I’ve always said that, for as long as I can remember, books seek me out—and find me. But not just any book, only the ones that I need.

When I was in my fifth grade, I discovered (or rather, was discovered by) a book about the unresolved mysteries of history, with a title that greatly intrigued me: “Memories of the Future”(originally Erinnerungen an die Zukunft). The most fascinating mystery to me was that of Rapa Nui, known as Easter Island. This Polynesian Island in the southeastern Pacific Ocean—one of the most remote islands on Earth—is renowned for its moai statues, which weigh between 4 and 80 tons and stand over 10 meters tall. Even today, it remains unclear how the Rapa Nui people managed to transport these massive statues over rough terrain, with no metal tools or draft animals. The seven moai at Ahu Akivi held another secret: unlike other moai that “watch over” villages, these are positioned to face the ocean. It appears they had an astronomical function, being aligned to face exactly the point on the horizon where the sun sets at the spring equinox, with their backs to the point where the sun rises at the autumn equinox. This remarkable alignment suggests the Rapa Nui civilization had advanced astronomical knowledge. Also on Easter Island, several wooden tablets were found, inscribed with a writing system called Rongorongo, which remains undeciphered to this day. I remember wondering how such precious knowledge was lost over time, and when did we began labeling them as “mysteries.”

No One Is Forgotten. Just as enigmatic was the moment and swiftness with which my father’s Alzheimer’s set in. I firmly believed that his illness was the consequence of not using any of the gifts he had been given. His greatest gift, his beautiful mind, became overnight his own prison. My childhood alongside a man like my father wasn’t easy at all, but I wouldn’t be the person I am today if he hadn’t recited Esenin, Stănescu, or Minulescu to me; if he hadn’t taught me to see beyond the apparent meaning of words; if we hadn’t listened together to Queen’s albums or the three great tenors.

Three months later, his older brother, seven years his senior, was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease—also a neurodegenerative disorder, also accompanied by dementia. “Strange” doesn’t begin to cover it. How was it possible for both brothers to develop memory-loss diseases just three months apart?

After my first family constellation session, I sought to make sense of that experience. I started with books on IFS—Internal Family Systems Therapy—and the first book I read on the subject felt like it was following me:
“It Didn’t Start With You” by Mark Wolynn. I saw it everywhere: in the subway, in the hands of a sleeping woman on a plane, at the Bookster stand at work, on my colleagues’ desks, in the ENT doctor’s office. “I saw this book at your place. Have you read it? Have you done the exercises?” I couldn’t understand how someone who had read the book could say they didn’t know what to work on in therapy or in the family constellation.
Later—or maybe at the right time—I realized: if you’re not ready to face your truth, you won’t find the inner motivation to dig into your past. And no matter how hard I tried to “preach” what I had discovered through that book, I learned that free will exists. And sometimes free will asks: “Are the biscuits soft enough?” Other times, the ones you least expect to understand—do.
My only duty was to recommend the book. The rest was in the hands and minds of the readers—and of course, in the hands of the Universe. It was no coincidence, for example, that a childhood friend of mine received a different book altogether.

Long before the moment I now call T0, the Universe had already been preparing and spoon-feeding me. I had already read everything by Gabor Maté—his case studies were the foundation upon which I layered all my spiritual and esoteric learning.
I confess, I would never have believed a single word from Bert Hellinger, Mark Wolynn, Denise Linn, or Bruno Clavier, had it not been for my father’s suffering and my experience in that first constellation. Nothing made sense, and yet everything made sense.

When I drafted my genogram, I felt like I had stepped into a realm where not only the broken bones in your legs vibrate, but everything vibrates. A genogram, for those who don’t know, is a genealogical tree that includes the traumas and deaths of our ancestors. It’s been proven that severe psychological trauma can cause epigenetic changes—without altering the DNA sequence itself. These changes can be passed from parent to child, meaning that future generations may feel the effects of ancestral trauma without ever experiencing it directly. And wouldn’t you know it—traumatic patterns are passed down in a transgenerational manner!

Most people get stuck at the genogram stage: “There’s no one left from my grandmother’s side,”“My mom would never tell me about her abortions,”“What do I have to do with my dad’s grandfather?” The list of such questions is endless. From my own experience, I’d say: if you truly want to know, the answers will come from unexpected places, and key people will appear, ready to share their truth.

