I'm a curious person, and for a long time I believed that was a virtue. Now I'm starting to doubt it.

Not because curiosity is bad, but because I let myself be persuaded. They say, "Shall we go?" And I say, "Let's go." Without asking too many questions. Without examining the emotional contract.

I've tried everything.

I've had astrological charts since before I knew what to do with them (my natal chart is in Placidus, with an ascendant I never quite remember). I've done past-life regressions and learned with considerable accuracy that I was a nomadic shepherdess in the Himalayas, Marie Antoinette's maid just before she was beheaded, and more recently, a Moulin Rouge dancer who met great painters, especially that poor, adorable little man, Toulouse-Lautrec.

They told me all this with enormous seriousness. And I listened respectfully. Attentively. With that neutral expression one adopts when one doesn't want to be rude to the universe.

I was never an accountant. Or a librarian. Or someone who led a quiet life. I was always someone interesting. Intense. Tragic. Artistic. International.

My past lives, taken together, had a grueling schedule. It's no wonder I'm tired in this life.

In the middle of all this, contemporary wellness emerged, operating like an all-you-can-eat buffet. A little meditation to lower anxiety (guided mindfulness, intermediate level). A little yoga because it's trendy and my friends go (Vinyasa Flow, sometimes Ashtanga, depending on the day). A little gin… sorry, gym, and the trendy exercise, the kind that involves jumping around like a kangaroo while someone yells “Let's go!” from a Bluetooth speaker playing a motivational playlist.

But it's not enough.

So we added Reiki (Level I, gentle channeling, Usui lineage). Because someone said my energy was blocked. Then came family constellations, where I discovered that perhaps the problem wasn't mine, but my grandmother's. Or my grandmother's mother's. Or some great-aunt I never met, but who had clearly left unfinished business in the morphogenetic field.

The Akashic Records also appeared, which have always amused me in a particular way, because nobody seems to know exactly what they are, but everyone talks about them with admirable certainty.

It was a relief. It wasn't me. It was the lineage.

At some point, I began to feel like I was dreaming. I dreamt I was floating on a cloud while someone shouted at me that, based on my body constitution, I was either Vata… or Pitta. I don't remember exactly which, because while they were explaining the Vedic astrological charts to me, I kept falling asleep. Literally. My eyes were closing.

Obviously, I was dreaming it. Or so I thought.

Just two months ago I returned from a retreat in Chiang Mai. We meditated in a Buddhist temple with my best friend. I came back floating. Convinced I had found something. A truth. A lasting peace.

That happiness lasted me approximately… until last week.

And that's when I understood something essential: it's not that these practices don't work. Many do. Others are entertaining. Some are good for spending a Saturday night together.

The problem arises when we make the mix and start shaking it hard, hoping that life, once and for all, will start turning. As if by shaking it enough, the rhythm, the meaning, the background music of our favorite film will appear.

Perhaps it's because, deep down, we feel a little unhappy, like Bridget Jones, but with the calm and somewhat optimistic certainty of overflowing with charisma.

A little of this. A little of that. All mixed together. All shaken up.

That is The Shakerada Life.

Maybe we don't live surrounded by Shakespearean souls, maybe I'm the only Shakespearean one.

A curiosity that knows when to stop. A sincere quest that confuses movement with depth.

And yet…

But in the end, I must confess something. Against all odds, I stopped beating. I stopped turning.

It seems I've found something. I'm not going to say anything more.

Within nine months, I promise to tell you.