People looked at me and saw someone who “had it all.” I looked in the mirror and saw a battery on 2%. I changed jobs, changed habits, changed everything—twice—before I admitted it: I had a problem I couldn’t dance my way through.

Depression isn’t dramatic from the inside. It’s not a scream. It’s a dimmer switch.

I stopped wanting. That was the worst part—when wanting disappeared.

Then life flipped. I found marketing. Branding. Web design. A universe where problems had levers and systems and tests. I fell in love with the craft and did what ambitious people do: I overdid it.

Full-time by day. Projects at night. Seven days on, zero off. Motivation? Through the roof. Sleep? Negotiable. My mind sprinted; my body staged a quiet protest.

Burnout arrived dressed like success. Same fog. Same heaviness. Different meaning: this time I wanted it all—my body just refused to come with me.

I tried again. Another psychologist. Then another. A psychiatrist, a book, more pills. I’ll say it clearly: talk to someone when you’re struggling. Speak it out loud.

But here’s what nobody told me: motivation without a body that can carry it is a time bomb.

I wasn’t depressed anymore—at least not in the same shade. I had ideas, energy, plans. My body moved like it was underwater. I could think yes. I could only do no.

That’s when it clicked.

I’m an analyst by nature. Give me chaos and I’ll make a checklist. So I built schedules. I built routines. I fell off them. Built better ones. Fell again. I stood them back up and asked: What if recovery isn’t just a conversation? What if it’s a choreography?

Not a motivational poster. A sequence.

Light, breath, small wins, repeatable actions. Things you can do when your nervous system feels like a short circuit. No moralizing. No “try harder.” Just physics. Biology. Friendly structure. Ten minutes that wake the body. Ten minutes that calm it. A few moves you can do in jeans. A plan that fits in the cracks of a bad day.

I stopped trying to “fix my life” and started training my body to carry it.

Slowly, the fog thinned.

It wasn’t linear. Some days I slid back into the dark room, staring at the ceiling, bargaining with sleep. But the difference now was a rope on the floor—I could feel it with my foot. A way out I trusted, because I’d tested it when I had nothing to give.

I learned the rule: the mind decides, the body delivers. Miss either and you loop.

I wasn’t “cured.” I was equipped.

Then came the anger. Not at people—at the waste. The €90 sessions that never touched the body. The “sleep it off” advice that turns into months. The smart, ambitious, good people who think they’re broken because they can’t “willpower” their way through a nervous system that’s waving a red flag.

I wanted to make something affordable, repeatable, practical—something anyone could do when the fog rolls in or when your engine overheats.

So I packaged what worked. Not a miracle. A method. The choreography I wish someone had handed me on day one.

If you can’t sleep because your thoughts race: you’re not weak.
If you sleep all day because your bones feel like they’re made of sand: you’re not lazy.
If you’ve read the books and tried the apps and still feel underwater: you’re not alone.

You don’t need clichés. You need a sequence that respects the body and the ambition. A way to restart without shame. A page you can open at 3:17 a.m. that tells you the next ten minutes, not your entire future.

That’s what I built—because I needed it first.