Hey, Kristina here
intrapersonal relationship expert / Dreamer / mama / psychotherapist
This is not therapy as usual.
This is soul work.
I’m Kristina mother, dreamer, psychotherapist and lifelong student of the soul.
I work in the liminal: where trauma becomes transformation, where identity is reclaimed, where soul returns to the body.
Rooted in motherhood, shaped by soul partnership, and forged through my own descent and return, my work is a living devotion to what’s real, raw, and possible.
For nearly a decade, I’ve guided others through their deepest reckonings, trauma, identity, grief, awakening and helped them alchemize those experiences into embodied power.
Motherhood anchors me. It has dismantled and remade me, revealing the sacred in the ordinary and deepening my devotion to the inner world. It’s not something I balance alongside my work it informs it. It’s where I practice what I teach.
And so does love. My romantic partnership is a soul friendship rooted in truth, reciprocity, and shared awakening. We grow each other. We mirror the myth. We hold the tension of intimacy and individuation, devotion and freedom. It’s not perfect, but it’s real and it reminds me daily what becomes possible when love is chosen as a path.
I built and now lead a thriving 40-practitioner wellness clinic rooted in whole-person care and I’m just getting started. My mission is bold: to help heal 11% of the world, trusting the ripple will reach the rest.
The Intraspective Imaginarium emerged from the depths of this vision a mythic, liminal space for those ready to wake up, reclaim their inner worlds, and reimagine what’s possible.
This isn’t therapy as usual.
This is soul retrieval. Archetypal rebirth. Mythic remembrance.
It’s your invitation to step into the story only you can tell and to become the version of yourself your soul has always intended.
With Gratitude,
Kristina
From burnout to soul-led impact. From surviving the hustle to creating wholeness.
MY JOURNEY TIMELINE
1993
The Young Visionary
Raised in a hardworking Romanian household, I was taught that time off wasn’t for rest—it was for meaning. You gardened, fermented, built, hosted. Soulful productivity was our sacred rhythm. I learned early that my imagination wasn’t a place to escape to—it was a force to shape the world with.
At 11, I launched my first business: I orchestrated a full-scale garage sale—less kid’s table, more micro-economy. I mobilized the neighbourhood kids to work the shop or let me sell their goods for a 20% cut. I branded it, organized shifts, and woke at 5 a.m. to post arrow signs at every main intersection.
My gift wasn’t just strategy—it was gathering. Shared work, shared adversity, shared joy.
It lit me up.
As summer ended, I saw a loophole in my dad’s promise: “Whatever you make” he said, “I’ll double it.”
So the night before the final tally, I asked my mom for a no-questions-asked $500 loan—promised to return it the next day with 10% interest. She didn’t give it to me.
Instead, she told my dad.
He laughed so hard he cried.
“Ești o șmecheră, Țușca,” he said—you’re a clever hot pepper.
That nickname stuck.
And so did the pride in his eyes.
In those years, I kept building—setting backdrops for full productions, crafting unbreakable papier-mâché piñatas for parties, rallying neighbours into creative chaos. I wasn’t just playing; I was practicing. Cultivating my innate ability to turn imagination into enterprise, solitude into community, and chaos into cohesion.
But by 16, the house that shaped me could no longer contain me.
Not in rebellion—but in reverence.
So I packed a bag and rollerbladed into the night.
A soulful retreat into sovereignty.
The Young Visionary had become the Adventurer.
2009
The Matriarch-in-the-Making
In 2009, I traded my motorcycle for a baby stroller.
Hung up my bartending bottle opener—not entirely, but the way a warrior sheaths her sword when the war becomes a different kind.
I became a mama.
And suddenly, everything fragmented began to converge.
There were now little eyes watching my every move,
and so every move became meaningful.
Led as always by intuition, I synchronistically enrolled in an Honours Specialist in Psychology—paired, without fully realizing why, with minors in Ancient Mythology, Classical Studies, and Anthropology.
Unbeknownst to me then, I was assembling the compass for my future path:
decoding the human condition.
Just as I had done in childhood with my homemade espionage kits and backyard archaeology missions—Indiana Jones-style—fighting to keep stories alive in reverence to ancient knowing.
The schedule was grueling.
By day, I expressed milk in the campus nurse’s room—twice daily—to bring home nourishment for my baby.
By night, I tucked her in, studied with reverence, worked bar shifts until the last pour, then rollerbladed home under city lights to sleep for a few hours before morning lectures.
Ad exhausitium—to the point of exhaustion—but with purpose.
This was the initiation of the Matriarch-in-the-Making.
One foot in mythology, one in modernity.
Forging a future in service to something greater than self,
carried forward by milk, myth, and momentum.
2016
The Audacious Dreamer
Fresh out of grad school, starry-eyed and soul-fired, I launched my first business—a holistic health clinic born from a radical vision: practitioners from across disciplines would sit at a round table, not metaphorically, but literally, to discuss every client who walked through the door. Each human seen as whole. Each voice valued equally. A circle, not a hierarchy.
The industry authorities said it couldn’t be done. Shouldn’t be done. Wouldn’t work. I hadn’t “earned my stripes,” they said—I needed to “work in a clinic first,” “follow the ladder,” “learn the rules before breaking them.” But didn’t they know? Naysayers projecting their own limitations only ever fuel the competitive fire in me. So I smiled like a rebel with a cause and said, “Hold my Kombucha.”
