I'll take you to the beginning...

I was born on a cold January morning in 1988, in a small town in the Czech Republic. A country still shaking off the weight of communism. Everything around me was structured, practical, heavy with expectations. From the very beginning, I felt like I didn’t belong. I asked too many questions. I felt too much. I never understood why we were expected to sit quietly, memorize facts, and not wonder too loudly about the world.

I always sensed there was more.

I didn’t know it then, but my soul was already whispering: you weren’t born to obey. You were born to remember.

At nineteen, I became a mother.

Most people saw it as a mistake. But it was the most sacred initiation of my life.

My daughter Michaela arrived and turned everything I thought I knew inside out. She gave my life purpose, depth, clarity. And a reason to return to myself.

Years later, when my son Dominik was born, he brought fire. He didn’t let me forget who I was or why I came here. Through him, I started questioning the systems I had once surrendered to. Especially the ones we call “normal.” Education. Parenting. Self-sacrifice. He mirrored the pieces of myself I hadn’t yet dared to meet. And I started listening.

In 2020, our family moved to Italy. Surrounded by nature, mountains, and new rhythm, something in me softened. And then Neli came, born in August, under the stillness of a global pause. Her presence brought with it a deeper awakening. It was after Neli that I really began to explore yoga. Not as a trend, but as a lifeline. I began to learn about energy, crystals, the chakra system, and the body as a sacred instrument. I started to remember ancient things I’d never been taught. Truths that lived in my bones, not my books.

Then, in 2022, we traveled to Costa Rica. We had seen La Ecovilla in a documentary, and we went to see it in person. But the thing that struck me wasn’t a place. It was the land. The jungle. The rivers. The air. There was something ancient and alive there. Something my nervous system recognized before my mind did. It wasn’t logical. But it was undeniable. I felt seen by something much older than me. And I knew I had touched something I would never be able to forget.

And then came Isabella. In 2024, she was born into my arms, wide-eyed and luminous. And in the quiet, postpartum nights, as I held her against my chest and stared into the dark, Costa Rica came back. Not as a memory, but as a call. That’s when I knew: It was time.

Time to stop dreaming about the life I longed for and start living it. Time to choose a way of being that matched the rhythm of my soul.

‍

So I began...

I didn’t have it all figured out. I still don’t. But I had the only thing I needed: clarity in my heart and the courage to follow it. And from that clarity came Pura Maracuya. It’s not a brand. It’s not a business plan. It’s a living, breathing space where truth is safe, softness is power, and every soul is welcome. Not just women. Not just seekers. Not just mothers.

Everyone who longs to come home to themselves.

I’m not here to guide from above. I’m walking this road with you, learning, forgetting, remembering again. I’m the woman who cracked open through motherhood, heartbreak, awakening, stillness, chaos, and chose to build something beautiful from it all.

So this is me.

And this is Pura Maracuya.

Not perfect. Not polished. But honest, alive, and real. Not perfect. Not polished. But honest, alive, and real. If you’ve read this far, maybe something in you recognizes something in me. And maybe that means you’re ready too. To soften. To listen. To come home.

With all my love,

Michaela

‍

‍

‍

Yes as a ticket to belonging:

There was a time in my life when I said yes far too often.

Yes to things I didn’t want to do. Yes to conversations that drained me. Yes to people who didn’t really see me. Yes to being available, even when I was deeply tired.

I thought that saying yes made me kind. That it meant I was loving, spiritual, generous. I was afraid that saying no would make me selfish. Harsh. Less of a good woman, a good mother, a good friend. But what I didn’t realise was that every time I said yes when I meant no, I was abandoning myself. Slowly. Quietly. Almost invisibly.

It started in the body. My breath became shallow. My jaw clenched when I smiled. My heart beat faster in rooms where I couldn’t be honest. I told myself this was just motherhood. Just being busy. Just being strong.

But the truth was, I was tired. Not just tired in my bones, tired in my soul. Tired of shrinking. Tired of holding back my truth to protect everyone else’s comfort.

The first time I said no and meant it, I felt like I had broken something.

I sat with tears in my eyes, guilt in my throat, and that little girl inside me asking, “Are we allowed to do that?” But something shifted. Something opened. And the second time I said no, it felt a little more like freedom.

