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  "The Child Before the Psychotherapist"

Behind every human being, there is a personal story—a silent battle against the most formidable of enemies: the ego. A belief system, shaped since childhood by parents and society, often develops as a coping mechanism for future personal challenges. A wounded child grows into an adult.

It was the fall of 1981, a Sunday morning—September 20th. A mother was fighting for her life due to preeclampsia. In the operating room, a critical decision had to be made: save the mother or the child? Suddenly, the mother went into cardiac arrest, forcing an emergency intervention. The baby was swiftly pulled from his mother’s womb while she remained in cardiac arrest for nearly three minutes. By some miracle, both mother and child survived. The hospital staff whispered among themselves, "Name him Milagro (Miracle); it’s a miracle he’s alive, and so is his mother."

However, the father chose to give him his own name, passing down not only his surname but also an emotional and epigenetic burden—one filled with expectations.

Just a few meters from the hospital where he was born, the child grew and developed. Without the nourishment of his mother’s milk, torn from the safety of her womb, he had to forge his own bonds. Neighbors and acquaintances were captivated by the enigmatic beauty of his eyes, which seemed to shift with the passing seasons.

"My Individual Impact of the Environment"

He experienced a typical childhood in a third-world, communist country—one marked by a lack of both material resources and personal freedoms, the hallmarks of authoritarian regimes throughout the region.

Adolescence brought the same material hardships but, more importantly, a deeper emotional struggle: "Who am I?" versus "Who do they want me to be?" He felt like a misfit, unable to meet the expectations that came with carrying the same name and surname as his father.

But true love, in the form of an angel, reshaped his life. That temporary angel was called "Mama." A love like no other—as if telepathy truly existed. A single glance between them was the purest form of communication. No one understood that wounded child the way his mother did. She read his eyes as if they were an ancient manuscript, deciphering everything—even the thoughts he never spoke aloud.

"Adaptation"

He grew into an adult, full of personal and professional aspirations, with a mindset conditioned for growth—dreams too vast to be contained within the borders of the country where he was born.

As an immigrant, he experienced yet another form of physical and psychological detachment—severed from his personal history. Another wound at 29 years old. A suitcase full of dreams. “The American Dream.” He experienced firsthand the weight of separation anxiety and acculturation disorder. The tears of his parents as they said, “Goodbye.” A leap into the unknown. A rebirth.

Alone, once again. But this time, with pockets empty yet filled with hope. Survival became the only option. Learning everything from scratch. Adapting, but never giving up.

Some stories begin with laughter, others with tears. Mine began with a fight for survival—a battle waged before I even took my first breath. Born on the precipice of life and death, I was a child who defied the odds, a living embodiment of a miracle. But miracles are not without their burdens.

From the moment I entered this world, I carried an inheritance beyond my name—an emotional and epigenetic weight shaped by expectations, societal norms, and a past I never chose. My story, like so many others, was one of struggle. Yet, it was through that very struggle that I discovered my purpose: to help others navigate their own pain, to be the voice I never had, to become a Mental Health Counselor and Psychotherapist.

I was born in a place where silence often replaced understanding, where emotions were suppressed rather than explored. The third-world communist country of my childhood was a land of scarcity—not just of material things, but of emotional resources. People were expected to endure, not to heal.

As a child, I felt the weight of expectation pressing upon me, my name a constant reminder of who I was "supposed" to be. I grew up with the gnawing sense that I didn’t quite fit—not in my family, not in my society, not even in my own skin. The battle of "Who am I?" versus "Who do they want me to be?" was my first taste of existential suffering.

Yet, amid the uncertainty, there was one constant: my mother. She was my refuge, my protector, my first therapist—without the title. Her love was intuitive, transcendent, telepathic. With just a glance, she understood me in ways no one else ever could. She was my safe space in a world that felt like an emotional minefield. But even she could not shield me from everything.

Pain is a sculptor, shaping us in ways we do not always recognize. My wounds were many: detachment from my origins, the struggle of expectations, the internal war of identity, and, later, the aching loneliness of immigration. Each wound left its mark, carving itself into the core of my being.

At 29, I left behind the familiar, trading one form of exile for another. The promise of the "American Dream" came with a steep price—separation from my roots, the anguish of watching my parents' tears as I said goodbye, and the harsh reality of starting over. A new wound. A rebirth.

I found myself alone again, with empty pockets but a heart full of dreams. The weight of survival bore down on me, but I refused to break. Every hardship, every moment of despair, every tear that fell unseen in the quiet of the night—they were all lessons. They were preparing me for something greater.

Why does a person become a healer? Because they have known pain intimately. Because they have walked through fire and emerged, not unscathed, but transformed.

I became a Mental Health Counselor and Psychotherapist because I know what it is to suffer in silence. I know what it means to feel unseen, unheard, misunderstood. I have lived the reality of emotional wounds without a guide, and I do not want others to walk that path alone.

I understand the power of a single compassionate presence—the way my mother once was for me. And though she was not a therapist, she showed me what healing could look like. Now, I take up that role for others, offering them the space to be heard, to be understood, to heal.

My journey has been one of adaptation, resilience, and ultimately, purpose. What was once my burden has become my gift. The struggles I endured were not in vain; they have shaped me into the counselor, the psychotherapist, the wounded healer I am today.

And so, I dedicate my life to those who, like me, have ever felt lost, burdened, or alone. Because no one should have to navigate their pain in silence. Because every wounded child deserves a chance to heal.

“Because once, I was a child without a psychotherapist., and now, I am one.”