Yvette Puchert Life Coach

Yvette Puchert Life Coach Helping women calm their nervous system, release limiting beliefs and reconnect with their true selves, through coaching, breathwork and Reiki. Yes!

I am a passionate transformational Life Purpose and REBT Life Coach and Reiki practitioner with a unique career trajectory. After working in marketing for several decades, I realised my true calling was to help people transform their lives and discover their life purpose. This realisation came after years of searching for my own sense of purpose and feeling unfulfilled in my life and work. Through

my own personal journey of self-discovery and spiritual growth, I discovered the power of life coaching and Reiki as tools to help others connect with their inner selves and live more meaningful and fulfilling lives. As a certified life coach and Reiki practitioner, I guide my clients through the process of self-discovery, helping them uncover their unique gifts, passions and talents, and aligning them with their true purpose. My approach is holistic and personalised, tailored to each individual’s needs and goals. Often our inability to access our joy and life purpose is based on our irrational core beliefs which drive and define everything we do or don’t do. I have helped a number of clients overcome obstacles and transform their lives, finding greater happiness, fulfillment, and purpose. My passion is helping others awaken to their full potential and live their best lives with joy, authenticity and purpose. If you're ready to take the first step towards discovering your life purpose and transforming your life, I am here to guide you on your journey.

10/09/2026

I was in a sound healing session years ago.
I had been doing this work for a while by then. I understood it. I believed in it. But something
that day went somewhere different.
There was a tingling that moved through my whole body. A warmth I had not been expecting.
And underneath it, something that is hard to describe a sense of being completely at one with myself. Not performing okayness. Not managing the experience. Just fully, entirely, present in my own body.
I wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. Both felt exactly right.
Joe Dispenza calls this heart-brain coherence. The moment when the heart and the mind stop
working against each other and come into alignment. I did not have language for it at the time. I
just knew, in a way that was completely physical and completely certain, that something had
shifted.
This is what becoming fluent in the body’s language can feel like when it arrives.
Not always this dramatic. But always, in some form, like coming home.
If you are curious about what that homecoming looks like in practice, send me a WhatsApp. Link
in bio.

10/09/2026

Consider this.

Most people expect this work to be hard.
They brace for discomfort. For things surfacing. For difficulty before the relief.
What arrives first is almost never that.
When the body is finally heard, when there is enough slowness and enough safety for it to stop performing and simply be present, the first thing that tends to come is not drama.

It is peace.

A quality of settledness that is different from relaxation. Different from the absence of tension. Something more fundamental than either the body remembering, perhaps for the first time in a very long time, what it feels like to simply be at home in itself.

Grounded. Balanced. Present in a way that does not require effort to maintain.

I have felt this myself. I have watched it arrive in women who had stopped believing it was available to them. And what strikes me every time is how quickly the body finds its way there once the conditions are right.
It does not have to be rebuilt from scratch. It was never lost. It was simply waiting underneath everything that had been placed on top of it the pull yourself together, the keep going, the years of managing rather than hearing.

When those things begin to ease, even slightly, the body knows exactly where to go.

Home.

If you are ready to begin that return, I would love to walk alongside you. Connect with me.


08/09/2026

Slower.

That is usually the last thing anyone tries.

More tools, yes. More understanding, more effort, more discipline applied to the same problem from the same direction. But slower, actually slowing down enough to feel what is present rather than immediately moving to manage it, almost nobody tries that. Because it feels counterintuitive. Because it looks, from the outside, like doing less.

It is not doing less. It is the hardest thing most people have ever done.

There is a quality of attention that becomes available only when you stop rushing through your own experience. When the breath is allowed to arrive somewhere real rather than being used to move a feeling along. When you stay with a sensation long enough to ask what it actually is.

In that slowness, the body starts to do something it has not been permitted to do for a very long time.

It starts to believe it has permission to be present. Not managed from a distance. Not processed efficiently. Actually present - with all of what is there, including what has been filed away for longer than it should have been.

What arrives when that happens is not what most people expect.

It does not require drama. It does not require excavation or breakdown.

It requires slowness. And the willingness to stay.

That is where everything actually changes.

07/09/2026

Something I want to describe today as honestly as I can, because I think it is the thing most people do not expect when they begin this work. I certainly didn’t.

When a woman finally slows down enough to come into her body - really into it, not managing it from a careful distance but actually present in it - the first thing that tends to arrive is not discomfort. It is relief.

A quality of release that is almost physical in its immediacy. The shoulders dropping in a way that no amount of telling them to relax had produced. The breath finding somewhere deeper than it had been in years.
A stillness that is entirely different from the stillness of containment - not held together, but genuinely, unexpectedly, at rest.

I see this in sessions regularly. The moment when the work moves from the head into the body. When a woman stops analysing her experience and starts actually having it. The energy in the room changes. Something settles that had been quietly unsettled for a very long time.
What she usually says afterwards is some version of the same thing.
I feel like I have finally come home.

That phrase gave me the name for my signature offering. Because it captures something I have witnessed again and again, and experienced myself - that the body is not a place we arrive at through effort or discipline or understanding. It is a place we return to. One that has been waiting, with extraordinary patience, for us to find our way back.

