My grandpa smiled at me once I was dressed. He lay there with his legs slightly bent, arms cozily folded behind his head.

I climbed onto his lap, sat on his knees, and “rode” him like children do when they play. He laughed, and I felt safe and loved.

I no longer remember exactly how old I was—maybe just four. My grandfather died in the summer of 1990, when I was only four and a half years old.

There aren’t many memories of him, but that moment is one of the few that stayed—with clarity and warmth, like a light in the fog of early childhood.

He loved me deeply.

And many years later, I was told that my grandfather once said to my parents:

“I want to have Ira.”

He wanted me to grow up with my grandparents.

I don’t know why he said it. I don’t know what he saw in me—but there was something.

Something that lived deep inside me.

Something I didn’t even know back then. And yet, even then I could sense: this something was special.

But that very something had to stay hidden.

It wasn’t allowed to grow, to shine, to be heard. Many people felt it—some perhaps unconsciously—and many tried to silence it.

From the beginning, efforts were made to ensure I’d never discover it myself. That I would never believe my soul carried a unique task. But more on that later...

It was on a warm summer day when my grandfather died. He had lung cancer, but I barely remember the details of his illness. I was too little to grasp what was really happening.

What I haven’t forgotten, though, is the night they woke us—my three sisters and me.

Our parents had been informed by our grandparents’ neighbors. They had brought the news: Grandpa was gone.

I still remember how the four of us stood in the hallway—sleepy, confused. The harsh light burned my eyes, having just been torn from sleep. I didn’t understand what was happening—only that it was quiet. And somehow, sad.

A few days passed until the funeral. I have only a vague, foggy memory of it.

That day, I wasn’t picked up from kindergarten by my mother or father—it was my older sister. She came for me, while my other two siblings had to stay home. Alone. Locked in. To this day, I don’t know why that was.

What happened afterward is shrouded in darkness.

From that moment on, everything feels erased—as if my memory closed a door.

But... I saw him one more time.

That memory is etched so sharply into my mind that I still don’t know if it really happened—or if I only dreamed it.

It was some time after my grandfather’s death.

My grandmother had asked my parents to let me live with her. She couldn’t handle the silence in the house.

The rooms were empty, heavy, and almost eerie. She heard noises, sometimes believed she heard doors opening. She could no longer be alone.

Having someone like me around—a living being that breathes, speaks, moves—gave her stability. Caring for me calmed her, helped her get through the day.

Whether it was a good decision for both of us is hard to say.

No one back then asked whether a child might be overwhelmed or burdened in such a situation.

Slipping into a role is one thing—but being separated from one’s parents is something entirely different.

From what my older sister later told me, I learned what I had long suppressed: that during that time—when I was separated from my parents—I went through an emotional rollercoaster, even if I couldn’t name it as such back then. I was staying with my grandmother, and around midnight, I was suddenly overcome by such deep pain that I wept uncontrollably. I sobbed for my mother, longed to be near her, even though there was nothing there that could truly comfort me.

And it wasn’t just one evening. It was several nights—maybe even days—when I screamed so desperately for my mother that I nearly choked on my own cries. I just wanted to go back to her. With every fiber of my small body. I don’t know when exactly the moment came when that longing stopped—or rather, when I gave it up. I don’t remember deciding I no longer wanted to go back. It’s as if that decision quietly crept into my heart.

To this day, I ask myself: Was it truly my own decision to stay with my grandmother? Or was it simply the early realization of a small child that her mother didn’t love her enough to keep her? That it was easier for her to send me away—out of sight, out of mind?

I think about it because even my grandmother later told me that there was a specific day when my mother sent me away. I had asked her for something to eat, but she had nothing to give. Instead, she said: “Go to your grandmother. Don’t come back.” And in that moment—I must have been four and a half, maybe five—I understood something no child should ever understand: that my parents’ love wasn’t deep enough. That I was better off with my grandmother—maybe forever.

