Ancestral Family Constellation Therapy, ZuwaSun Counselling and Coaching

02/08/2026

https://youtu.be/-GjuySLdMJE?si=7iAaE1i5mvk22-w-

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02/08/2026

Ancestral Wisdom

In the remote wilderness of northeastern Namibia, Boo! Xunta is mor...

28/07/2026

Returning Home
For many years I believed I was travelling towards something.
Towards understanding.
Towards acceptance.
Towards belonging.
Towards home.
Every new country promised a beginning.
Every departure carried hope.
Perhaps this place would finally feel familiar.
Perhaps these people would understand me.
Perhaps here...
I could stop searching.

But home has a curious way of refusing to be found.
The more I searched for it in places,
the more it dissolved into memory.
The landscapes changed.
The languages changed.
The seasons changed.
Yet something within me remained unsettled.
I carried the same questions wherever I went.

It took me many years to understand that I had confused place with presence.
A place can shelter your body.
Only presence can shelter your soul.

Returning home did not happen the day I stepped off an aeroplane.
It happened much more quietly.
It happened the day I stopped asking permission to become myself.

There is a freedom that arrives when we no longer divide our lives into separate pieces.
The African.
The Australian.
The European.
The counsellor.
The artist.
The daughter.
The mother.
The seeker.
For years I thought these were different identities.
Now I see they were always one life viewed from different windows.

Home was never asking me to choose.
It was asking me to gather.
To gather every version of myself that had been scattered across continents.
Every conversation.
Every painting.
Every silence.
Every ending.
Every beginning.
Not to decide which belonged.
But to realise they all did.

Perhaps this is why I no longer think of my journey as one of becoming someone new.
It has always been a journey of remembering.
Remembering the parts of myself I had hidden to make others comfortable.
Remembering the stories that existed before fear.
Remembering the child who already knew that identity could never fit inside a single word.

There is a tenderness in returning home.
Not because everything is resolved.
But because we stop arguing with ourselves.
We stop demanding certainty.
We stop asking impossible questions.
Instead, we become curious.
Gentle.
Patient.
Home asks nothing more of us than honesty.

As a counsellor, I have realised that many people arrive believing they have lost themselves.
I no longer think that is true.
I think they have simply wandered so far into the expectations of others that they can no longer hear the quiet voice that has been walking beside them all along.
Counselling, for me, is not leading someone somewhere new.
It is walking with them as they find their way back.

Perhaps that is why every conversation begins with listening.
Not because I have answers.
But because somewhere beneath the noise of fear...
their own voice is waiting.

Returning Home
I crossed
oceans
looking
for home.
Collected
countries
like memories.
Learnt
new languages.
Forgot
old ones.
Only to discover
that home
had never
left.
It had waited,
patiently,
inside
the person
I was always
becoming.

Today, I no longer ask where I belong.
I ask something gentler.
Am I living in a way that allows every part of me to come home?
If the answer is yes,
then it no longer matters where I stand.
Because home is no longer beneath my feet.
Home is the relationship I have with myself.
And from that place...
I can finally welcome others.

23/07/2026

https://youtu.be/mCE_megHDss?si=rMHwDPz0tBlwZWUU

Understanding the control behind organised religion....

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21/07/2026

https://youtu.be/8XkIfUa8xOc?si=irdeSxjR81xidI8N

Beautiful Story X

When a group of Australian Jewish friends decided to support a newl...

21/07/2026

Over the next few weeks, I thought I'd share some essays based on my poetry that I have been writing for the last 20 years.
The recurring themes that I have been fascinated by are space, belonging, and identity.

Belonging

For many years I believed belonging was something other people could give me.
I thought belonging lived in acceptance.
In recognition.
In hearing someone say,

"You are one of us."

So, I spent years trying to become understandable.
Explaining my name.
My heritage.
My colour.
My story.
Believing that if I explained myself well enough, perhaps I would finally belong.

But belonging kept moving.
Every answer created another question.
Every explanation revealed another difference.
I slowly realised something.
Acceptance and belonging are not the same thing.

Acceptance depends upon another person.
Belonging begins within ourselves.

There comes a quiet moment when we stop asking,
"Will you accept me?"
and begin asking,
"Can I accept all of me?"

Not the comfortable parts.
All of it.

The contradictions.
The histories.
The questions that remain unanswered.

The cultures that refuse to fit neatly together.
The languages that live inside us.
The child we once were.
The person we are still becoming.

For years I thought belonging meant finding my place.

Now I think belonging means allowing every place I have ever loved to live within me.
Zambia.
Australia.
The Netherlands.
None asks me to choose.
Each has become part of the landscape of who I am.

