I have this strange experience: whenever I’m around soldiers, they seem extremely tense. Any soldier or army officer I meet usually leaves after just a brief conversation. It feels like an energy between us is colliding, exchanging, and shifting. I don’t want to say that I am peace and they are war, and therefore we are in conflict. It’s more that they somehow sense I’m not the person to talk to about certain things — so they leave.

This started happening shortly after I did a healing session with a veteran, and then more people like him began coming to see me. These are different kinds of soldiers — soldiers who understand that their soul never wanted to fight anyone in the first place. They ask for help, and so I help them. Here’s a truth. My truth—not necessarily yours, not necessarily anyone else’s. But it’s the one they don’t tell you in the army.

When you pull that trigger, you’re not just killing a soldier. You’re killing a son. You’re killing a father. A brother. A husband. But deeper than that—you’re killing someone else’s dream. And all those clean, shiny phrases about protecting your country, about honor and duty, get flushed down the first heavenly toilet the moment you stand face to face with what you’ve actually done. The fantasy dies. Only the truth remains.

And the tragedy is, most people can’t handle the truth. Lies soothe them faster. They wrap themselves in flags and speeches because it’s easier than staring into the eyes of the life they ended. My work isn’t about making it easy. It’s about handing you the truth—raw, direct—and giving you the strength to finally face it.

The man who came to me was at a crossroads. The real kind. Diagnosed with severe PTSD. The kind where one path leads forward and the other leads to an end. He’d been walking a dark road for over a decade. A veteran. His eyes told the whole story: he was tired of carrying the weight. He was on the edge, and he knew it. In his world, stories like his often end in silence. In suicide.

For more than ten years, he’d been in continuous psychotherapy. It gave him tools. A manual for his pain. He learned how to ease it, how to manage the symptoms. How to put a band-aid on a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. Management is what the modern world offers. It’s not healing. True healing isn’t about learning to live with the wound. It’s about finding why the wound is still bleeding.

We talked. I asked him about his role in the army.

“I was a sniper,” he said.

I asked him directly, “How many people did you kill?”

He hesitated. He didn’t like the word killing. He gave me a smirk. I could sense his mind’s defense mechanisms screaming that he was in danger here. Then he gave me a vague number — the kind you give to officials.

I laughed. A soft laugh. Not to mock him, but because I knew. I knew that number was a shield. I told him, “That’s not the real number. The number you tell yourself to sleep at night. Tell me the number you see when you close your eyes.”

And he broke. He admitted it. The real count.

Let’s be clear about war. War is never a nice thing. It’s always ugly. It has nothing to do with the beauty of life. The people who create wars, the ones who give the orders, they usually never pick up a weapon and go to the battlefield. They sit on their asses, watching the live streams from a safe distance. It’s a simple archetype: there are villains and there are those who get used. The villains start the wars. Never the heroes. The man sitting in front of me wasn't a villain. He was a man who got used, and the weight of those orders was crushing his soul.

I told him he needed three sessions. Just three. And by the last one, he would be healed.

The First Session: The Cleansing.

We started by washing away the toxic energies that had crusted around him. The thick sadness. The sharp, hidden anger. We cleared the space inside him, making room for something else.

The Second Session: The Forgiveness.

This was the big one. I called them. Every single soul he had sent away. I called their spirits from the other side. They came. One by one. They lined up. It was a long line.

We lit a candle for each one. A small flame for a life that was. But before he could ask for forgiveness, he had to understand what he was asking forgiveness for. For a minute, with each soul, he felt it. He felt the energy of the man he killed. Flashbacks of memories—not his own, but theirs. How it felt in that final moment. A short movie of a life ending, the kind you will never see in Hollywood. Only here. The raw, unfiltered pieces of hell.

He had to go through that hell. It is the most important part. Realization. True accountability for his own action. This is not punishment. This is grace. As a matter of fact, every living being goes through this process after they die; it is how souls understand and grow. By facing it now, in this life, he wouldn't need to go through this particular hell once his own soul journey in this realm ends. He was settling his karma.

Then, he spoke to each one. He said their prayers. He asked for forgiveness from a place that was now deep and true, because he finally understood the cost. It shook the room. Most of them heard him. They felt his regret, his raw pain. And they granted him their peace. Yes, we had a lot of candles to burn. The room glowed with it.

In mainstream psychology, they might call it retraumatization, but I knew he was a soldier. Strong bones and an even stronger heart. He could face it. But how many therapists really heal post-traumatic stress disorders, especially those related to war? War-related PTSD is rarely addressed in a way that brings true healing. The reality is, there’s little to no cure within mainstream mental health care. Science often gets lost in behavior processes, but it fails to acknowledge the deeper pain of the soul. The soul is simply ignored in mainstream psychotherapy textbooks. But in Romani healing, the soul is the epicenter of healing.

The Third Session: The Understanding.

We talked about what happened. I explained the process. How forgiveness isn’t about erasing the past, but about changing its weight. It’s alchemy. You turn lead into light.

And just like that, more or less magically, his symptoms disappeared. The nightmares stopped. He started sleeping through the night—a quiet, peaceful sleep. The sadness lifted. The anger dissolved. The depression was gone.

A few months later, he wrote me an email. He said, “You saved my life.”

But that’s not the truth. I didn’t save his life. All those souls who came back to help us, they saved him. Because when you ask for forgiveness with a true heart, you shall be forgiven. That’s the rule. A rule much older than any army regulation or therapy manual.

This is the big little magic of Romani soul healing. For some, it sounds too simple. Maybe even primitive. But this “primitiveness” is older than the history of science. It’s the wisdom of tribes, of my ancestors. It’s the wisdom of things between the earth and the sky. It continues, no matter what anyone thinks.

Most people mistake the illusion for reality, living upside down lives while treating the bandage as if it were the cure. My work goes deeper. I seek the source of the wound and close it for good, guided by an intuitive approach and a sacred connection to realms where kneeling before gods and prayers are no longer needed. Without that connection and the guidance of my Romani ancestors, my healing magic would not exist.

That was my truth on how to heal with peace. Not war.

Simple as that.