As you arrive here, you may simply notice how you’re landing in this moment — your breath, the sense of your body settling, a quiet awareness of being present. I welcome you into this space.

I was born in Salamanca, in the centre of Spain, between two cultures and two languages: my father is Spanish, my mother German. My childhood unfolded between the golden plains of Castilla and the rainy, leaf-covered autumns of Cologne. Perhaps this early movement between landscapes taught me that identity is not a single line but a weave of many threads.

I was a sensitive child, drawn to the sounds of the world — the cadence of languages, the grain of voices, the low hum of written words. Listening became the compass that steered my steps. I decided to become a musician, and the landscapes around me shifted once more as I moved abroad to study: from the dry, sun-cracked fields of my childhood home to the damp air and soft light of The Netherlands, where I spent much of my twenties before returning to Spain. That transition —from dust to mud, from still heat to the quiet weight of moisture— changed the way I heard the world. Wood, breath, resonance, and silence began to sing in different shades. I started playing historical flutes and contemporary music, and articulating the rumour of my imagination through the slow craft of composing. I learned to follow sound the way one follows weather: attentive to its changes, its textures, its small invitations. My ears and my curiosity became my trustworthy guides in this journey.

My work has always been fed by my relationship to the natural world. Foraging, cooking, and paying attention to the gentle turn of the seasons taught me early on that creation begins with reciprocity: receiving what the land offers, and giving something back with care. Bread-making became a teacher in that sense. Flour, water, salt, leaven — simple elements, slowly transformed through time and attention. I began to see that this was the same rhythm I followed when making music, and it eventually led me to pair music and food in performance. When taste, scent, sound, memory, and emotion meet in a single moment, people often drop into a state of presence that feels both intimate and shared, as if all their senses were suddenly aligned. For me, that alignment is one of the most meaningful places art can take us.

Alongside music, I started weaving another thread into my path: a search for inner coherence. A difficult period after my studies redirected my attention inward, toward practices that helped me understand experience through the body — somatic work, mindfulness practices, and eventually Internal Family Systems (IFS). I became eager to help others with the learning I was finding for myself, so I decided to train to become an IFS coach. I have been accompanying people in their own journeys of inner transformation since. I also became a student of systems thinking, and began to understand that deep listening, collective healing, and ecological transformation are part of the same arc. What began as personal necessity became a way of seeing: creativity, presence, and care for the more-than-human world are not separate fields, but are deeply interconnected at their most fundamental level.

Today I work as a musician, teacher, and coach — three practices that do not pull in different directions but illuminate one another. I see them as forms of craftsmanship: steady ways of cultivating clarity, curiosity, patience, playfulness, and embodied learning. My hope is simple: that each of us can become an island of coherence, and that the presence we carry — in a rehearsal room, in a lesson, on stage, or in daily life — can help shift the wider system toward something more connected, more attuned, and more alive.

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