I was only 7 when I lost my father to suicide. He left no note, no letter, nothing that could help me or the rest of my family make sense of his final choice.

My mother, who was never naturally very affectionate, carried her own unbearable grief. Seeing your husband die is something you probably never truly recover from. Her silence became her way of surviving, but for me, as a child, that silence left a painful void. I don’t remember hearing the words I craved so deeply: that I was loved, that she was proud of me, that I was enough just as I was.

Growing up in Italy, where girls and women are constantly judged, especially on their looks, only deepened that feeling of never being enough. Between my father’s absence and my mother’s silence, I longed for comfort, pride, and unconditional acceptance that never seemed to come. Sometimes, even now, I wish she had simply said: “I am proud of you, no matter what you choose in life.”

Yet, in the middle of the pain, something unexpected happened. Because I wasn’t given words of reassurance, I became someone who listens for what goes unspoken.

My childhood taught me how to notice, how to feel, how to hold space for others in their deepest emotions. What once felt like a weakness has finally become my superpower: a sensitive, empathetic soul who understand what it means to long for healing words.

Whether you’re at the beginning of your healing journey or have been walking this road for years, I would be honoured to be part of it with you.