Was that the reasoning of a child? Or was it my soul, which had chosen its parents even before birth, and in that moment understood that it now had to protect itself? I don’t know. But one thing I do know for sure: only a very wise child could make such a decision.

The effect such a situation has on a child’s mind and soul is something this story can show...

And for those who knew my family—who knew where I came from—it might not have seemed like an issue.

For many, it simply felt unfair.

I was the child who was taken in—clean, fed, cared for.

My younger sister, three years old, stayed with our parents—where there was often not enough of anything.

In the village, people whispered:

“Why only Irina? Why not both?”

And so quiet resentment spread—envy toward my grandmother, but also toward me.

I felt that even among us sisters, a crack had begun to form.

My older sister later said it openly: that she envied me back then and hated me for it. Not because of me, but because I grew up in better conditions, while she often went to bed hungry. I had more—and that was reason enough for her resentment. Our parents hardly took care of us. My father was an alcoholic and my mother was emotionally absent, overwhelmed, possibly mentally ill—there’s no medical diagnosis, but anyone who speaks with her senses something isn’t right. She wasn’t present, wasn’t nurturing, wasn’t protective—a mother in name only.

Food was scarce. Warmth, too. To my siblings, I was the child who “had it better.” And that quiet envy, that unspoken anger, grew up with them—like a shadow that never fully disappeared. Even the people in the village didn’t understand why it was me—of all people—who got to live with my grandmother. For them it was incomprehensible, for me life-changing.

And I felt it. My whole life.

I was always able to read energy. I didn’t need words to sense what remained unspoken. And then there was this one night.

I suddenly woke up. The room was quiet, the moon cast silver light through the window. And in that light, I saw him:

A tall, male figure—a shadow standing right outside the window. It was my grandpa.

My grandmother’s bed stood opposite the window, so I could clearly see how this figure slowly moved in her direction.

I lay there, frozen. My heart raced, my body was motionless.

The fear was so intense that I eventually hid under the blanket—as if it could protect me from everything.

At some point, I fell asleep. Whether it really happened, I don’t know.
‍
But it’s burned into me—so vivid, so real, as if it wasn’t just imagination, but something I truly saw.

Later, when I was older, my grandmother told me something she hadn’t dared to say at the time:
‍
That I often woke up crying during that period, saying Grandpa had pinched me to make me get out of bed—it was his bed, after all.

She also said she regrets to this day not taking me into her bed in those moments. She still doesn’t understand why she left me there, crying and alone.
‍
I don’t remember the pinching itself. But I do remember the feeling that someone else was there.

Not threatening. Just present.

That was my first conscious encounter with the beyond, one I can still remember. And I’m fairly sure I was meant to keep that memory—with it to guide me whenever I doubt my gifts. So I can understand from which ancestral line I inherited this ability and what task I am meant to take on...

 It was as if there was no need for her to even attend—her attitude was calm, full of trust.
My performance was consistent, stable, and very good.
Something she never told me directly, but that my teacher once confided in me:
Whenever my grandmother spoke about me, she would say this one sentence:
"God Himself sent me Irina."
These words engraved themselves deep into my heart.
As if I were a gift. A secret plan known only to her and the universe.
A quiet knowing that lived between us.
Something that didn’t need explanation or proof.
I once asked her if she had really said that.
She evaded the question. Just smiled. Maybe because she knew some things can't be repeated. Because they are already true the moment you feel them.