What surprised me most was this: the people who truly love me didn’t leave.

They respected me more. And I began to respect myself. No became a sacred word. A word with weight and warmth. It didn’t mean rejection. It meant redirection. It meant: I am honouring myself now, too.

When I say no now, it doesn’t come from anger.It comes from clarity. No, I can’t do that today -I need rest. No, that doesn’t feel aligned right now. No, thank you, I’m choosing something slower, something softer.

And that no… it opens space.

For breath. For peace. For the kind of yes that comes from truth, not pressure. I started saying yes to different things.

Yes to mornings without alarms. Yes to work that feels like service, not sacrifice. Yes to honest conversations and friendships that go both ways. Yes to play with my children that isn’t squeezed between tasks, but lived fully. Yes to rest, without guilt.

In all of this, I’ve come to understand that saying no is not about creating distance. It’s about creating depth.

‍

You don’t need to explain your no. You don’t need to defend your boundaries to be worthy of having them. You don’t need to sacrifice yourself to be good.

You are not here to be endlessly useful. You are here to be real. To be whole. To be at home in your body, in your days, in your heart.

If you’re learning to say no too - even shakily, even in whispers...

Know that you are not closing the door to love.

You are making space for the kind of love that doesn’t require self-abandonment. And that, to me, is the most sacred yes of all.

With tenderness,

Michaela

‍

Living in Costa Rica and why I finally remembered how to breathe.

I didn’t move to Costa Rica to heal. I didn’t know yet that I even needed to. On the outside, my life looked beautiful: a loving family, children who filled my days with purpose, a business growing between naps and nights.

But my body told a different story. It flinched at sudden noises. It couldn’t find stillness in silence. It lived in a constant low hum of urgency, like something might fall apart if I dared to rest.

At the time, I called it motherhood. Now I know it was survival. And my nervous system was holding the cost.

‍

I didn’t know I was holding my breath… until I wasn’t.

The first time I landed in Costa Rica, something shifted before I even stepped off the plane. The air wrapped around me like a balm - thick, warm, unapologetically alive. The jungle didn’t ask me to hurry. The river didn’t care about my to-do list. Nothing in nature expected me to be anything other than… present.

It was the first time in years I felt my shoulders drop without effort. The first time I slept deeply without needing to earn it.The first time my body sighed without guilt.

The jungle doesn’t heal you. It reminds you.

There’s something about Costa Rica that doesn’t perform wellness -it embodies it. You don’t need retreats or rituals to feel it. You just need to sit still long enough for the Earth to speak. The wind through the trees is louder than your thoughts. The sunrise is too sacred to scroll through. The rain doesn’t ask permission to interrupt your plans, it just comes. And in that surrender… you start remembering your original rhythm. Not the one shaped by alarm clocks and expectations. The one shaped by breath, blood, and belonging.

‍

It’s not that the chaos disappeared. It’s that my center returned.

Moving to Costa Rica didn’t erase my stress. It didn’t stop the kids from yelling or the dishes from piling or life from being life. But it did something more powerful: It brought me back into my body.

Now, when I wake up to birds and not sirens, I remember what mornings are supposed to feel like. Now, when I walk barefoot through wet grass, I remember what it’s like to feel supported. Now, when I cry, I let the jungle hold me instead of hiding in shame.

Nervous system healing isn’t a luxury. It’s a revolution.

I used to think rest was a reward.

Now I know it’s a requirement — especially for women, especially for mothers, especially for anyone holding more than their share of invisible weight. What Costa Rica taught me is that healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like doing less. Sometimes it sounds like saying no. Sometimes it feels like lying on the earth and letting her recalibrate everything you forgot how to carry.

Not everyone needs to move to the jungle to find their breath again. But we do all need to be reminded that our bodies are not machines. They’re wise, tender, living things — and they respond to how we live, not just what we say. Costa Rica didn’t fix me. It just held up a mirror. And in that reflection, I found the version of me I hadn’t seen in years: the one who breathes deeply, moves slowly, and trusts her own pace.

And that changed everything.

With love,

Michaela

‍

‍

‍

‍

‍

‍