood women.
I thought I understood what it meant to create change.

And then I became a mother.

And everything I thought I knew collapsed.

Pregnancy brought me to my knees.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

It stripped me of the illusion that I understood life, or my body, or even myself.

I began to see, with an almost uncomfortable clarity, how deeply conditioned we are.

How the stories we are told become the reality we live in.

The story of what a woman is.
The story of what a mother should be.
The story of productivity.
The story of worth.

And how quickly those stories are used against us.

While I was pregnant, people spoke to me differen…

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Today, we come back to gather again at 10am Costa Rica / 12pm ET / 4pm GMT for 90 min)

Our monthly gathering is a live, facilitated space where we come together once a month to explore the themes I write about and that unfold in the world around us, in real time, in the body, and in relationship.

These sessions are about:

• inner coherence

• attuning to each other

• being comfortable with shared silence if that is what is needed

You are welcome to bring questions, share reflections or concerns, challenge or question my writing respectfully, name what feels unclear, activating, or difficult… You are also welcome to simply listen.

Presence is participation. There is no pressure to perform, disclose, or agree.

This is a collective reflective space, held with care and clear boundaries.

Who Is This For?

This space may be for you if:

• You feel the emotional cost of polarization

• You want to stay open without collapsing or hardening

• You value lived experience over abstract certainty

• You would like to engage writing as a practice, not just as opinion

You can join the monthly gathering here:

👉 Become a paid member for $9/month

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Yesterday, my 13-year-old son broke my laptop’s screen.

But that’s not the part that stayed with me.

Over the past week, he insisted on taking my travel laptop to school. He said he needed it for his classes. I hesitated. I asked him to show me how he would take care of it. He did, and more than anything, I wanted to show him that I trusted him.

Yesterday, when he came home, that trust was tested, and he didn’t try to hide it.

He didn’t leave the laptop somewhere for me to find. He didn’t wait. He didn’t deflect or soften the story.

He asked me to sit down.

His eyes filled with tears. His breathing was tight, uneven, like each word had to fight its way out. I sat in silence and waited, putting my hand on his heart.

And then he told me what happened.

“I’ll take responsibility, mum,” he said. “I’ll pay for the repair. I already checked how much it would cost.”

In that moment, it stopped being about a broken screen.

It became something else entirely.

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There are moments in this work where I wish I could offer a clear narrative.

A position.

A conclusion.

Something that resolves the tension.

But that is not what I am witnessing right now.

What I am witnessing is a field alive, fragmented, contradictory where multiple truths coexist without easily reconciling.

And my role, more and more, is not to simplify it… but to stay with it.

We are also moving through the equinox.

A moment in the year where light and dark meet in equal measure.

Not one overcoming the other but both existing, fully, at the same time.

It feels like a mirror of the field we are in.

Nothing resolved.
Nothing dominant.
Just the invitation to learn how to stand in between.

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Nada brings a unique perspective to this work. As a first-generation Afghan Moroccan American and a scholar in peacebuilding, she carries a lived understanding of how global conflict reverberates through families, communities, and identities. In our conversation, we explored a question many people are holding right now:

How do we remain human in the midst of polarization?

The speed of global events can pull us quickly into cycles of reaction, fear, anger, judgment, and overwhelm. When we witness suffering, injustice, or war, our nervous systems naturally respond. These responses are deeply human.

And yet, the quality of our response shapes…

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“I saw seven generations of women in my mother’s lineage… each one carrying what she promised to do. And when I asked what I had committed to, the answer was: You committed to speak.”

In Celebration Of International Women’s Day/Month, I launched s a special episode in honor of my mother and all the mothers that came before her.

I grew up as a Palestinian citizen of Israel, within a landscape shaped by history, memory, and conflict. Like many of us, I carry stories that began long before I was born. The experiences of my mother and my grandmother both born during times of upheaval and displacement ~ live within me as part of a longer lineage.

“I am responsible for healing my trauma so that I do not create more trauma around me.”

For many years, I understood this inheritance mainly as trauma.

But slowly, something deeper revealed itself: within every lineage of pain there is also a lineage of resilience, courage, and devotion to life.

