Before the ocean crossings, before the retreats, before the certifications— there were the mountains.
I am Kabyle. Amazigh. Daughter of the Atlas Mountains of Algeria.
Every part of what I do today — the Yoga Nidra, the hypnosis, the way I sit across from a woman and notice what her body is holding before she finds words for it — was seeded in me before I had professional language for any of it. It came through the women of my lineage. It came through Berber mantras I heard before I understood language. It came through a great-grandmother who put clay jars into a six-year-old's hands and let her hold the medicine.
I am not new to this work. I was born around it.
She crossed two oceansto find something that was never lost.
I was seven years old when I asked my father how the universe has no end.
I told him — if I stand on this highway and I cannot see three hundred kilometers ahead, it still ends somewhere. So how can something have no end? His answer was: maybe one day you will discover it, my daughter. I don't know.
He was an architect. A man who built shapes and sizes and endings for a living. And his daughter was asking him about infinity.
She never got one. So she learned to make herself small instead.
But I picked up the Type 2 as a shield.
As a way to belong. As the only language love had ever spoken to me.
The lineage she was born intoknew things no classroom could teach.
I grew up in Algeria in a lineage I did not choose — I was born into it. My great-grandmother was a shaman, a fertility healer from the Atlas Mountains. She was well known. Women came to her from different parts of Algeria — women whose bodies were carrying what their culture and religion had never allowed them to name. Women who had been asked to give themselves without consent, whose bodies had quietly recorded every moment their voice was not heard.
My great-grandmother did not ask them to explain it. She worked with her hands, with clay jars filled with sacred herbs, with ancient mantras in Berber — our indigenous language from the mountains. Most of these women didn't speak a word of Berber. It didn't matter. The sound went somewhere below language. Straight into the body.
She was also El Bekeya — the woman called to funerals to lead the collective grief. She would walk into a room full of strangers and begin her mantras. People who had never met the person who died would start crying. And then — when everything had moved through — they would start laughing. Relieved. Lighter than when they arrived.
I was her translator. I held the jars. I held the hands. I watched bodies release what minds had never been allowed to process. I didn't have words for what I was witnessing. But I understood something that took me decades to fully live: the body knows before the mind has language. This is not something I learned in a classroom. It is something I inherited. It lives in my lineage.
Kabyle · Amazigh · Daughter of the MountainsShe was six years oldwhen her hands were not enough.
I was six years old when I came home from school and found my mother. She was convulsing. I knew — the way a child knows things before they have words for them — that she had tried to leave. I could see the powder coming out of her mouth. I stayed. I tried to clean it away, the way you try to undo something with your hands when your hands are the only thing you have.
And my hands were the only thing I knew. For six years I had been walking with my great-grandmother, watching her use her hands to bring life back into bodies that had given up. I had seen what hands could do. I believed in them completely.
It felt like forever. When I finally understood that my hands were not enough, I ran to the neighbors to call for help. She survived. But something shifted after that. She became cold. Distant. Unreachable. And somewhere in that six-year-old body, a decision was made — not with words, not with logic — just a quiet, desperate conclusion: if my help wasn't enough to bring her back, I needed to become more needed. More useful. More indispensable.
Giving everything. Making herself needed. Earning love through usefulness. Not because that was who she was. Because that was the only thing that had ever felt like survival.
My search started when I was nineteen.I thought I needed to get the hell out of Algeria.
In 2000, I thought the country was the problem. So I left. I changed countries, changed environments, changed the shape of my life. And when I got to France, I discovered something much harder: changing the country did not automatically change what I carried with me.
So the search changed form. Therapy. Books. Yoga. Retreats. Coaching. Breathwork. Shadow work. Somatic work. Energy work. Meditation. Journaling. Different practices, different explanations, different promises. I crossed oceans — literally — looking for the thing that would finally make everything click.
I kept thinking the next thing might be the thing.
Some of it changed me profoundly. Some of it gave me one useful insight. Some of it showed me exactly what did not belong. None of those years fit into one neat success story.
The explanation I believedbecause I was desperate for an answer.
At one point, people around me told me I had what they called al-jinn al-ʿāshiq — “the lover jinn.” They told me it was jealous of me. That it was interfering with my relationships, my work, even my ability to be seen.
Not once. Not for a weekend. On and off, for years.
I am not telling you this because I am proud of it, or because this work is religious coaching. I am telling you because I know what it is to become so desperate for an answer that almost any answer can start to feel better than having none.
The room I walked out ofwas the beginning of everything.
That belief eventually took me into ruqya (الرقية)—the religious recitation and exorcism practices people around me told me I needed. In France, already an adult and already someone who had crossed one ocean thinking she had left the old world behind, I started going through ruqya. I traveled to Morocco for it too. I did this on and off for more than three years. The contradiction is part of the truth: I could question governments, religions, doctors and entire systems, while still carrying an explanation I had been taught to fear.
During one session, a man put his knee on my chest and pressed the tip of a pen into my skull while reciting Quran. My body convulsed. I trembled and screamed and jumped. They told me the Jinn inside me was resisting. I almost didn't survive that moment. And in the space between almost dying and still being there — something broke through. Not the exorcism working. The opposite.
And then something in me shifted. I pushed him. I scratched him. I broke his glasses. And before I could stop myself, I looked up at him and said: “I am so sorry. It was not me. It was the powerful Jinn inside of me.”
Sarcasm. Pure, desperate, survival sarcasm. I used their own language to get myself out of that room. And the moment those words left my mouth — I knew. Not just that session. All of it was over.
That rejection was the door to my real quest.
I crossed the second ocean. America. And without planning it, I ended up in an IVF operating room.
Two continents away, the Kabyle/Amazigh calling I thought I had left in the mountains found me again. My great-grandmother had spent her life working with women and fertility. Now I was standing in an IVF operating room in America. To me, it felt as if her calling had crossed the oceans before I understood what it was asking of me.
Eventually, I stopped looking for the next answer.I started looking at what all the answers had shown me.
After more than twenty years of searching, I stopped treating every new method as if it had to be the final answer. I started paying attention to the repetitions. What kept coming back? What had actually helped? What was mine? What had I inherited? What had I outgrown? What was my body doing before my mind could explain it?
Every experience had left a brushstroke. But at some point I had to stop collecting answers and look at the fucking canvas.
That is the logic behind Fragment Assembly. I do not put a person inside one method and call it the answer. I look at the person, the pattern, the body, the conscious story, the subconscious material, personality, behavior and lived experience — and then use the tools that actually belong in the room.
This is also how my methodology kept evolving. Working with bodies, Yoga Nidra, hypnosis and deep rest, I began noticing that being still and being deeply settled are not the same thing. That observation changed the way I sequence deeper work. Not because I found one miracle answer. Because I finally started assembling what years of work had been showing me.
I can meet you in deep stillness. There is a time to soften—and there is a time to stop negotiating with the same old patterns and cut through the bullshit. My work knows the difference.
She was always in the mirror.She just needed to stop long enough to look.
For thirty years I looked for the missing piece everywhere except the one place it lived.
I built Fragment Assembly because I finally understood: the missing piece was never another modality. It was a way to receive what I had already found, decide what belonged, and assemble it into something coherent enough to live.