The Origins of my Journey

If I think about when I decided to become a therapist, I can say that, in reality, I never did; it has happened as if it was inevitable. As a child, I dreamed of becoming a soul star like Whitney Houston. Being born into a family of musicians made this seem obvious to me, and I almost made it, but this is for another story…

At the age of 21, my father was diagnosed with terminal colon cancer. Before this diagnosis, my father had a series of clear signs that something was wrong for about a year, but he did everything to ignore them, arriving in his final days of life with no awareness of what was happening.

My father was a talented guitarist and producer who failed in his creative career and never recovered from it. His unhappiness and immature nature led him to destroy all that he had, including his family and intimate relationships, and become heavenly indebted. He never expressed his feelings or shared anything about his situation; he never took any responsibility for his behaviours and never understood the consequences and impact of his actions and neglect.

He had a gambling addiction, and I suspected he was also an alcoholic. Since my mother divorced him, I saw him sink progressively into an abyss of depression and debts that was painful to watch.

I was desperate to get to know him, to understand him, and to untangle and resolve my confusing and contrasting feelings toward him, and I sacrificed my teen years in an attempt to do so.

The pain of this dysfunctional relationship, coupled with curiosity about its intricate nature and history, led me to investigate the origins of his illness. The answer that we get sick because of bad luck or coincidences wasn't enough for me. I was perfectly aware of a profound misalignment between my father's nature and his wounded self. His pride, which I soon understood, hid an immense fear of dying, especially because his dad had also died of cancer a few years before him at the age of 60.

My father never told me he had cancer; nobody did… he denied it and hid it to the very end. He was angry and upset, and his words were often hurtful. He refused and rejected any attempt I made to help him or talk about the situation. I remember that when he was asleep or was not lucid at the hospital, I used to secretly put my hands on the tumour in the desperate hope of healing it. I remember tears falling down my eyes out of control, trying to hide my despair and confusion. How did we get here? What can I do to repair this?

The doctor said he had three months and sent him back home with me… I called the doctor daily as he was not good… I was alone with a dying father in the house, not knowing what to do or where to turn to. Luckily, my uncle found a place in the hospital where he could die with dignity and without pain, and then the doctor said three days… So he died in my arms on the second of June 2015 at 1:30 in the morning.

That moment was the beginning of a journey that led me to research and dig deep into myself. I felt helpless, at the mercy of the events and decisions of others, at times not authorised to suffer, judged in my pain and suspended in limbo, not to mention the anger I felt towards my father, who left me to unravel all this alone one more time!

From here, a thousand questions began: Why do we get sick? What is the true nature of our illness? Where does the disease start from? Why do we ignore our mental, emotional and physical health?

I started investigating my father's origins, personal history and childhood traumas, understanding his difficulties in loving, communicating and expressing his true feelings, his addictions and his fear of taking responsibility for himself and what involved him. His Narcissistic tendency and selfishness in never putting anybody's needs above his. This tumour was a clear opportunity to change direction, review inconsistencies, apologise to the people who very much suffered for his neglect and immature behaviours, and heal and regain himself by bringing to light his fears and shadows that were killing him day by day.

What I felt I would remember for the rest of my life was a pain so deep that I thought my heart was being ripped apart. I started having sleep paralysis. I could hear him calling me when I couldn’t move. Likely, a psychologist's family friend noticed my pain and told me to go and see a psychotherapist at his studio.

Here, my path began. I felt much better after a few sessions, and since then, I never stopped walking the healing path.

It took me years to process this mourning and this complex relationship with the man I have chosen as a father in this life; within the process, I also understood who I was, my sensitivity and my unique emotional abilities.

My father was a misunderstood and broken soul, like many, who didn’t get to align with his soul path. His unprocessed childhood traumas and dysfunctional relationship with his parents and relatives created so much contrast inside him that he lost his way, and his soul could take no more. Paradoxically, his life ending allowed mine to find purpose.

After 19 years of non-stop research and hands-on work, I hope he is proud of me. I often wonder what he would think of me now if we had had a chance to heal our bond and get to know each other, but somehow, I know we will meet again.

I am so grateful I have found a path that brings meaning into my life. This path is hard at times and highlights all my incongruence, shadows, and vulnerable sides, but it is so rewarding and has helped me mature and grow so much.

If my story resonates with you, I hope all this grief will elevate the amazing creative potential that lies within you; every experience and challenge we face has the potential to become a transformative and healing balm that heals our illness, allowing our humanity to evolve and resolve deep-seated soul wounds waiting to complete their purpose and allow new, better humans to rise.