But back to my nerdy ways...
Anyone who comes from the countryside knows how cold the winters in Kazakhstan were.
Sometimes the snowstorms were so strong, you could barely see a meter ahead.
The wind pressed against the windows, paths were blocked by snow and ice.
I remember one of those days. I must have been in first or second grade, and my grandmother actually didn’t want to take me to school.
It was considered common sense that classes were canceled in such weather.
But I was so responsible—or maybe just so afraid of being seen as a bad student—that I cried and begged until she gave in.
And she really did take me to school—through snow and storm, eyes squinting against the wind, wrapped in coats and scarves, holding my hand tightly.
There, she was scolded by the school principal:
“How can you bring a child to school in this weather?”
“She cried so much,” my grandmother said with embarrassment. We were sent home...
I was almost obsessed with school.
I loved being there—with the books, the teachers, the steady rhythm.
Some wouldn’t believe it. Some might think: That’s crazy. But I really was a nerd.
When it came to grades—and of course also to my social behavior.
Until I got older. And the outside influence changed.
Or maybe I simply wanted to fit in.
But deep in my soul—I was always a rebel.
Until that moment came, I was a model student.
At the end of each school year, many in the village would whisper—because the best students received a Gramota, a certificate, and were called up in front of the whole school to receive it.
Your name was spoken aloud—and my name was called every single year, until we left Kazakhstan.
But as life often goes, my grades—year after year of straight A's (in the German system) or straight 5s (in the Kazakh one, where 5 was the highest)—also stirred other reactions.
Because the name Warkentin was not an easy name in the village. My father was now seen as the village drunk.
And my mother—well, she wasn’t exactly seen as a model woman or wife.
That a child from such parents could be a model child was hard for many to accept.
Especially when this child received no outside help… because everything came from within me.
Later, my grandmother told me that at the next certificate ceremony, older women in the village whispered behind cupped hands—half astonished, half mocking, with a tone laced with envy and resentment:
“Oh Baba, she really did raise a straight-A student…”
And my grandma just answered quietly—not defiantly, not proudly, just plainly:
“She did it all on her own. I have no schooling myself—how could I possibly help her?”
And that was true. But maybe it was exactly that which drove me.
I was so thrilled by learning that I even followed her into the earth cellar with a book.
Our cellar—we called it Pogreb—was like a small room beneath the floor. That’s where we stored all the preserved food from our garden for the winter.
Potatoes we planted and harvested ourselves were put into sacks and carried down into the cellar—so we would have something to eat in the cold months.
I remember one of those moments: My grandmother had gone down to fetch some potatoes.
I, with an open book in my hands, bent over the opening, crouched by the hole in the floor, and read aloud to her.
She was worried I might fall in—she called up: “Be careful not to fall!” But I so badly wanted to read to her.
I wanted to show her how well I could read. I wanted to share it with her.
I had always loved reading. During summer vacations, I borrowed almost every book from the village library—and read them all.
I found peace in books, a world of imagination. My mind and thoughts loved diving into other worlds, where anything was possible.
It was so different from what I knew in our village.
Until we left Kazakhstan, I had never been to a city.
I was so cut off from so much—and trapped, like in a cage, held by the fears of those around me.
That’s why books gave me more refuge than any friendship could have offered at the time.
I wanted to be educated. That deep-rooted belief—that books make people intelligent—was already inside me as a child.
And I had always wanted to be smart.
I don’t know exactly where that came from… maybe from certain teachers.
But I was a bookworm. And those who know me know:
To this day, I would rather choose a book than some meetup, than wasting time meaninglessly or watching stupid Netflix shows.
Books helped me. They showed me how to make life better. They carried me—especially when people tried to put me down.
When they tried to make me feel like I wasn’t worth anything.
And they tried often—each in their own way.
“Who do you think you are?”
“You don’t have what it takes to succeed.”
“Princess, be careful—the higher the crown, the harder the fall.”
“You’d have to come from a wealthy family if you really want to have influence…”
Or to belong…

Some of these statements I shaped consciously, others were taken literally. As I’ve said before: I’ve always been able to read energy.
It’s strange, really: the more I dove into myself, the less I wanted to belong. But that will become more evident as this book unfolds...