That is what learning the body's language actually feels like when it begins. Not a technique. A homecoming.

07/09/2026

Something shifts when a woman finally slows down enough to feel what is actually there.

Not the managed version. Not the composed exterior. What is underneath.

The first time it happens in a session, I notice it before she does. A quality of release in the shoulders. The breath going somewhere it has not been for a long time. A stillness that is different from containment, not held together, but actually at rest.

And then, almost always, something unexpected. Relief. Sometimes tears. Sometimes a quality of warmth that is hard to describe but immediately recognisable.

Like coming home to somewhere you forgot you belonged.

This is what the body offers when it is finally given permission to be heard. Not drama. Not breakdown. Something quieter and more significant than either.

A return.

If you want to know what that return feels like, connect with me. Link in bio.

03/09/2026

The exhaustion with no clear cause.
The anxiety that attaches to everything and nothing.
The sense of being fine and not fine simultaneously.
These are not evidence that something is wrong with you.
They are the body refusing to be ignored.
It has been keeping the record. All of it. Waiting for the moment when it finally feels safe enough to be heard.
That moment is available to you.

Send me a WhatsApp if you want to explore what it looks like.
Link in bio.

03/09/2026

Something I have been thinking about this week in the context of what pull yourself together actually produces over time.

The armour.

Not a metaphor exactly, more a description of what the body does when it has been told, repeatedly, that its signals are not welcome. It develops a kind of protective exterior. A way of being present that keeps the full experience of what is happening underneath carefully managed and largely invisible.
The armour looks like composure. Like capability. Like the woman who does not need much from the room because she has already handled whatever she is feeling privately, efficiently, before she walked in.
From the outside it is often mistaken for strength. And in some ways it is. It takes real effort to maintain. It keeps things functioning. It allows the person wearing it to show up reliably, to be depended upon, to carry responsibility well.

What it does not do is protect the person inside it from what they are feeling. It simply stops them from knowing clearly what they are feeling. The experience does not disappear. It goes underground. Into the body, where it stays, looking for a way to surface.
That surfacing usually looks like something else. Exhaustion. The anxiety that seems sourceless. The sense of moving through life at a slight distance from actually inhabiting it. The body trying, in the only language left to it, to get the attention it was never directly allowed.

What I have learned, both in my own experience and in the women I work with, is that the armour is not the enemy. It was protective. It served a real purpose at a real time. But it was never meant to be permanent.

And the work of taking it off, slowly and safely, is some of the most significant work a person can do.

02/09/2026

For years I wore a kind of armour I did not know I was wearing.
The composed exterior. The woman who handled things. The one who never needed too much
from the room.
It was not dishonest exactly. The capability was real. But underneath it, the body was holding
something the composed exterior had no room for.
The armour does not protect you from what you are feeling. It just stops you from knowing you
are feeling it.
Until the body finds another way to make itself heard.
That way is usually something we call anxiety. Or exhaustion. Or the persistent sense that something is wrong without being able to say what.
The body has not forgotten. It has just been waiting for permission to be heard.
If this is something you are sitting with, send me a WhatsApp. Link in bio.

31/08/2026

Most of us can hear it clearly.
Pull yourself together.
Keep going. Not now.
This is not the time.

It arrived early. It may have come from someone around you, or from an environment that
simply had no room for what you were feeling. It may have been said with love, or with
impatience, or simply as the way things were done.
However it arrived, the body heard it.
And learned, over time, that its signals created problems. That the appropriate response to
feeling something was to contain it and continue.
The cost of that learning does not announce itself. It accumulates quietly. In the exhaustion that
does not lift. In the distance from your own experience. In the anxiety that seems sourceless
because its source has been overridden so many times it has gone underground.

This week I want to explore where the override began. And what it has been costing ever since.
If this is something you recognise, send me a WhatsApp. Link in bio.

31/08/2026

Something I want to open this week with, because I think it lies at the heart of our inability to hear and understand our body’s signals.

Pull yourself together.

Most women know this voice intimately. It may have arrived from someone around them - a parent, a teacher, an environment that simply did not have space for the full range of what they were feeling.
It may have been said with love, or with impatience, or simply because that was the way things were done in the world they grew up in.
However it arrived, the body received it as an instruction.
Not now. Not here. What you are feeling is too much, or untimely, or inconvenient. Contain it. Continue. Show up as the version of yourself that does not need anything from the room.
And most of us became extraordinarily good at following that instruction. We learned to pull it together so efficiently, so automatically, so completely, that we stopped experiencing it as an act. It just became how we moved through the world.
What we did not understand, because nobody told us, was what that efficiency was costing.

Every time ‘pull yourself together’ fired in response to something the body was feeling, it sent a message deeper than the words. Your experience is not valid here. Your signals are not information worth attending to. The most useful thing you can do with what you feel is make it invisible.
The body learned from that message. And it adjusted accordingly.

This week I want to look at where that adjustment began, and what it has quietly cost over the years of following it.


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