Find your Ligth

“Psychological safety.” It sounds like a clinical term. Abstract. Academic. But if you’ve ever been part of a team where ideas came alive, where you felt safe to speak up, to try, to fail, to care, you know it’s anything but abstract. You feel it before you name it . It’s in the meeting where someone says, “I don’t know the answer,” and nobody flinches. It’s in the moment you offer a risky idea and people lean in, not out. It’s when you admit a mistake, and instead of blame, you’re met with help. It’s the foundation. Not a bonus. Not a nice-to-have. It’s what makes real collaboration possible. This isn’t a lecture . It’s a reflection. Because I didn’t fully understand what psychological safety meant until I experienced the opposite. Until I joined teams where trust was fragile, where “speak your mind” was on the slides, but not in the room. And then, thankfully, I worked under leaders who showed me the difference. Leaders who listened more than they spoke. Who believed in...

 I never wanted to be anything other than a teacher. While other girls dreamed of being singers or astronauts, doctors or dancers, I dreamed of books. Of chalk dust and lesson plans. Of standing in front of a classroom, sharing ideas that sparked curiosity and understanding. Teaching wasn’t just a career, it was in my blood. My family was full of teachers, and even as a child, I lined up my dolls in perfect rows, delivering pretend lectures on whatever fascinated me that day. And for a while, I was living the dream. In Romania, I was exactly where I’d always wanted to be, teaching, writing my PhD thesis, building a career in academia, building a life that felt grounded and full. My husband had a good job, our son filled the house with joy, and we had everything we needed. It was a life of comfort, of certainty, of rhythm. Then, I saw a job announcement in the newspaper. I applied on a whim. Not because I wanted the job, but because it meant a trip to Bucharest and a chanc...

  It Started with a Brushstroke I wasn’t trying to reinvent myself when I picked up a paintbrush for the first time. It was the beginning of the COVID pandemic, and the weight of uncertainty felt suffocating. My mind wouldn’t stop racing with anxiety, work stress, the unknown. I needed something, anything, to quiet the noise Painting was never part of some master plan. I just needed an outlet. Something to anchor me. Something to help me breathe. When I started mixing colors and brushing them across canvas, something unexpected happened: I felt still. Not calm, exactly, but present. Focused. The noise began to fade. Since I’m not naturally gifted as an artist, my paintings were messy, unbalanced, and mostly looked nothing like I’d imagined. At first, that drove me nuts. I’d fixate on every line, every shade that went wrong. But slowly, something shifted. I stopped trying to "fix" the mistakes. I started following them instead.  Frustration evolved into curiosity.  I...