There were also sad moments involving books—some I would even call traumatic. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, maybe six or seven, because it was about the Fibel—the very first reading book every child in the Soviet Union received.
That day, I was visiting my parents. They lived just two streets away, and I often went there to see my siblings. That afternoon, only my mother and I were at home.
Of course I had brought my reading book with me—yes, I really was that studious. I was quietly murmuring to myself as I read, because I still wasn’t very confident, but I kept practicing eagerly.

At some point, my mother lost her patience. She told me several times to stop because my whispering annoyed her. But I kept reading—and then she suddenly grabbed the book from my hands and threw it, angrily, into the fire in the old stove. The flames devoured it instantly...

I screamed and began to cry. And as if that hadn’t been enough, she said coldly: “Stop crying, or you’ll get a beating.”

This scene sends shivers down many spines—just the thought that a mother could do that to her child.
But behind this act lie so many questions: What kind of pain was she carrying? What was her level of education? Where was her empathy, her emotional stability? And how deeply does something like that shape a child?

Yes, that moment burned itself into my memory. But I never forgot how to read. Quite the opposite: my hunger for it only grew stronger.
Ironically, out of the flames that were meant to destroy my strength, my strength was born.
Today, I work with fire energy—the very force that was meant to extinguish my passion has set me alight.

In my childhood, there were repeated moments when my mother imposed physical boundaries—sometimes harsh ones.

And there were many situations I’ve suppressed over time—both consciously and unconsciously.
But one moment stayed with me vividly: I came rushing through the front door, completely out of breath, chased by a few boys from the village whom I had teased beforehand.
The door slammed shut—it was already in such bad shape that the force of a twelve-year-old girl was enough to damage it.

My mother reacted fiercely—out of anger and emotional overwhelm, she slapped me across the face.
Then we started arguing—loud, impulsive, full of accusations on both sides.
I remember her saying: “I’m your mother.”
And I replied: “It’s not the woman who gives birth to a child who’s the mother—it’s the one who raises it.”

Ouch. That hit deep.

She was convinced I had learned that sentence from my grandmother. But honestly, I no longer remember where I got it from.
Back then, I had the courage to say it—but not the emotional maturity to understand the full impact of my words.

Today, I would express it differently—with more awareness of the tenderness that lives in every mother’s story. Or maybe I wouldn’t say it at all. So much has changed.

Today, I see many things differently. Not that I agree with the decision to give a child away—but I’m beginning to understand the circumstances under which it happened.
I’m beginning to grasp how much overwhelm, lack of support, and inner chaos played a role.

My grandmother still tells how I often came home with bruises when my mother had one of her outbursts. I hardly remember any of it myself—not because it didn’t happen, but because I trained myself early on to block out those memories.

Later, I learned that this is a well-known psychological mechanism: a traumatized child suppresses the painful parts to survive. To keep going somehow.

I remember telling my neighbor—whose child I used to babysit—that my grandmother always said terrible things about my mother.
She couldn’t understand why that kept me from forming a bond with my mother. She said my grandma shouldn’t do that, because “your mother is your mother.”

Back then, I didn’t understand any of it. And how deeply other people’s ingrained “wisdom” shaped my emotions and relationship to my parents—that only became clear to me much later.

I’m pretty sure my grandmother didn’t fully realize that she was emotionally pre-programming a child.
She only ever spoke the truth—nothing she said was a lie.
But she lacked the emotional maturity to understand how a child receives such words and how a perspective is formed from them.

This is my memory—not an accusation or blame.
These are the circumstances that shaped my feelings toward my parents, alongside the personal experiences I had the chance to live through.

Between the ages of twelve and fourteen, I began to challenge the boys in the village on purpose.
I became bold, provocative—and I loved the thrill of being chased. I got into scuffles, physically, loudly, wildly.

Something came alive in me in those moments.
I didn’t know what it was—I couldn’t name it. Only years later, in my thirties, when I began kickboxing in Canada, I realized:
It was my inner warrior spirit.

I truly came alive when I could physically challenge myself. That energy, that drive for movement and assertion—that was me. Always had been.

