Emotional Fluidity Movement

✨ Devotion, Not Sacrifice ✨

People often say that parenthood is a sacrifice.

But I don’t feel that word in my body.
Not when I really listen.

Sacrifice implies loss,
being stripped,
being forced to give something up.

What I have lived is different:
it is choosing to let go.

I had a year ahead of me that I worked hard for —
back-to-back retreats,
four countries,
teaching, assisting, qualifying,
a calendar filled with everything I dreamed of.

And then I became pregnant.
And in a single breath, it all shifted.

Yes, there were tears.
Yes, it hurt to release it.
Yes, it felt like watching a version of my life dissolve in real time.

But still — it did not feel like sacrifice.
I could have pushed through,
kept traveling,
kept teaching,
kept working my body past its edges.

But I didn’t.
I chose to honor the temple I was becoming.
I chose lineage.
I chose devotion.

Ta**ra taught me that surrender is not collapse,
it is conscious yielding.
Letting go not because you must,
but because love is the higher path.

And that practice continues every day:
I could go to late-night dance festivals,
concerts,
Christmas markets,
Latin nights,
lose myself in wild creativity and movement.

But I choose slow evenings with a newborn heartbeat on my chest.
I choose soft over spectacular,
presence over performance,
depth over speed.

Not because I gave up my life,
but because I am creating a new one —
with him,
through him,
as him.

This is the ta***ic path:
devotion that is not demanded,
but offered.

Surrender that is not loss,
but expansion.

Letting go not to disappear,
but to become more whole.

This is not sacrifice.
This is love, in motion.

🌿
***icmotherhood ***icpath ***iclove

“I Love You, And I Miss Me.” 🌿

There are days I feel lost.

Not emotionally unhinged,
just… absorbed.
Disappeared under the weight of a tiny body
who needs me for everything:
food, comfort, tears, warmth,
a place to fall apart and a place to giggle.

And yes — it’s exquisite.
His coos, his sparkly eyes, his milky smile pressed into my shoulder.
I know this season is precious and fleeting.

But it is also a lot to be a lifeline.
A constant source.
A home, a heartbeat, a refuge.

Sometimes I ache for the woman who could
write for hours,
scrapbook,
sip tea in ritual silence,
dance barefoot until midnight,
sing in circles,
wander without a clock or a baby monitor.

I don’t want to escape motherhood —
I love him beyond language —
but I miss the parts of me that had spaciousness,
wildness,
spontaneity.

No one really prepares you for both truths:
that you can be deeply in love with your baby
and deeply in longing for yourself.

Maybe this is the real initiation —
not losing myself,
but slowly, gently, patiently
finding who I am now.

🌙

A pee-and-poo apocalypse in a stroller shop bathroom story…. Can you get through this without peeing your pants a little bit too??? 😝

We were in the stroller shop trying out different prams, and before heading home I said,
“Let’s quickly change his nappy.”
Bless my optimism.

Into the bathroom we go. Calm. Innocent. Clueless.

We set him up on the travel changing mat.
I even removed the disposable one because “we don’t need it.”
Famous last words.

I take off his nappy… wipe wipe… all good.
I reach for the new one—

AND THIS CHILD STARTS PEEING.

Like… full arc.
All over the winter clothes.
The only winter clothes we brought.
It’s zero degrees outside.

I yelp, paper towels start flying everywhere.
We’re scrambling like, “CATCH IT! CATCH IT!”
I’m stuffing paper towels under him like I’m trying to stop a flood in a sinking boat.

Everything is soaked.

We start laughing because at this point… it’s already ridiculous.

And then — 30 seconds later…

He poos.

Of course he does.

Through the paper towels.
Through the clothes.
Through everything.

We have one wet wipe left.
ONE.

So I’m wiping this volcanic eruption with paper towels — literally twenty-three of them — saving the holy wet wipe for the final polish like it’s the last sip of water in the desert.

Now everything he’s wearing is wet AND pooed through.
We’re an hour from home.
It’s freezing.
We have no spare clothes.

So we go into full creative-survival mode:

– strip off the soaked layers
– wrap his top half in a thin cotton blanket
– muslin cloth under his bum to block the pee+poo swamp
– muslin cloth in the front AND back (a full-on p**p shield)
– and then… the stroke of genius:
we put a second nappy on the outside of it all so the carrier wouldn’t get destroyed

We zip him into the carrier, looking like a tiny undercover winter burrito wrapped in random emergency fabrics.

And he was totally chill.
Warm. Cozy. Fast asleep.
We walked out of that stroller shop like the most chaotic-competent parents alive.

We were dying laughing.
Pure comedy, pure teamwork…
Honestly one of my favourite memories so far.

Dancing on the street while waiting for the tram…
with a big grin on my face, overflowing with joy.
And the amount of stares I got 😂

Some people smiled back.
Most looked away — awkward, confused, maybe even judging a little.
And yet… I kept dancing.

Ever since I fell in love with music, I’ve been that girl —
🎧 dancing in the aisles of shops
🎧 dancing at bus stops
🎧 dancing down the street
Every ordinary moment becoming an invitation for movement, expression, LIFE.

