Shamanic healing is one of the oldest forms of care we have. Long before we had words like therapy or mindfulness, people sat together in a quiet place, used rhythm and breath to soften the everyday mind, and listened to what was underneath. That's still the work. The drum, the smoke and the yurt aren't decoration — they're the tools that make the listening possible.

In a session with me, you don't need to perform anything or believe anything in advance. We talk first, so I understand what brought you here. Then I guide you into a light, waking state — closer to deep rest than to sleep — held by slow drumming. From there, images, memories and feelings tend to surface in their own order. My job is to hold the space, follow what arrives, and help you make sense of it afterwards in plain language.

People come to me for very ordinary reasons: a decision they can't make, grief that hasn't moved, a version of themselves they've lost touch with. What they take away is usually not a dramatic revelation but something steadier — clarity about what matters, and a sense of being back in their own life rather than watching it.