But in my childhood, there was never a space where this power could be lived out safely.
Aside from physical work in the garden, in the household, and everything that had to be done—there was nothing.
I did what was expected: planting, weeding, laundry, cleaning. Day in, day out.
I never loved these tasks—they were mere duty, not heart-driven. Mechanical, quiet, expected. I was exemplary.

But my grandmother, out of her fear, began to worry. I was thirteen, maybe fourteen, and boys started to react to me differently.
She wanted to protect me—not only from them, but from what I myself couldn’t yet understand.

I didn’t grasp her fear at the time. I just wanted to wrestle, not flirt.
I longed for direct, physical confrontation—not romantic closeness.

But with a father who was disabled, a mother who was emotionally overwhelmed, and a grandmother who was already old—I was, at least in theory, an easy target.
And that was exactly my grandmother’s fear.

In our village of about 3,000 people, there weren’t many opportunities to join a club or channel your energy in a meaningful way.
Maybe that’s why I sought refuge in books so early.

Yes, I had friends. But I rarely got along with the girls in my class.
It was always a back and forth. Conflicts again and again. I often felt excluded.
I was bullied at times—children can be cruel.

The reason was simple: I was different.
Often, I felt like I was from another time. Life with my grandmother was slow, old-fashioned, far removed from what was “cool” among girls my age.
I was a bright child from a family no one expected “success stories” from—at least not by common standards.

But people saw my potential.
And that made them uncomfortable.

I felt the envy. Maybe even jealousy.
Not from the children—but from the emotions they had absorbed from their parents.

And so this feeling grew in me: I’m not good enough.
Despite all my achievements, despite all the recognition.

Because from the very beginning, love was missing—and out there, what sparkled inside me was being dimmed.

I was the child they praised at parent-teacher meetings.
I took part in countless competitions—most of which I won. First place, again and again. Sometimes second.

I could do it all.
Especially language was my strength: poetry, speeches, emotional expression—that was my domain.

And how fascinating to look back now: this very gift aligns with the number Five—in numerology.
And I was born on the 23rd, which also adds up to a 5.

And that—was exactly what was taken from me.

The strength of my expression, my gift with words, later in life became my weakness. Only recently did I begin to understand why this gift had to be suppressed—not only in the physical world, but even more so on the subtle, spiritual plane.

And as one might expect, my love for learning and education also shaped my understanding of the world and kept moving me forward—always hand in hand with my inner voice, which has always been incredibly strong and continues to grow stronger every day.

I was so proud that my father didn’t work in a manual trade. (Not that there's anything wrong with craftsmanship—on the contrary—but I had always held deep respect for intellectual achievement, for using one’s own strength through mind and speech.) That left a strong impression on me. I probably adopted that mindset from books, since no one in my family worked in such a field.

My father had studied bookkeeping and was the only one in the family who was able to do head-based work—because he was physically disabled and, as a man, couldn’t take up a manual job. My grandfather had pressured him early on to learn something “for the head”—perhaps because he himself had never done such work.

Be that as it may: I understood very early on that although my father worked in a small village car dealership and handled paperwork, he somehow still “belonged.” And yet, he wasn’t truly seen as one of them—especially not after he slipped into alcoholism and became the most notorious drunk in the village. A man punished by fate, never truly seen as a “real man,” probably gave in to the temptation out of fear of not belonging—to be influenced by the other men in the village, who believed that alcohol made a man, and that anyone who drank at the same table was one of them.

And so my childhood passed—and my siblings’—while he drank, while he gave his money away to others just to belong, just to feel a certain kind of acceptance. It’s questionable whether he did it because he couldn't cope with his own situation, played the victim, and built his life accordingly.

At some point, I realized that he was not the ideal father I had imagined. I remember the day he came to eat at my grandmother’s—while my mother and siblings had, like on many other evenings, nothing to eat at home. My grandmother cared for him his whole life—she even did his laundry, because my mother wouldn’t (or wouldn’t do it the way he wanted).

