Let her take charge.

For a long time, I thought feminine energy was something fragile. Soft, quiet, maybe even a little naïve. And in the world I grew up in, none of that felt particularly safe.

So I did what many of us do:

I leaned into structure. Into logic. Into control. Into “getting things done.” I knew how to survive in a masculine world. But I didn’t know how to be held. I didn’t know how to surrender. And I certainly didn’t know how to let my feminine lead.

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That began to change the moment I started listening to my body. Really listening.Not pushing through fatigue. Not overriding my needs. But pausing long enough to hear the quiet: the ache, the hunger, the intuition, the pulse.

The feminine doesn’t scream. She whispers.

She waits. She pulls you back, not because she’s passive, but because she wants you to receive. To open. To soften into who you really are. I began remembering her through movement. Through breath. Through moments of stillness with my children, when nothing was perfect but everything was holy. Through cacao ceremonies and moon rituals and crying in the shower. Through dance. Through silence. Through pleasure.

Through saying no.

And what I realised is that the feminine isn’t weak.

She’s wild. She’s deep. She’s terrifyingly honest. And when she leads, things don’t fall apart. They fall into place.

Letting her lead doesn’t mean rejecting the masculine.It means inviting balance. Letting structure serve softness. Letting action follow intuition. Letting rhythm rise from rest.

I began trusting her when I stopped trying to prove. Stopped trying to perform. Stopped pretending I wasn’t tired. And the more I trusted her… the more life began to open. My motherhood softened. My work became richer, slower, more aligned. My relationships shifted. Some left. Some deepened. All became more honest.

I’m still learning how to let her lead.

It’s not always easy. But it’s always true. She lives in every woman. Every man. Every child. She’s the part of us that feels. The part that knows without logic. The part that moves with the moon and cries during music and whispers, “You already are enough.”

If you’ve forgotten her, she’s not mad. She’s just waiting. Patiently. Lovingly. With arms wide open.

And when you let her take one small step forward… everything begins to change.

With love,

Michaela

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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.

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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

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I used to believe real mothers were made of calm smiles and flawless routines...

women who could fold laundry while whispering affirmations, who never raised their voices, who glowed in every family photo.

Then I became one.

The myth that cracked soon.

At my nineteen, I held my first daughter and realised the story was already broken.

There was milk on my shirt, fear in my chest, thunder in my love. Perfection shattered before it could even land, and something truer slipped through the cracks: a love ferocious enough to survive chaos. Motherhood, it turns out, is not porcelain. It’s volcanic ash and wildflowers growing through pavement. It’s the ache in your spine at 3 a.m. and the giggle that follows five minutes later, reminding you why you stayed awake in the first place.

Mess as initiation.

With each child, Michaela, Dominik, Neli, and tiny Isabella, my definition of “sacred” stretched wider:

• Sacred is the moment you choose to breathe instead of scream, even though cereal is covering the floor and your inbox is on fire.

• Sacred is letting them see you cry, teaching that tears are teachers, not flaws.

• Sacred is saying “I’m sorry” to a six-year-old because you snapped, and watching forgiveness bloom faster than shame.

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The mess isn’t a detour on the spiritual path. It is the path, a proof that divinity lives in dirty dishes, mismatched socks, and the wobble between exhaustion and euphoria.

Losing... and finding myself.

I won’t pretend I’ve never lost myself.

There were seasons when I played martyr, stacking everyone’s needs above my own until my body whispered enough through migraines and hollow eyes. Healing began the first day I rolled a yoga mat onto a toy-strewn floor and chose five minutes of breath over five more minutes of self-neglect. It continued when I let cacao ceremonies replace gossip, when I swapped punishment charts for moon cycles, and when I placed a crystal on my nightstand. Not for aesthetics, but to remind me that energy matters more than appearances.

What my children really need:

They don’t need a spotless house or a mother who never breaks but...

• Presence more than presents.

• An adult willing to apologise, modeling repair over repression.

• A witness to their wonder, someone who sees the universe in their mud pies and monster drawings.

• Her own joy, because kids trust happiness they can smell, not lectures they can recite.

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When I honour those needs, they gift me something back: permission to be wildly, imperfectly human.

An invitation for you

If your motherhood looks nothing like the magazines... welcome to the sisterhood of the sacred mess.‍

Hold your child tonight and let the chaos be holy. Let the dishes wait while you dance barefoot to one song. Let your body rest before your to-do list does. And when shame whispers you’re failing, answer with a laugh: “We’re making art, not replicas.”

Because every sticky fingerprint on the window is a signature of life. Every weary sigh is a prayer in disguise. And every time your heart breaks open, you widen the circle of love big enough to hold you all.

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With love,

Michaela

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