I often think of my life not as a straight path, but as a spiral. Each loop brings me back to something I thought I had already healed, understood, or moved beyond—but this time, I meet it from a deeper place. My journey as a spiritual artist has been much the same: a weaving of breath, voice, body, and story, unfolding slowly over time. It is not a polished process. It is tender, cyclical, and often deeply humbling.
I was raised largely as an atheist. Both of my parents had rejected the religions they were brought up in, but developed interests in meditation, Buddhism, astrology, and, later on, shamanic practices. I was fascinated by history — especially the period of the Renaissance, Reformation, and witch hunts — from an early age. But this also brought with it a fear of spirituality, which I associated with the organised religions that had caused so much suffering and oppression over the centuries.
My own earliest spiritual memories are visceral rather than religious. I grew up moving between cultures and languages, caught in the liminal space between worlds. I was a sensitive child, easily overwhelmed by noise and tension, and prone to vivid dreams and nightmares. I didn’t always have the language then (or now) to explain what I felt, but I often sensed things that weren’t being spoken. Singing was my safe place — the only way I could express my feelings with ease.
There are moments in life when the body whispers what the mind refuses to hear — until it becomes so loud that we can no longer ignore it. Many of us begin exploring healing or spirituality out of moments of crisis.
For me, the breakdown came early. I was 19 and had just spent three months with a constant fever, following a year of experiencing a series of mysterious illnesses. When I finally found out what was wrong — ‘chronic’ Lyme disease — I felt like my life was over before it had even begun. In the months and years of relative silence that followed, I began to listen: to my breath, my dreams, my body, and eventually, the creative impulses that had long been waiting for space.
In my twenties, I trained as a yoga teacher and began to reconnect with my physical self after years of disconnection. Around that time, I also began to explore dreamwork — writing down every dream, studying their symbols, and watching patterns emerge. I believe this opened a door into my subconscious that would become foundational to my path as both a healing practitioner and an artist. I later ran a yoga studio in Brighton for five years and found a lot of joy and fulfilment in creating a beautiful community centred around the love of this practice.
But despite all of this, it wasn’t until I found Transformational Breath® in 2018 that everything began to click into place. My first session blew my mind on so many levels. My dear friend and mentor, Michèle Barocchi, was visiting to help us lead a yoga teacher training. She was completing her case studies for her breathwork certification at the time and asked me if I wanted to breathe.
I found myself reliving a traumatic surgery I had gone through six years earlier during a family trip to Namibia. Lacking other options, they had given me Ketanest (essentially ketamine) due to my low blood pressure while performing open surgery. I woke up hallucinating to my own screams and had been battling night terrors, recurring bladder infections, and general dissociation ever since.
That first breath session brought me right back into the operating theatre. My body went ice-cold, and I found myself shivering and crying in Michèle’s arms. It was one of those moments that completely changed the course of my life. I came to with a strange feeling of presence and a connection to my physical body that I don’t remember having before that day — not even as a child.
A year later, I began my path as a breathwork facilitator. During this time, I felt like I retrieved parts of myself I hadn’t even realised were missing. I often say that breathwork gave me back my voice — not just metaphorically, but literally. Shortly after that first deep immersion, songs began to come through. At first, I wrote them only for myself. I had no intention of recording anything, let alone releasing an album. But the songs kept coming through, and I kept following them. And in 2021, in the wake of lockdowns, I recorded my first four singles with my multi-talented producer, Sebastian Brice, in Frome, UK.
My creative process is deeply interwoven with my healing. I write in cycles that mirror my own emotional states. Breathwork opens the channel, music gives the emotion form, and visual art helps me integrate it all. My illustrations — often accompanying my songs or poems — begin as hand-drawn sketches and then evolve through digital layering, in itself a slow and meditative process.
Over the last six years, this multidimensional practice has become a map of sorts — tracking my path through inner child healing, ancestral reconnection, motherhood, and grief. In 2022, I gave birth to my daughter. In 2023, I lost my mother — the two events separated by a single day, exactly one year apart. That period was an initiation in every sense. Birth and death are both spiritual passages, and experiencing them so close together cracked me wide open (once again).
There were moments I didn’t know how to keep creating, and perhaps this is why it has been such a long, winding road. I was — and, if I'm honest, still am — exhausted, grieving, and responsible for a tiny human. But the songs kept coming. Two years ago, I began recording vocals in my father’s walk-in wardrobe in Tavira, Portugal, while Seb laid down the instrumentation in his studio in the UK. It wasn’t the most glamorous setting, but it was real and practical. That space — lovingly dubbed the “Wardrobe Studios” — became my own little portal. Through it, I recorded the vocals for my first full-length album, Ways of the Dreamer.
This album features nine of the songs I’ve written since 2019. It is a sonic journal of my inner world, interwoven with cello by Garwyn Linnell, guest vocals by fellow singer-songwriters Lucy Wylde and Maria Payne Vlahogiannis, and the voice of my father, Maged Younes. Each track carries a piece of my journey, an echo of my breath, a fragment of my dreams. The process was slow — spread out over two years to fit around motherhood, retreats, and daily life. It feels surreal that it's now out in the world.
What guides me now is not ambition, but alignment. I create not to perform, but to process. No longer to impress, but to connect. I have learned that the most powerful art doesn’t shout; it resonates. It carries the frequency of authenticity. And in a world that often rewards performance over presence, staying true to this path can feel slightly on edge.
Looking ahead, I hope to continue weaving these threads — breath, music, movement, and imagery — into spaces that support others in their healing. I co-facilitate retreats, offer breathwork sessions, and share my music through live performance and recordings. I envision creating immersive experiences where people can breathe, move, and listen their way back to themselves.
But more than anything, I believe I will keep walking this spiral path — returning, remembering, reweaving. For me, the spiritual journey isn’t about transcendence. It’s about coming home. To the body. To the breath. To the — at times — broken and beautiful truth of being human.