I armed myself with patience. I asked my mom to call every living relative to learn the major life events of our family line. I searched every corner of my childhood home hoping to find additional clues. Perhaps the strangest clue was a small scrap of paper in an old journal, on which I had written down two dates from the summer of 2004—the dates of two blackout episodes, each lasting 10–15 minutes. In the journal, I found some records about the first incident:
I was with my best friend, Andreea, on our way to visit a high school classmate. Apparently, I was looking at myself in the tinted windows of a car (trying to tame my curls), and after that, I remembered nothing—except Andreea’s scared expression as I started asking strange questions: “Where are we?”, “Where are we going?”, “Does my dad know I’m here?”. Just like the trauma related to my broken leg—I had completely forgotten this event.

Nothing goes unlived. The questions we ask about history and family trauma are far more important than our genetic inheritance. There is a so-called core language (even a core grievance or core sentence) that gives clues to our unresolved core trauma.
And the clearer the questions, the closer the answers are to the truth.
It’s really a merging of intent and clarity.

Who was forgotten? Who did the forgetting? It didn’t start with my father or even with his older brother. I found out that the eldest brother of my paternal grandfather, Sandu, had died in an asylum, and according to my uncles, from a similar illness. My father forgot—so that Sandu wouldn’t be forgotten. There was also a symmetry of names in the genogram—some names kept repeating. All of my mother’s sisters—including my mom—had married men named Marin. And all of them, in one way or another, had lost their respective Marin.
I imagine many of you reading this are ready to retaliate with socio-demographic statistics.
Patience, please!

What child died? My deepest fear (my core sentence) was the fear of losing a child.
I shared the second name Ioana with my maternal grandmother. Through the genogram, I learned that my grandmother lost her mother at a young age, and shortly afterward, her brother Marin died in a freak accident—he hit his head. After his death, her father decided to put her up for adoption with some relatives so he could rebuild his life. Essentially, my grandmother lost a child (her brother) and was left alone. No one is forgotten. That’s why it’s our responsibility to commemorate those who came before us. Nothing goes unlived, and that’s why it’s our duty to live our lives with meaning, and to transform the “nothing” into everything we’ve ever dreamed of.

The Last Question. In the summer of 2023, one of the guys on my team handed me a book and asked me to read its last two pages. I remember reading them quickly—and the final paragraph twice. Only afterwards I flipped the book over to see the title and author. It was “The Last Question” by Isaac Asimov.

“Wait, Marius—do you mean we were created by ChatGPT?” He smiled, pleased I’d caught the essence.
“Yeah. And now we’re somewhere in the middle of the loop.” What an ending! Could it be that this is how Darwin’s theory of evolution ended and began? And was this the Ultimate Question?

When I felt that things were finally coming into focus and making sense, the Universe rewarded me with another book: “Transgenerational Astrology” by Barbara Băcăuanu, which brought more questions, but also light into corners I didn’t even know existed. For example, I learned that my paternal grandparents (including my father) were born on the Capricorn–Cancer destiny axis, and my maternal grandparents (and mother) were all born under Virgo–Pisces. And, just like in genetics, I was born under the Virgo–Pisces axis on the 10th/4th house, corresponding exactly to the Capricorn–Cancer axis—interweaving the two ancestral lines I descend from.

Long before I knew that predictive astrology also studies the past, I enrolled in an astrology course. Long before I knew predictive astrology even existed, I had taken a pen and paper and written down the exact dates of those 2004 blackouts. Eighteen years later (or at the right time), I found that paper again. For some, it might have seemed like a bad omen, a sign of illness. But I told myself this: “It’s just a sign that Future Alina met 2004 Alina.” Future Alina had herself genetically tested. She now knows she carries the heterozygous ε3/ε4 allele. But Future Alina isn’t afraid—because she knows that Alina is now writing her story. And through you, all of you reading these words now I know this: My father won’t be forgotten. My grandmother won’t be forgotten. My grandmother’s brother won’t be forgotten. Alina won’t be forgotten. No one is forgotten.

Below is an excerpt from my journal, written in October 2022, after the first day of the first module in integrative psychotherapy training. That day brought many awakenings and a deep sense of experiencing the timelines all at once, hand in hand with my inner child and free spirit: It’s all about TIME. My wound is rooted in the PAST.
My new perspective on it anchors me in the PRESENT. And this uncomfortable, funky feeling—
is the beginning of healing, which tastes like the FUTURE. Exactly three years ago, I wrote this in my journal:

“They say life is about pain/suffering.
I believe it’s about healing.
Healing is a process far harder than enduring pain.
Healing means self-love and discipline.
Healing is all about patience and the stoicism with which we endure the itch between suffering and healing. Healing means blind faith in returning to your original self.
And finally—healing means accepting the pain that we will never be the same again.”