I'm Rebecca. I'm a Relationship Intuitive and Forum Facilitator, and repair is the word that holds everything I do together.

I work with people who have done the work. Read the books, been to therapy, understand themselves well. And something still won't shift. The problem was never intellectual. It's relational. It needs to be felt, witnessed, and moved.

It's relational. 

It needs to be felt, witnessed, and moved, not just understood. It resolves not only by sitting with yourself, fully, but by doing so in the presence of others, there to anchor this moment as something having happened, in the same way the notary is the legal witness that makes a document valid in the eyes of the law, or not.

That's where I come in.

My great-grandparents fled Eastern European pogroms, starting fresh and from nothing in a new country with a new language and a new culture. My mother left Brazil at 19, landed in New York with only a place to maybe stay, and built a life. At 36, she moved to Geneva. I was six and a half, and our first day in Switzerland is imprinted in my mind—the new landscape, the cow pastures, the strangeness of French words on my tongue, the foreignness of this new place that was supposed to be 'home' now.

I grew up between worlds. Never fully American, never fully Swiss, always translating and code switching and making social faux pas that were taught to me with harsh criticism. I explored languages and emotional realities. I had to learn what people said, and everything they didn't. What they meant. What they were too afraid to say at all.

That skill didn't come from training. It came from survival.

Home was complicated. My stepfather was sick for eight of the ten years I lived with him—his illness permeating the air of our apartment, a background presence that shaped everything, especially after his diagnosis when I was 13. My mom was overwhelmed. My dad was on the other side of an ocean with a family of his own, his anger over the divorce bleeding through our rare contact. I was left to figure out a lot on my own.

I spent hours outside, gravitating toward neighbors, teachers, other families—learning how to read rooms, how to earn belonging, how to exist in spaces that weren't quite built for me. I made friends across cultural and socioeconomic boundaries. I hung out with mentors of all ages and creeds, finding guidance in quiet moments where an elder's wisdom could break through to me, when I felt most like myself.

I entered middle school unable to meet people's eyes after four years of bullying. My stepfather went into the hospital for a routine checkup the year I started high school and never came out. Nine days later, he was gone. Three weeks after that, my finals started. Life kept moving while my inner world crumbled.

That's the foundation. That's where it starts.

What I learned by living it

I spent 17 years trying to repair my relationship with my dad, even as the rest of the story continued to unfold.

Circular conversations. Attempts at honesty met with: "you're the problem." The memory of being 16, standing in his doorframe watching his family together, and feeling him walk right up to me, and shut the door in my face. Trying again at 18. At 19. At 23. At 30.

What those 17 years taught me isn't a framework. It's a felt distinction I now carry into every session:

The difference between can't yet and won't ever.

Some people are still becoming who they need to be to meet you. Some have made a choice—conscious or not—to stay exactly where they are. Knowing the difference changes everything about how you move forward.

With my mother, the story went differently. 

I confronted her at 21, with all the tact of someone just learning how to advocate for herself. It took hours. It took years. It took her being willing to acknowledge—not to be perfect, but to stay in the work. We're still doing this work together.

My father and I are not. And I've had to grieve that; the father I had, the father I needed, the relationship that never became what either of us deserved. I still carry that grief. It costs me less than staying did.

This is why repair is at the center of everything I do. It requires one specific thing: the willingness to acknowledge. Knowing what that means changes how you see every relationship in your life.

I grew up raised by parents (and step-parents) immersed in Gurdjieff's 4th Way; self-observation, pattern recognition, and seeing through unconscious behavior were the water I swam in before I had words for what I was doing. I learned mediation at 13. I spent years as a camp counselor trained in nonviolent communication, learning how to sit with conflict, how to repair after misunderstanding, how to hold space for people who were still figuring out how to say what they meant.

Living it made me a practitioner.

When I found Forum practice—the kind of witnessed, experiential work I now facilitate—it felt like every other real recognition in my life has felt: like coming home. Like: oh. This is the thing. This is what I actually do.

The title Relationship Intuitive fits the same way. What my lived experience prepared me for. I intuit the path forward in relationship—the place where the real tension lives, the emotion underneath the emotion, what you're holding that's keeping you stuck. I work with that directly.

The intuitive part is real. It's present in every session—in what I notice, what I name, what I sense before it's been spoken. You don't have to believe in anything to feel the difference it makes.

Before I understood repair, and before I trusted my intuition, I had to learn grace.

Grace as a practical tool...and yes, it lives in the spiritual too. The moment I realized I want to practice piano and I need to practice piano are not the same sentence, and that one of them carries weight I was never meant to hold alone. The moment I was sitting in a small room in New York, three days into a depressive spiral, craving a cigarette, and realized that the gesture relieves but doesn't help—and found my way out through gratitude instead.

Grace is the gentler version of equanimity. It's the pragmatic acknowledgement that you're human, that you feel this way, that the feeling is part of the cycle and not the end of it. It's what makes the repair survivable. It's what I bring into the container when someone is hardest on themselves.

You feel some type of way. And you can give yourself grace for feeling it. So you can live inside the experience—and then move through it.

That's the hardest and most important work there is.

What's possible

Repair is repairing the bridge between you and yourself.

Everything else follows from that—the relationship with a partner, a parent, a creative project, a version of yourself you left behind somewhere. My job is to shift how you're holding what happened. When that moves, everything else can move too. 

One conversation can be enough to start.