In the autumn of 2023, I enrolled in an integrative psychotherapy training. It was the best decision I’ve ever made. That moment became the cornerstone that would later redirect me toward another passion from the past: astrology.

During the “Psychodrama basic elements” module, we learned about archetypes and explored which storybook character others saw in us. I wasn’t all that surprised when one of my colleagues said I couldn’t possibly be a character from a fairytale and that she sees me more as the storyteller.

Each chosen character is rooted in an archetype. The Prince, the Beast, the King, Belle, Ariel, all the princesses of the universe—they each symbolize sons and daughters in conflict with the same-sex parent. “Alright,” I said, “that makes a lot sense.” But then I asked, “If daughters fight with their mothers, and sons fight their fathers… against whom does the storyteller fight?”

The most impactful moment came during a group session where one of my colleagues re-enacted a difficult real-life scenario, processed with the help of three archetypes: the Queen, the Dragon, and the Wiseman. Although I intended to stay a mere observer, avoiding eye contact and any potential nomination, I was chosen to play the Wise(wo)man. Her story mirrored mine in so many ways and I felt there was something deeply ironic about me playing the Wisewoman—when I was actually her. The reflections were so numerous and profound that tears came quickly. Have you ever seen a Wisewoman cry? Well, yes. This one did. How could she not?

I realized it’s easy to be wise for someone else. And that I was no longer mourning the ideal parent, but grieving in anticipation of his death. The good part was that my father’s illness had become the catalyst for my spiritual awakening. Everything I had projected onto him—all the broken promises, the pain, the disappointment—had been replaced with nostalgia, longing, and love. I was grieving for everything he did right, for his clumsy but sincere way of loving me (and God, he loved me so deeply!), for everything he was, for all that we are, for all I can be—with or without him.

On my way home, I cried, overwhelmed by the transformative power of a group setting. I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, but somehow, I ended up in a mall to buy shoes. I cried. They didn’t have my size, so I wandered into another mall. Cried there too. When I got home, I told my husband about what I’d experienced. Cried a little more. Later that evening, I cried again, this time on the phone with my mother.

“I didn’t have a good day,” I told my father, who hasn’t lost his humor due to Alzheimer’s.

“I don’t even remember what kind of day I had. Which one’s worse?” he replied, full of wisdom.

Before going to bed, I disassociated a bit, traveling back in time, two weeks earlier, when the seeds of a similar question were sown: it was a Saturday night. I had just finished reading Lisa Bourbeau’s famous book about the five soul wounds, when something inside me decided to stage the most deeply rooted wound within me: rejection.

I was gathering my thoughts while loading the dishwasher. What I didn’t know then was that a short exchange between my husband and our five-year-old son was about to leave me in tears for hours.

He barely managed to say, “Tudor, it’s time to turn off the TV!” when both their reflections appeared in the now-dark screen. Caught off guard, our little boy exploded into a full-blown tantrum. “That’s not fair! Just five more minutes, please, Daddy!” Negotiations went on for a few more minutes, but to no avail. Unable to help him regulate his emotions, my husband told him to go play in his room. I held back from intervening, because I understood both sides: On one hand, after 40 well-earned minutes of cartoons, it was indeed time to turn off the TV. On the other hand, I empathized with the child being abruptly pulled away from a joyful activity, with no warning and no say.

The adult’s shouting and the child’s desperate crying launched me into a reverie-disassociation where I suddenly understood the message from the Universe: both were projections of my wound of injustice.

Trying to make my son’s exile more bearable, I showed him a tiny magnetic chessboard. He was instantly drawn to the compatibility and magnetism between certain pieces, and he started testing them one by one—seeing if the queen and rook attracted, if the bishop and knight repelled. His tears hadn’t even dried yet when he turned to me with the most beautiful and profound question I’ve ever been asked:

“Why do kings repel each other, Mama?”

With tears in my eyes, I explained magnetism to him—opposite poles, like charges repel, unlike charges attract—but I knew the real message had landed. “Because they carry the same wound, my love. A wound that took root when they were too young to resist, when power and autonomy were abstract concepts. It’s been a long time, but if just one of them could remember why… they wouldn’t let the wound lead the war.”

“If they could remember the five roles in the chain of awareness—persecutor, victim, savior, observer, and creator—and that the first role (persecutor) is actually the lowest stage of spiritual evolution, they would be filled with compassion. If they could remember that acceptance comes from within and that justice comes in its own time, they would free themselves from the victim role.”

“If they remembered not to rob another of their lesson, that there is divine timing for everything, they would choose to become the observer. And if one of the kings remembered—how would their lives look like? A dance with Divinity, where each king would swing between the observer and the creator. When the King would want to explore something new, he would step into the creator. When he would want to be surprised by life, or to believe in life again, he would rest in the observer.”

“I need inspiration,” the King would say. “I need expansion,” Divinity would answer. “I need to be held,” the King would whisper. “I need to discover myself,” Divinity would reply.“I need to be,” they would say in unison.

Our kingdom was a more worn-down kingdom, but infinitely richer. A kingdom of three kings, all carrying the same wound. Sometimes we forget why we repel each other; other times, we remember we are more than our wound—and we allow ourselves to just be. Often, it takes just one answer to respond to two questions:

“Against whom does the storyteller fight, professor?”

“A good question, Alina. That depends on the storyteller.”

Well, this particular storyteller seems to be fighting a block. You might call it a writer’s block, because in a similar way, this storyteller is wrestling with herself and the rewriting of her own story. She’s fighting injustice, self-rejection, control. She steps through every role in turn. She fights time. She fights—until she remembers she has no reason to fight.

She fights until the fight turns into healing.