Who I am
Hi, I´m Niki. I currently live in a small Spanish coastal village.
I´ve never really done life the conventional way. I´ve moved a lot. I´ve started over more times than most people would consider sensible. Somehow, it always works out though.
I love being active. I love feeling strong. I love learning and growing. I love real conversations; the kind where people say things they don´t usually say out loud.
I am curious about people. About what drives them. About what they avoid, About what they long for.
My life now
These day, my life is quieter than it used to be.
I have routines that hold me. I dance. I train. I work. I practice. I spend time with people who matter. There is space for my work in end-of-life guidance, and space for sound, which has become something deeply personal to me.
I am not searching anymore the way I once was.
I feel more rooted. More steady.
It used to be different
For many years, I lived in movement. A lot of movement.
Different countries. Different houses. Different versions of myself.
I was strong, capable, independent. I could land anywhere and build a life.
From the outside, it looked adventurous. Exciting. Free. Impressive, even.
And in many ways, I guess it was.
But strength can quietly become a strategy. I became the one who adapts. The one who learns the language of the room. The one who finds her place wherever she lands.
What I didn´t always do was listen inward. I often made decisions from what was possible and from what made sense. I kept moving forward, but not always from my own center.
My independence was real. And my resilience was also real. But over time, I began to see that surviving and being connected to myself are not the same thing.
That realization opened the door to something deeper.
And then there was illness
In my early forties, I was diagnosed with cancer. And strangely enough it wasn´t the collapse of my world. It became one of the strongest years of my life.
All the resilience I had built over years of starting over was there for me. I knew how face things head-on. I stayed present. Fear did not define that year. Love did.
And what it brought, was clarity.
Looking death in the eye, even briefly, changes your questions. Not in a dramatic way. In a simple one:
If this were it, would my life feel true?
Up until then I had already lived fully. What shifted was not regret, it was awareness.
I wanted to live more consciously.
That year planted a quiet seed. Not immediately into end-of-life work. But into a deeper understanding of time, presence, and the conversations we postpone because we assume we have more of it. Once you have seen death up close, you carry it with you.
Why this work
This work did not begin with a business idea. It began with a dream. One that felt unmistakably clear. I didn´t ignore it. I decided to train as an end-of-life doula, to meet that calling with competence.
My own experience with illness, as well as the awareness that death does not always come slowly, but can also arrive suddenly, made legacy and clarity personal for me. I know what it means to want your affairs in order. To want your loved ones protected. To leave behind less confusion and more peace.
Alongside this work, I needed something to balance it. For me, that became sound. What began as a personal practice became professional as well. I trained and certified in sound healing, and now create spaces where people can soften, rest, and return to themselves.
This is why I do what I do.
The Dream
A few years ago, I had a dream.
In the dream, I was sitting beside a man after a serious accident. He was awake. He looked at me and asked if he was going to die. I told him I didn’t know. I wasn’t a doctor. But I stayed with him. I asked if he had wife and children. If there was anything he wanted them to hear. I called his wife so she could come. When she arrived, I stepped back.
Two days later, something similar happened in real life.
A man on a scooter was struck by a car right in front of me. The driver was in shock, overwhelmed, trying to call for help. I walked over and sat down beside him.
There was blood. He drifted in and out. At times his eyes opened and met mine. I held his hand. I spoke to him quietly, keeping my voice steady. The whole scene was very peaceful.
At some point a couple arrived to help him. CPR began. A few minutes later I was told he had passed.
I drove home that day knowing something inside me had become clear.
Death had already been part of my life. I had sat beside both my stepdad and my mother as they crossed that threshold. I know how fragile those moments are, how sacred they are, and how important calm presence becomes.
But that day felt different. It felt familiar somehow.
Not something heroic. Not something chosen. Something that had always been there.
Just a quiet knowing that this was not new to me. That I belonged in that moment.
And from that moment on, I understood something clearly. Being present at the threshold between life and death was not accidental in my story. It was a calling I was ready to step into.
♡