About Alba

Hi, I’m Alba.

I was born and raised in Galicia, Spain — a place famously associated with meigas, or witches. Coincidence? I’ll let you decide.

For most of my adult life, I lived in two rather different worlds.

In 2011, I left Spain to do a PhD as a Marie Curie researcher, and over the years I lived and worked across the US, the UK and Germany. I speak six languages. I spent years in academia, then moved into the private sector.

On paper, it all made perfect sense.

I just didn’t.

At some point, I realised I had become very good at collecting identities: researcher, academic, professional, successful person, sensible person. The list was getting rather impressive. I was just becoming less and less interested in being any of them.

So I quit. Everything.

At the end of 2018, I moved to Bali and spent two years simply being.

No title. No career plan. No credentials to lean on. Just me — which turned out to be considerably more interesting, and more uncomfortable, than I had anticipated.

And underneath all those identities was something I had always known about myself:

I could perceive things I couldn’t explain.

The gift runs in my family, on my mother’s side. My grandmother had it. Now me.

I had never exactly hidden it. I had simply left it out.

It didn’t fit neatly into academia. It didn’t fit particularly well into mainstream ideas of what is possible or normal. So I learned, like many people do, to separate the parts of myself that made sense from the parts that didn’t.

I did my PhD as a Marie Curie fellow.

I am also a psychic medium.

Neither of those cancels the other out.

Eventually, I stopped separating them.

My first readings had been in Berlin, years earlier. In Bali, I started offering them properly — quietly, by word of mouth and donation, during the same two years I’d meant to spend doing nothing at all.

What began small kept growing.

And this work has been part of my life ever since.

So, what actually happens?

I don’t see visions. I don’t hear a voice in my head. I don’t read auras or chakras, and I don’t have a particularly mystical vocabulary.

Things simply arrive. Sometimes as words. Sometimes as feelings, thoughts, sensations, memories or a sudden knowing.

I know them in my heart and in my bones.

My job is to pay attention — and then translate what comes through as clearly and honestly as I can.

There is a filter, and the filter is me: someone with access to the whole immensity of another person, deciding how much of it needs to be said.

I work in Spanish, English, German and other languages, depending on the person in front of me. Language matters to me. So does nuance. Perhaps that is partly the academic in me refusing to disappear completely.

Every person is a universe, and I enter it anew every time.

That’s why no two readings are the same.

If I had to describe the experience in one word, I’d call it a dance.

There are two people in the room, and I have to pay attention to the rhythm of the person I’m sitting with: when something lands, when it doesn’t, when to continue, when to pause, and when to stop.

There is no script. No set formula.

Just attention, perception, translation — and whatever comes through.

That is the work I do.

And after spending a rather long time trying to fit all the different parts of myself into separate boxes, I have finally decided they can all sit at the same table.