I remember people telling me how lucky I am to have something that makes me feel so alive…
How rare it is.
And it always shocked me.

But now I understand.
It’s not that they haven’t found “their thing.”
It’s that they haven’t unlocked that flow of life in themselves yet.
Somewhere in childhood, the channel got shut down — and nobody showed them how to reopen it.

Ta**ra rooted in meditation (not the eroticised festival versions that misuse the name)
is one of the paths that helps us remember.
Relearn.
Reconnect with that current of life that moves naturally through the body—
the one that makes dancing at a tram stop feel like the most normal thing in the world.

These tiny everyday moments…
these puzzle pieces…
are what make my whole path make sense.

This shameless aliveness is my home.
And anything that awakens it is aligned for me.

✨ What helps you feel shamelessly alive?

And for those who want to explore this deeper with me —
I have two Ta**ra retreats in Czechia coming up in mid-May and June 2026.
More dates are on the way.
Stay tuned for details or DM me if you want to be the first to know.

Riding the storm, loving the moments. 🌧️✨

It has been almost three weeks of cries, exhaustion, switching between clingy days, cry days, tiny pockets of relief… and then repeating the cycle again.
Sleep has been… a creative experiment. 😅 And we’ve been tag-teaming harder than ever.

And yet — these glimmers still break through.
The play.
The smiles.
The softness returning.
The love deepening.

Today he fell asleep in the wrap again.
Today I managed to cook, work a little, breathe a little.
Today he even slept alone and played alone for moments.
Big win.

We are learning to ride the storm. I’m learning to surrender even deeper, to let go of the illusion of control, to listen instead of force, to adjust instead of overanalyze.
To meet life moment by moment.

And in all of it, I love my boys so deeply.
Even in the moments of exhaustion.
Even when the days blur.
Even when it’s hard.

Grateful for the team we’ve become.
Grateful for the friends who’ve shown up with food, presence, arms to hold him, and moments to shower or walk together as two humans remembering each other.

Parenthood isn’t linear. But the love grows in every direction. ❤️

Anyone else learning to surrender their old self into this wild new season?

✨ “Finding Joy in the Mess”

I am nap-locked.

For the first time in two days, Kailash slept more than 30 minutes without being rocked, fed, or walked.

He finally drifted off in my arms, and instead of trying to put him down (again), I surrendered.

So there I sat — frozen under a sleeping baby — and somehow it turned into a tiny celebration.

William brought ice cream.
We found a movie.
We laughed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, we weren’t rushing to fix anything.
We just let life be what it was — messy, beautiful, loud, sticky, raw.

And in that stillness, something softened.

We realised… we’re actually doing okay.

At least he sleeps at night.
At least we can take turns and give each other naps.
At least he loves the wrap and the sunshine.
At least we still tease each other, laugh when we don’t cry, and somehow get a few things done each day.

It’s still brutal, yes.
My mind still whispers when will this end?
But in between the waves, there are tiny moments of light — cuddles, milk-drunk smiles, morning dances, quiet gratitude.

And maybe that’s the teaching right now:

That joy isn’t something we have to chase.
It lives here — in the middle of the mess, in the ordinary moments we stop resisting.

That partnership doesn’t remove the chaos — it gives it a softer place to land.

That love isn’t always grand or romantic — sometimes it’s sharing ice cream while trapped under a baby, whispering, we’ve got this.

🫶 For all the parents out there — what helped you get through this time? What are your tips and insights?

I am so tired of the silent judgement around babies who cry.

The comments, the subtle looks, the whispers:
“You must have been too stressed in pregnancy.”
“You didn’t slow down enough.”
“You’re spoiling him.”
“A conscious parent should have a calm baby.”

And the one that hits the deepest:
“If you were really doing it right… your baby wouldn’t cry.”

As if consciousness means numbing emotion.
As if meditation creates emotionless children.
As if a “good baby” is a silent baby.

I feel so much rage in my body writing this.
Not because crying is easy — gods, some days it breaks me open.
But because we do not shame adults for feeling in this work.
We celebrate emotional release.
We move. We breathe. We cry.
We teach that feelings are sacred.

And suddenly when it’s a baby?
We panic. Distract. Swaddle. Shush. Silence.
We pathologize emotion instead of honouring it.

Maybe my baby cries because he feels.
Because he has a nervous system learning life.
Because he’s a human — not a performance of my spirituality.

I am a first-time mother.
I do not have all the answers.
I am stumbling, learning, trying, loving, surrendering.
But I refuse to abandon my intuition just to fit someone’s idea of a “good baby.”

Crying is not a failure.
Feeling is not a flaw.
And I won’t raise a child who believes that emotions are inconvenient.

If you see a mama with a crying baby —
offer compassion, not analysis.
Trust the process you preach.
And remember: consciousness is not quietness.
Consciousness is presence.

✨ Mamas, have you felt this too? What comments or beliefs have stung you the most on this journey?
Let’s normalize emotional babies — and emotionally supported mothers




***icparenting