A Day in the Life of an Ancestral Lineage Healer

Each morning begins in quiet reverence. I rise with the light and take a conscious, deep breath—as though welcoming life for the very first time, or releasing it for the last. That breath reminds me: I am alive. I am part of something greater. This life is precious. Sometimes, I sit with a candle and simply listen—not just with my ears, but with my body, my skin, my bones. In this quiet, liminal space, I feel the gentle presence of my ancestors—those who walked long before me, who whisper through the trees, whose blood still sings in mine.

I am a descendant of the Gauls, Belgae, Danes, Franks, Saxons, and Scythians. I come from northern France, from the land of the Atrebates. My lineage stretches back over a thousand years, and yet, for most of my life, I felt a hollow ache—a longing for something I couldn't name. Though surrounded by family, I felt strangely apart, as though some part of me had been severed. My roots, though deep, had grown tangled in soil altered by industrialisation, wars, and cultural amnesia. Something was missing, like a silent call echoing through generations.

For years, I sought to fill that void through ancestry research, psychogenealogy, and family constellations. Each path offered insights, yet none reached the marrow of what I was yearning for. It was only when I discovered the Ancestral Lineage Healing approach, developed by Daniel Foor, that something truly shifted. I encountered not just the names and stories, but the felt presence of the ones who remain vibrant and whole—those ancestors who exist beyond the wounds of family and history. They are loving, rooted, and wise. They remember who they are and know their place, their role, and their responsibility within the web of life. And through them, I began to remember too.

This work is not merely cognitive. It is relational, embodied, and ongoing. It’s not something I do; it lives in me. It moves through the way I walk in the forest, how I greet strangers, how I tend to grief, both personal and collective. It shapes the way I hold space—with deep reverence for trauma, culture, and soul. Ancestral healing, at its essence, is about restoring right relationship with our lineages, with ourselves, with each other, with the Earth.

Each day, I guide others on their own journeys of reconnection. Some come with grief, some with questions, some with a yearning they can’t yet name. Together, we enter a sacred process of reweaving what has been torn. Through ritual, attention, and trust in the unseen, we invite the ancient ones to step forward—those who are well in spirit, who remember the sacred, who help mend what has been broken.

I witness transformation daily. I witness tears, release, joy, gratitude and love. The ancestors act as protectors, companions, and guides—offering wisdom that transcends time and wounds. No one is left behind. No lineage is too troubled to heal. This work is not about bypassing pain but about including all of it, lovingly, in a larger field of remembering.

Ancestral healing reminds us that we are not alone. We are the living faces of those who came before. Their hopes pulse in our veins. Their wisdom lives in our dreams. And when we tend to our lineages, we also tend to the Earth, for they are one and the same.

Every person I work with brings something beautifully unique. Diversity is not something to be overcome—it is the soul of life. Our stories, our cultures, our wounds, and our gifts all matter. In honouring them, we restore something essential.

This is my path. Not a job, but a devotion. A sacred remembering. And it is an immense privilege to walk alongside others as they remember, too.