My profession is my passion. I am a psychologist, a wife, and a mother—and each of these roles shapes the way I see people, pain, growth, and love. Every client I meet invites me to look a little deeper into myself and into what it really means to be human.

I have completed my PhD, continued my training, read countless books, and collected certificates over the years—yet psychology has taught me one essential truth: there is no final destination. We learn every day. We grow every day. And no matter how much knowledge we gain, we all still face moments of doubt, fear, and uncertainty.

I am no exception. I am imperfect. I am learning. And just like many of the people I support, I’m constantly navigating how to apply my own knowledge to my own life. This humility is not a weakness—it is the heart of my work. It is what helps me meet every client with compassion, honesty, and understanding.

Parenthood is where these worlds often meet. My clients struggle as parents, and I understand them deeply. Because the truth is simple: no matter how many books you have read, you are never truly prepared for a child. Not for the first one, not for the second, not even for the third. Every child arrives with their own mystery, their own challenges, their own magic—and suddenly you find yourself back at the beginning again.

But parenting is also an extraordinary journey. In many ways, our children bring us back to life. They make us younger. They pull us back into curiosity and playfulness. You start noticing fashion again, you learn cartoon characters by heart, you find yourself revisiting math homework or geography lessons you thought you’d forgotten long ago.
And sometimes—beautifully—you get to rewrite pieces of your own childhood.

Maybe your father once promised to take you to the zoo and never did. Now you know every animal there, and even the zookeeper, because you go with your children every Saturday.
Maybe your mother dreamed of you playing piano while you begged for ballet. Now your daughter does both—and she teaches you the steps as if you were the child.

Through our children, we rediscover joy. We rediscover stories. We rediscover ourselves.

And I speak from experience. I learned Chinese to understand my daughter better. I play the ukulele and the drums because my son led me there. I can quote every Harry Potter movie and most modern cartoons. And yes—we now have two kittens, because my youngest daughter’s heart was set on them.

Over the years, clients have entrusted me with their most intimate stories—those of longing for a child, struggling to raise one, navigating the complexities of step-parenting or co-parenting. But one story will stay with me forever.

A woman once called me unexpectedly. She was successful, intelligent, and seemingly fulfilled. But one thing kept her awake at night—a longing for a second child, tangled in fear and doubt. We had one intense, honest session. Then she disappeared for a year.

And then one day, out of the blue, she reached out again. During our session, she quietly lifted her phone and showed me her beautiful baby girl. She told me she had made her decision right after our first conversation. She thanked me—but truly, it is I who will never forget that moment. It reminded me why I do what I do.

My profession is my passion. I walk beside parents as they grow, heal, question, stumble, and rise. And with every story they share, I continue learning and becoming not only a better parent, but also a better human being.

This is what inspired us to create this program. We truly want to share our knowledge and support parents in navigating the challenges of family life. You don’t have to do it all on your own.

If you have questions, if you feel overwhelmed, or if you simply want to build stronger, closer relationships with your family, we are here to guide you. We will help you understand, connect, and show your loved ones how deeply you care.

I went to see a psychotherapist because I didn’t know how to reach my daughter anymore. Not because she’d done anything wrong — but because I could feel the distance growing between us. Our house had gone quiet in a way that felt permanent.

I wasn’t sure what to say at first. I’ve never been one to open up easily, especially about something that makes me feel like I’ve failed. For weeks I hid behind talk of structure and routines until the therapist finally asked, “You talk a lot about control. What are you afraid will happen if you let go?”
I said, “I want to protect her.” She waited, then asked again, “What does that mean to you?”
And that’s when it hit me: I didn’t want to control her — I wanted her to ask my advice, I wanted to be closer to my daughter. I wanted her to trust me, to still talk to me when she’s sixteen and angry at the world. I wanted to feel like we were on the same side.
That’s when the real work began — though I didn’t yet realize how much of it would be about me.

The therapist asked me to describe a recent conflict, and the first thing that came to mind was karate.

I had insisted my daughter keep training — even when she was tired, even when she said she didn’t want to go. I told myself it was for her own good. Discipline. Grit. Protection. All the lessons I thought mattered most.

When she started pushing back, I pushed harder. I even signed her up for private lessons. The dojo encouraged it; they said all successful kids learn not to quit. I wanted her to grow up strong — maybe stronger than I’d ever been.

But behind all of that determination, there was something else: fear. Fear she wouldn’t be ready for the world. Fear that if I didn’t push her, I’d somehow fail her.

Then, in the middle of that battle, my marriage collapsed. Divorce papers landed on the table like a thunderclap. And still, I was fighting my daughter over karate. Two wars at once — one for my marriage, and one for control.

That’s when the therapist threw me a curveball. She said, “If connection is what you value most, why are you fighting your daughter for control?”

I argued. I said kids need structure. That quitting would teach her the wrong lesson. That I knew better.

The therapist didn’t flinch. She just asked, “How do you know your experiences are the ones she needs? How do you know what she’ll face, or what will make her stronger?”

Then she said something that stayed with me: “If you keep winning these battles, you might lose the war — the connection you say is most important.” That question broke something open in me.

So one day, I told my daughter, “You don’t have to go to karate today.” She was surprised, confused, speechless that this was coming from me. We sat together, eating ice cream, not talking much — but it felt like something in the air between us had changed.

A few days later, I asked, “Do you want to go back?” She said, “But you already paid. You said I have to finish.” I asked again, “Do you want to go?” She said no.

So we went together, and she quit. And in that moment — watching her stand there, nervous but brave — I realized she didn’t need to learn grit from a dojo. She was already showing it, just by standing up for herself.

Years later, she still comes to me. We talk — really talk. She asks my opinion. She trusts me enough to disagree.

And the funny thing? She’s been thinking about going back to karate. Her idea, this time.

Maybe that’s what real strength is — not the kind you’re forced to build, but the kind that grows when you finally feel free.

The Story behind the birth of: Exothermique

Family Moments