Who I am
I'm Gabby.
I work under the name of my grandmother Elisabeth — out of respect and love for her.
Nearly two decades as a psychotherapist, late-diagnosed AuDHD, and the person your supervisor
once called “the queen of idiosyncratic formulations.”
I kept seeing the same thing: brilliant, capable people who graduated from therapy with flying colours,
only to hit the same walls six months later. They hadn't failed. They were failed —
by models that couldn't hold their complexity.
So I stopped offering frameworks and started drawing maps.
I operate like an extraordinary Eastern European grandmother who casually oversees all the threads in motion.
I am direct. I will help you tell the red herrings from the patterns that actually matter.
I will call out your bullshit. And I will do this in ways you don't even register,
whilst occasionally making you laugh.
The name comes from a real place: the pantry at my grandparents' house in Hungary.
Eastern edge of the country, closer to Ukraine and Romania than anything else.
A huge piece of land. Cherry trees. Raspberry canes you could walk inside.
A summer kitchen that fed the pantry so the pantry could exist in its comfortable, cosy, clean form.
The legacy isn't a big object you can point to.
The legacy is the feeling — remembering the times you ran to the raspberry patch and they were just, so tasty.
“A spájz”
When we arrived at my grandparents' house, the first port of call was always the pantry.
A look around for any curiosities. Anything cooling on the racks. A surprise fruit or vegetable.
Often just home-baked something or home-grown something.
I think, especially now, we can appreciate just how precious that is.
Growing up eating freshly grown, homegrown vegetables, and home cooked food most of the time.
I don't think my body has seen a preservative for quite a long time.
It does set you up for life with at least some sort of inheritance.
— from the audio transcript, spring 2025