Perhaps belonging has never been about geography.
Perhaps it has always been about permission.
Permission to stop editing ourselves.
Permission to stop translating ourselves.
Permission to stop apologising for being more than one thing.

As a counsellor, I have come to believe that many people are not searching for happiness.
Nor confidence.
Nor even healing.
They are searching for somewhere inside themselves where they no longer have to leave parts of themselves outside the door.

That place...
is belonging.

When I sit with another person, I am not trying to change who they are.
I am trying to help create a space where every part of them is welcome.
The frightened child.
The grieving adult.
The hopeful dreamer.
The angry voice.
The culture they inherited.
The culture they have chosen.
The stories they are ready to release.
And the ones they are ready to reclaim.

Perhaps belonging is not something we discover.
Perhaps it is something we remember.
Because before the world told us who we should become...
we already belonged.

Belonging
There is a place
where no explanation
is required.
Where names
are simply names.
Where colour
is memory,
not judgement.
Where silence
is understood
as language.
Where every story
is allowed
to arrive
without apology.
I have spent
twenty years
looking for that place.
Only to discover
it had been
waiting quietly
within me.

20/07/2026

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This is a story of courage and hope. It is not easy to beat addiction. Evangelist Brian Chishimba

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17/07/2026

Following

Between Space and Language

A journey back to self

There was never one moment.
No single event that announced the beginning of the journey.
It began quietly.
In the spaces between questions.
In the pauses before I answered.
In the silence that followed.
"Where are you from?"
Such an ordinary question.
Yet every time it arrived, it carried another question beneath it.
Who are you?
For years, I answered with geography.
I spoke of Zambia.
Australia.
Continents became language.
Countries became explanation.
Yet none of them ever explained me.
I belonged to each place.
And to none of them.


There is a loneliness that comes from being visibly different.
Not the loneliness of being alone.
The loneliness of constantly being translated.
Every room required explanation.
Every introduction became negotiation.
Every conversation carried an invisible border crossing.
People searched for categories.
African.
Australian.
Mixed.
Black.
White.
Immigrant.
Local.
As though identity were a passport waiting to be stamped.
But identity is not a country.
It is a landscape.

For years, I searched for language.
The language of belonging.
The language of culture.
The language of home.
Yet the more words I found, the more I realised language itself can become a prison.
Words divide.
Words categorise.
Words create distance.
Sometimes silence speaks more honestly.
Sometimes art remembers what language forgets.

So, I painted.
Not because I wanted to become an artist.
Because colour could hold what words could not.
A brushstroke carried memory.
Texture carried grief.
Gold carried ancestors.
Blue carried distance.
Every canvas became another conversation with myself.
Questions I could never answer in language appeared quietly in colour.

Poetry arrived in much the same way.
Not as literature.
As breathing.
A way of placing one word beside another until they no longer explained life—
They became life.

Between worlds

I have lived
between countries,
between colours,
between languages.
Not lost—
only learning
that space
is also a place.


For twenty years, I believed I was searching for identity.
Now I know I was searching for permission.
Permission to stop choosing between parts of myself.
Permission to discover that contradiction is not confusion.
That I can be Australian without abandoning Zambia.
African without surrendering Europe.
Scientific without losing spirituality.
A counsellor who listens to evidence.
A woman who also listens to ancestors.
Both can exist.
Neither diminishes the other.


Tasila taught me this long before I understood it.
An ending.
A beginning.
Not opposite ideas.
The same doorway viewed from different sides.
Every ending asks us one question.
Who are you now?
Every beginning quietly asks another.
Who are you becoming?


Counselling arrived, not as a career, but as recognition.
I realised that the people who found me were asking the same questions I had spent years asking myself.
Where do I belong?
Why do I feel invisible?
Why do I carry stories that don't seem to belong to me?
How do I come home to myself?
The answers were never mine to give.
Only a space to discover them.


Perhaps that is what ZuwaSun has always been.
Not a business.
Not even a counselling practice.
A place where people are invited to pause long enough to hear themselves again.
A place where culture is not an obstacle to overcome, but a story to be honoured.

Where identity is not fixed, but continually unfolding.
Where silence is welcomed.
Where language is reclaimed.
Where isolation slowly gives way to connection.


Home

I spent years
looking for home
only to discover
it was never
a place.
It was the moment
I stopped
walking away
from myself.


Today, I no longer think the journey was about finding myself.
It was about remembering.
Remembering that identity is not something we achieve.

It is something we uncover, layer by layer, story by story, until one day we realise that what we were searching for had been quietly travelling with us all along.
And perhaps that is the invitation I now offer to others.

Not that I know the way.
Only that I have learned to walk with those who are searching.

10/07/2026

If you have BPD and are looking for someone who has experience and understands what it is like working with someone like you, feel free to contact me for a session.

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