Embodied Life with Tamara Romaniuk

11/08/2026

Sitting in one of my favourite Berlin cafés, surrounded by notes, sketches, ideas, and a little bit of creative chaos, putting the final touches on Summer Traces.

In just a few days, we’ll meet to move, draw, play, notice, and follow what wants to emerge.

I’m getting excited. The programme is taking its final shape, while still leaving plenty of space for the unexpected—because that’s where creativity often begins.

Summer Traces | Berlin | 15–16 August

A few last spots are still available. Come and leave some traces with us. 🤍 link for registration is in the comments

04/08/2026

The Art of Not Knowing - https://mailchi.mp/f9e3dd8135c2/vision-14191614

19/07/2026

Oh my gosh… what a beautiful Comfort & Risk workshop it was. ✨

I’m still feeling the after-ripples of joy, depth, and connection. It was one of those evenings that reminded me why I love this work so much.

It seems this theme is deeply alive for many of us right now. How do we stay connected to what feels safe while also finding the courage to step towards the unknown? How do we include both comfort and risk, rather than choosing one over the other?

Looking at this photo, perhaps you can almost feel where we arrived together—a peaceful place after moving through so much creative energy, curiosity, vulnerability, and play. Someone said it carried a touch of Woodstock energy, and somehow that felt just right: freedom, authenticity, community, and being fully alive.

This workshop was also filmed and photographed. Over the coming weeks I’ll be sharing some of the footage, and I’d love to invite you to join future editions of this workshop, as well as other movement and embodied exploration events in Corfu and Berlin.

A heartfelt thank you to everyone who came, trusted the process, and so generously supported me by being part of this very special evening. I feel incredibly grateful. 🤍

&risk

09/07/2026

Five years ago, I was going through what felt like the biggest disaster of my life. The ground beneath my feet had shattered, and everything I thought I knew about myself and my life no longer made sense.

Looking back now, I realise how fortunate I was to have the embodied resources of Open Floor within reach.

They didn't take the pain away or offer quick answers. Instead, they gave me something even more valuable: a way to stay present when everything inside me wanted to run, collapse, or numb out. They helped me find ground when there seemed to be none, reconnect with my body when my mind was overwhelmed, and remember that even in the midst of uncertainty, something within me remained steady and alive.

Over the years, these resources have become much more than a movement practice. They have become a way of meeting life with greater resilience, more compassion, and a deeper trust in my own capacity to navigate the unknown.

Perhaps this is why Grounded in the Unknown feels so close to my heart. It isn't a workshop born from theory. It has grown out of lived experience.

If this resonates with you, I'd love to invite you to read more in my latest newsletter, where I share a little more of my story and introduce two upcoming workshops in Corfu and Berlin.

Five years ago, I was going through what felt like the biggest disaster of my life. The ground beneath my feet had shattered, and everything I thought I knew about myself and my life no longer made sense.

07/07/2026

Lately I’ve been returning to one book again and again: My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell.

“Gradually the magic of the island settled over us as gently and clingingly as pollen.”

The longer I live in Corfu, the more I understand what he meant.

As I spend my days working with people—a work I deeply value and genuinely love—I notice something changing in me. I find myself less drawn to crowds, cities, and attractions that once seemed interesting. Instead, I keep moving closer to the quiet intelligence of nature.

It feels as though Corfu is slowly teaching me to pay attention to the smallest details and to savour every single moment of the day.

Every walk with my dogs becomes a little expedition. They introduce me to a world I would probably miss on my own: turtles hiding in the reeds, snakes warming themselves in the sun, curious seagulls, butterflies dancing in the breeze, wild herbs releasing their scent under our feet, and countless small wonders I would otherwise pass by.

The slower I walk, the more I see.

Nature asks nothing from me. It doesn’t need to be impressed or entertained. It simply invites me to belong—to listen, to notice, to breathe, and to remember that we are part of something much bigger than ourselves.

Perhaps this is one of the greatest gifts Corfu has given me.