In 2020 while the world was in Covid lockdown, I was expe…

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This Friday, we gather again at 10 am Costa Rica for 90 min, 11 EST, 8 am PAC)

Our monthly gathering is a live, facilitated space where we come together once a month to explore the themes I write about, in real time, in the body, and in relationship.

Rather than consuming more content, this gathering is about integration and presence:

• slowing down

• sensing what the writing awakens

• staying with complexity together

This month, our main conversation will center on the field trip I just returned from the places I wrote about in “Embodied Witnessing.”

In that piece, I spoke about what it means to stay human inside visible violence, quiet erosion, and collective hardening.

On Friday, we will go deeper somatically.

• What happens in the body when we witness harm?

• What happens when we metabolize instead of transmit?

• Where do we collapse?

• Where do we harden?

• Where is capacity growing?

This call will allow us to explore those questions together.

You can join the monthly gathering here:

👉 Become a paid member for $9/month

Subscribe now

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Saturday, I was in Masafer Yatta recording a podcast with Elana.

The wind carried dust and the metallic smell of tension.
Children watched from doorways.
Adults stood in clusters, alert, braced.

Settlers were harassing families, seizing land, destroying livelihoods, acting with total impunity, visibly protected by the Israeli army.

What I am witnessing is not random violence. It is a system that allows harm to unfold predictably, repeatedly, without consequence.

And as we drove away from Masafer Yatta, my body still tight, another reality echoed alongside it.

As I was driving inside Israel, I kept hearing from family and friends how violence within Arab communities is spiraling. Criminal networks. Weapons. Drug trafficking. Again — near-total impunity. Different uniforms. Different perpetrators. The same pattern: abandonment, neglect, selective enforcement.

Two arenas.
One system.

Embodied Resilience

In the past weeks, I’ve been facilitating trauma-responsive, embodied resilience trainings wit…

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You are welcome for today first Monthly Gathering Call!

This is our life, facilitated space where we come together once a month to explore the themes I write about in real time, in the body, and in relationship. Rather than consuming more content, this gathering is about integration and presence:

• slowing down

• sensing what the writing awakens

• staying with complexity together

It’s a space to be, remember we are human with no need to perform or persuade.

What happens during the gathering?

Our gathering will include:

• A short opening reflection or framing

• Space for embodied integration (pausing, sensing, grounding)

• Open dialogue and inquiry

You are welcome to:

• Bring questions

• Share reflections or concerns

• Challenge or question my writing respectfully

• Name what feels unclear, activating, or difficult

Nothing is scripted.
The space responds to who is present.

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Monday evening, while in a stopover in Paris, I watched Palestine 36 with a friend from Costa Rica—half Tica, half Venezuelan.
Her name is Libertad, meaning Freedom in spanish.

We were both shaken.

I was trembling, not only because of the violence depicted in the film, but also because it felt so familiar. It didn’t feel like history. It felt like the past was present. The same story. The same fight. Still alive. Still repeating itself.

Palestine 36 takes us back to the Arab Revolt of 1936–39, during the British Mandate. And yet nothing in it felt distant. Watching it now, it felt like time folding in on itself—then and now collapsing into the same unresolved ache.

One of the moments that stayed with me most was when a British official, confronted with the brutality carried out in the name of empire, says:
“I quit Palestine.”

I sat with that sentence for a long time.

Did he quit Palestine?
Or did he refuse to quit his own humanity?

And then the question turned toward me—toward us.

How many of u…

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When I wrote last about what’s unfolding in 2026, continuity and deepening, a lot has continued to unfold in ways that remind me why this shift matters.

You’ll notice the image accompanying this post: the lotus, the symbol at the heart of Peace Activation.

The lotus grows in muddy water, not despite it, but because of it. It doesn’t bypass the darkness beneath the surface; it rises through it, slowly, patiently, rooted in what is real.

For me, the lotus speaks to a kind of peace that is embodied and earned, a peace that knows where it comes from. Our message, “Let your heart tell your mind what is possible,” is an invitation to reverse the usual order: to listen first, to sense before deciding, and to allow wisdom to emerge from alignment rather than force.

From this place, the world does not disappear. It comes closer.

Right now, when we sense the state of the world, many of us feel the impulse to turn away, to numb, to harden, or to fight. And yet the world keeps moving through some o…

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