I'm Rebecca. I'm a Relationship Intuitive — 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. Not because they haven't tried hard enough — but because the problem was never intellectual. It's relational. It needs to be felt, witnessed, and moved, not just understood.

That's where I come in.

My great-grandparents fled Eastern European pogroms. My mother left Brazil at 19, landed in New York alone, learned English, built a life. At 36, she moved to Geneva. I moved with her when I was six and a half.

I grew up between worlds—never fully American, never fully Swiss, always translating. Not just languages, but emotional realities. What people said. 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 most of my childhood—his illness permeating the air of our apartment, a background presence that shaped everything. My mom was overwhelmed. My dad was on the other side of an ocean, 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 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.

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. Not because it always works. Because it requires something specific: a willingness to acknowledge, not a demand for an apology. And knowing what that something is changes how you see every relationship in your life.

I grew up 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.

None of that made me a practitioner. Living it did.

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. Not what I was trained to be, but 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. I don't lead with it, but 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.

Not grace as a spiritual concept — though it lives there too. Grace as a practical tool. 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 not soft. 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 isn't to fix what happened to you. It's to shift how you're holding it. When that moves, everything else can move too.

One conversation can be enough to start.