Within months, the dream was real—clinic doors open, team assembled, mission in motion.
And while I was birthing a paradigm shift,
I was also raising three daughters under ten—
with my husband by my side.
The five of us (my mama too) lived together in what would become the Intraspective Imaginarium itself—
not just building it, but inhabiting it.
For two years, that sacred room was both home and headquarters.
Lunches packed, lullabies sung, tears wiped—always between clients and crew meetings.
No margin. Only momentum. Only meaning.
No one warned me that launching a revolution and mothering a village at the same time would require more than vision.
It demanded everything—my time, my energy, my nervous system.
I didn’t just build a business.
I tried to hold up a new world on my own two shoulders.
And I burned out—fast.
It was my first real encounter with the shadow side of leadership:
when passion outruns capacity,
when idealism forgets to pace itself,
when the healer forgets to be held.
But from that fire came refinement.
The beginning of wisdom.
And a deeper knowing:
that vision alone won’t sustain a revolution.
But vision anchored in community, humility, and nervous system regulation?
Now that is a force no system can ignore.
The Maelstrom & the Empress
Six years into the dream I’d built—clinic alive, community thriving—
my mother, the woman who once stood beside me through newborn nights and clinic launches,
began to vanish.
Not all at once. But in spirals.
Into a cavernous grief.
A suicidal depression that hollowed her from the inside out.
We tried everything.
Therapy, bodywork, love, rest.
I took it all off her plate—every task, every responsibility—believing I was helping.
But I was unknowingly robbing her of the very thing a soul needs to rise: meaning.
I cursed the skies.
Told them they must be mistaken if I, a therapist, a healer,
could not even help my own mother.
I was ready to give up.
And then one night—
I had a dream.
In this dreamscape, I found myself decades in the future, standing before an oceanfront sanctuary I had built — a mermaid’s lagoon for a hundred souls to come and heal. The air shimmered with salt and song, sea glass glinting where earth met tide.
It was a 5-week immersion in remembrance — a cleansing of body and psyche alike, where the saltwater drew out what the soul had carried too long.
There was rhythm in the tide.
Ritual in every breath.
Renewal in the rising light over the water.
I awoke electrified.
Ran to my mother’s door and said, “You’re coming with me now.”
She let go of her apartment and moved into the clinic—
into a cozy home she now calls “the cottage.”
It became her refuge. Her temple. Her rebirth place.
I set her up with weekly psychotherapy, acupuncture, massage.
Rebuilt her diet from the ground up—Paleo palate, strategic supplementation, adrenal support.
But those weren’t the magic.
The magic was purpose.
So, I began asking her for help.
Let her work the front desk for an hour each morning.
Randomly dropped off the kids with a rushed “Mama, I’ve got to run!”
She became needed again.
On the 6th day of the 5th week—
she said,
“I want to get up so bad, but there still remains a chain on my foot.”
And then—
the next morning—
she rose.
Her voice—transformed.
Her eyes—clear.
She was back.
Not as who she was before,
but as something more.
A Metamorphosed Matriarch.
This was not just her resurrection—
it was ours.
It marked the final teaching before the next chapter.
The revelation that healing is not just about what we give—
but what we allow others to give us.
The Intraspective Imaginarium was stirring.
And the Empress had re-entered the round table.
2022
2025
The Inception of the Intrapersonal Imaginarium
—the return to the inner temple—
It began not with a business plan, but with a rupture.
Not with a blueprint, but a whisper.
A dream-voice, not quite mine, but ancient and familiar, that said:
“Return to the place they taught you to forget.
The place inside you that remembers how to dream aloud.”
The Intrapersonal Imaginarium was not born of ambition,
but of ache.
An ache for something that could not be systematized:
a space where soul is sovereign,
imagination is sacred,
and healing is not extracted—but embodied.
By this point, I had already guided hundreds of clients through their own inner portals—
through darkness, through metaphor, through mystery—
to retrieve the lost threads of their living myths.
Each one found not just relief,
but revelation:
that they were not broken—they were becoming.
That the archetypes within them weren’t problems,
but Guardians, Seducers, and Innocents.
I had spent years deciphering mine—
The Audacious Dreamer, The Young Visionary,
The Seducer, The Child, The Aggressor, The Fool, The Thief, The Empress of Swords.
Each one not just a wound,
but a myth waiting to be remembered.
And so, I asked the world a question I had once asked myself in the dark:
“What if your symptoms are messages from your soul?”
“What if your imagination isn’t an escape, but a map home?”
“What if healing isn't about fixing what's broken, but reclaiming who you were before the forgetting?”
The Intrapersonal Imaginarium was seeded there.
Not in the realm of intellect, but in the soil of memory and myth.
A living, breathing rebellion against the dehumanizing flatness of screens and protocols.
A call to wake up.
To mythologize.
To see your inner life not as pathology, but as poetry.
It is not a clinic but a sanctuary.
It is not therapy as usual.
It is a remembering ground.
A place where archetypes are not observed—they are embodied.
Where clients become co-authors of their own myth.
Where the therapist is not the expert, but the lantern-bearer,
guiding the seeker back to their own fire.
The Imaginarium is a circle. A cauldron. A dream-forge.
Built by one who refused to choose between art and science,
structure and soul,
psyche and symbol.
And its inception was not a beginning,
but a return—
to the round table within.