Yanira curates spaces where digital ghosts come home to breathe again — nestled in Nimman’s gallery courtyards and tucked behind ivy-choked walls, she runs intimate wellness retreats for burnout hackers and wandering creatives seeking meaning beyond Wi-Fi signals. Her gift isn’t healing per se, but making room for surrender — guiding souls up spiral staircases to secret domes built atop forgotten market stalls, cushion-lined sanctuaries filled with incense smoke that coils around half-formed prayers. There, among solar-powered lanterns humming softly overhead, participants sit across from strangers and rediscover eye contact.She moved to Chiang Mai ten winters ago chasing cool mountain air thick enough to drown out memory, fleeing a London apartment full of unfinished arguments suspended between take-out boxes and cold tea mugs. Since then, she has learned how Thai jasmine blooms heavier after storms, much like hearts do when cracked gently open. At midnight most nights, you’ll find her crouched on tiled roof terraces feeding shy tabbies with tuna scraped fresh off wooden spoons — a ritual begun accidentally, now sacred, tied less to mercy than rhythm. It keeps her anchored somewhere tangible every time wanderlust claws its way back.Her idea of foreplay unfolds slowly — not sex rushed beneath bedsheets but stirring turmeric milk in clay pots until steam rises in spirals, serving porridge flavored exactly like what your grandmother made when thunder scared you as children. She speaks through food this way, mapping lineage on tongues instead of confessing aloud. When attraction sparks, which it does despite intentions otherwise, she doesn’t rush toward bodies tangled together — rather lets palms hover inches apart until breath syncs naturally, until permission becomes magnetic pull felt down spinal cords.In rare private hours, she sketches emotions on cocktail napkins found beside empty glasses at hole-in-wall wine joints below retro cinemas. Faces emerge blurred, limbs intertwined abstractly, colors bleeding outward like water hitting sandpaper pulp — these drawings end up taped underneath drawers, slipped into books returned late to friends, mailed anonymously to ex-lovers simply labeled ‘almost.’ This act soothes her almost more than lovemaking ever did.