About Me.
I am the elder son of a working-class family, born in the 1980s.
My father often worked over 14 hours a day to support my brother and me through private education. We were raised with equal care—the only visible difference between us lay in the color of our clothes or toys. My parents cultivated a loving home, and I was entrusted early on with responsibilities: the house key, and my brother’s well-being. I embraced it. It gave me something to rise up to.
As I moved through childhood, I began to experience moments that were difficult to explain—intense feelings and sudden visions of things not physically present. Fear would often surge through me as I prepared for sleep, faces appearing in the dark, invisible presences gathering near my bed. I’d hide under the sheets, unsure of what was real. Among people, I felt no connection. Their behavior, their need for constant talking, and the surface-level interactions left me feeling even more isolated. I would look at my family and wonder if they were truly mine. Beyond physical resemblance, I felt no sense of belonging.
I spoke little—only what was necessary. And when I did feel the urge to express something real, I often couldn’t find the words. It wasn’t sadness or pain I felt inside—it was something vast and ancient, like a wind stirring just beneath my skin. By the age of twelve, deeper questions began to emerge: Who is moving me? Who is the one seeing? These questions came with no answers, and no one I could ask. I tried to blend in—at school, with friends, within the family system—but the more I tried, the more distant I became. I was fitting in, but never feeling like I truly belonged.
At 17, I left school to pursue a career in IT. It was 1997—Windows 95 was still running, and personal computers were just becoming common in households. After four years in the field, I began using heroin. Soon after, I left my job and found work in a textile factory, seeking something with no pressure or responsibility. That job sustained my drug habit for over 12 years.
During that time, I experienced several heroin overdoses—two of which led to police lockups, and one that nearly took my life. I recall the moment clearly: fading heartbeat, a collapsing body, and the overwhelming sense of merging into everything. I was close to death—what felt like a return to the “All without the Me.” But thanks to the quick action of a friend and medical staff, I survived. From that point forward, I wasn’t chasing a high anymore—I was chasing death itself.
In late 2012, I switched to intravenous cocaine. My condition deteriorated quickly. I needed a fix to eat, sleep, and function, yet nothing functioned. By June 2013, my addiction spiraled beyond control and landed me in prison. Ironically, it was there—at rock bottom—that I first felt a strange kind of freedom. No more pretense, no more constructed identity. I was stripped bare, facing myself fully.
My first night at Kordin Correctional Facility was spent in a cell with 24 others. I fell asleep peacefully for the first time in years, smiling. This was the midpoint of a long inner journey. The next day, after a routine exam, I was transferred to the Forensic Section of Mount Carmel Hospital. There, through a perspex window, I confessed everything to my devastated family: a grieving father, a broken brother, and a mother who couldn’t bear to show up. We began to rebuild from that moment.
I declined bail, choosing instead to face my sentence and myself. I lowered my methadone dosage, started journaling, reading, and moving my body. I lived among murderers, dealers, and outcasts—realizing I was no different. I, too, had done what I had to for a fix. This was when deep observation began: of others, and of myself.
After three months in prison, I entered rehab in October 2013. I began confronting the past, learning to forgive, and reconnecting with clarity. It was here that spirituality entered my life. After four months, I transitioned back into society with a job at an accounting firm, despite no experience. They taught me, and I was ready to learn. I continued attending NA meetings and kept working on myself.
Exactly a year later, the word "Ayahuasca" came into my awareness. I followed the call, not with fear, but with a deep sense that there were still unresolved blocks I hadn’t touched in rehab. That experience opened doors I won't describe here—it belongs to another chapter.
In 2015, I moved to Gozo. For the first time in my life, I lived alone—and broke. It was hard, but it taught me what insecurity really meant, and with it came valuable lessons. I worked various jobs—from factories to managing logistics—while slowly reconnecting with life, art, and spirit.
In March 2017, I self-published my first book: RANDOM – The Choices We Have Forgotten About. It combined poetry, journal entries, and reflections pulled directly from my recovery years. It sold 400 copies across Europe and led to speaking engagements, media features, and even a meeting with Malta’s former President, Her Excellency Marie Louise Coleiro Preca. When the second print sold out, I chose not to reprint. I had moved on. RANDOM held a part of me, but I no longer saw myself in it.
In 2018, I discovered photography. It helped me work through my social anxiety, letting me observe without being the center of attention. I took my camera everywhere—on travels, through Malta’s streets, and into festivals and collaborations. Over time, my eye evolved, and so did my style.
Then, in 2023, my life changed again. I met Bogdan Vladau, founder of The Circle of Light Retreats in Romania. I was invited to assist in his Ayahuasca retreats, offering my own blend of energy work and 5MEO-DMT facilitation. It was a powerful time of transformation. In May 2024, I took on AfterCare and Integration Support roles for the retreat community. But after some months, I parted ways with the project due to a deep misalignment in values.
Since then, my focus has turned inward again. I’ve invested in studying Taoist medicine, acupuncture, herbal healing, Reiki, and grid-work. In early 2025, I received my Master level certification in both Usui and Seichim Reiki.
This is where I am now—walking the path not to teach, but to share. To serve from lived experience.
If anything here speaks to you, you're welcome to reach out.
