I was fifteen when my dad — my hero, my safe place — died suddenly of a heart attack. Just like that, my world collapsed. Childhood ended in an instant, and I was left with a gaping void I didn’t know how to fill. There was no preparation, no closure — just the silence he left behind. I numbed the pain with nicotine, alcohol, and long nights out. I abandoned my dream of becoming a doctor — I couldn’t face pain and suffering again.
For a while, I drowned in self-pity. And then — something shifted. I began reaching outward, volunteering with victims of drug abuse and children in residential homes. Slowly, I stopped letting the pain eat me from the inside — I started using it to serve others.
It didn’t erase the grief, but it gave it purpose.
The Universe, in its wild timing, nudged me back into studying while I was working as a clerk in a shipping company. At twenty, I found myself drawn to aromatherapy—my plan was to work in wellness, far from hospitals, just using beautiful oils to help people feel good.
But something bigger was waiting. At international conferences, I learned how essential oils were being used in hospitals, maternity wards, and care homes. One talk, describing aromatherapy efforts at Ground Zero after 9/11, shifted everything. I came home with a deep sense I was being called to more.
One week later, I was invited to visit the oncology hospital to offer aromatherapy. From my first visit, I never looked back. Soon I was coming in weekly, even daily—especially to the palliative care ward. I’ll never forget the first patient I accompanied through end of life. I wasn’t afraid. I felt strangely at peace.
My work caught the attention of the then President of Malta, who invited me to coordinate the National Cancer Platform and manage its support hub at the oncology hospital. I also became the resident complementary therapist, working with both inpatients and outpatients.
That season lasted seven beautiful, intense years. I stood close to life and death, day after day. It was a profound privilege—yet holding so much loss began to take its toll.
Still, from this sacred work, new opportunities came. My story began to travel. I became an international speaker—who would have thought? I lectured at Royal Marsden Hospital in Chelsea, Brighton, Minneapolis, the Philippines, Japan, Australia, and Canada. A small island girl from Malta, supported by mentors and colleagues who saw my fire and helped it shine. But behind the scenes, I was falling apart.
Tired. Depleted. Grieving. I had reached the peak of my career but was deeply disconnected from myself. I had to stop. I had to find me again.
I’d tried before—too much, too fast—and always gave up. This time, I chose softness, small rituals, and let the oils walk beside me.
Eventually, from all the pain, a new kind of devotion was born—one that blended purpose with tenderness. It led to AromaHub, a sanctuary I co-founded with my school friend Lorraine Spiteri. What began as a small idea grew into a sacred space for patients and carers, an extension of my heart and service.
Even while building AromaHub, I had to learn to choose myself. Slowly, I gathered a toolbox of healing practices—not for patients or presentations, but for me.
One of the most powerful shifts was choosing to let the oils walk with me. I stopped using them only for others and began weaving them into my own rituals—anointing myself before hospital visits, grounding with scents, massaging tired feet. These soft moments reminded me I was worthy of the same care I gave so freely.
Here are some of the tools that helped me return to myself: Swimming in the sea to calm the fire within—or, when that’s not possible, a daily Epsom salt bath to release and reset.
The 5 AM Club by Robin Sharma reshaped my mornings—an hour of movement, stillness, and intention before the world stirs. EMDR therapy and professional support helped me carry the weight of so many goodbyes.
Spiritual guidance and prayer keep me anchored. Writing lets me express both grief and grace. Letting go rituals, like planting something for each soul that passes, turn grief into quiet growth.
Removing what no longer serves me—people, habits, energy—has been essential.
Insight Timer gives me daily moments of stillness. My blue butterfly tattoo, on the hand I use to offer comfort, carries the memory of every soul I’ve touched, including my late father-in-law. It reminds me that letting go can also be an act of love.
Caring for the carer is survival.
Healing is never linear.
I’m still becoming. Still choosing to fly.