I can’t really blame my father for that: my grandma was clean and tidy, and she wanted him to look the same. But my father never took responsibility for his own family—how could he, when he himself was treated like a child? He was, after all, disabled—punished by fate, as my grandmother always said.

One can understand the maternal heart, even if his condition was never an excuse for his behavior. And so I developed the belief that weak men had no place in my life. And without knowing it, I decided I would be the strong one.

You can probably imagine what that meant for my life—my relationships with men… well, I hated weak men. And guess who I kept attracting?

My sister Maria later told me that she sometimes hid the food from him—because he didn’t just eat at grandma’s but would come home and eat everything in sight, leaving nothing for the children. Apparently, I once—at the age of ten—stood up to her as his protector. I had actually taken my seventeen-year-old sister to task and accused her of being selfish for withholding food from him. Let’s not forget, I was also the child who was always clean and always had something to eat... there was resentment not only toward our father; I was, in a way, also a reason for her frustration... But this courage, to position myself so clearly, awoke in me back then—at ten years old. And as I write this, I realize: I was even braver than I remembered. This realization gives me a deeper understanding of why that courage was later taken from me. And I say very consciously: taken. Because I was attacked later in life—on another level. Energetically. Magically. And I knew it. I even knew who it was. My clairvoyant perception has always been there—even if I didn’t yet have the words for it.

But that realization—that my father wasn’t the role model I had hoped for—changed something in me. I lost respect for him—especially since that attitude was confirmed from all sides, even by my grandmother. My parents were publicly branded as “raven parents”—and in a way, it was true. Those accusations didn’t just eat away at my respect, but over time also at my love for them—at least that’s what I believed until not long ago...

From all of this, a broken relationship began to take root—one that grew into a real problem over the years. I mostly saw my father drunk, and he took no responsibility for his children. Whether he even knew that his daughter was a top student and helped his mother so much, I don’t know. I became my grandmother’s helper—in the garden, where we watered plants every summer, day after day. I helped saw wood for winter, picked fruits—tasks I often hated, and yet did alongside Grandma. I always did them while the other kids played outside…

By the age of eleven, I was already washing my own laundry. We didn’t have a washing machine, so I cleaned every piece by hand. I did it with care and diligence, always striving to be a good example.

And yet I was constantly made to feel that I wasn’t enough. I never heard, “I love you.” My grandmother was sparing with affection, naturally distrustful, and so full of fear that she could hardly express love. Sometimes I ask myself how I managed to stay so positive. Many people don’t understand where I get my joy for life. I had to work hard for my self-love, and yet I always knew that something special lived inside me.

My relationship with classmates was always shifting—sometimes I belonged to the group, sometimes the entire class turned against me. I was teased for the clothes I wore—sent from Germany. Our relatives sent packages filled with sweets, food, and clothes—to support my grandmother. And so I received whatever was sent—for myself. I was always fascinated by anything foreign, and deeply grateful for the generous help from my uncle and his family. It was anything but a given, and this gratitude remains to this day, even through all the changes in our families.

At the same time, this sense of being “different” became visible. I didn’t just feel foreign because of the clothes—I also lived with my grandmother and not in a classic family structure like the other children. I simply wasn’t like them. Back then, I wanted nothing more than to belong. Today, I know that the universe was preparing me not to belong. And now, I am proud of it—I live my life that way, consciously.

These insecurities became especially obvious whenever we received our annual visit from my aunt and her children. They lived in a village too, but much closer to a city, and in my eyes, their lives were more modern, vibrant, and self-assured than mine. They always brought the best toys, the prettiest clothes, and I saw in them everything I felt I lacked. They came from a stable home, loved and nurtured by both parents—and it showed. Their confidence felt like something from another world. At least at that moment, I took it for confidence…The contrast between us was palpable, and it echoed in my own self-image.

Still, we got along well, and I loved those visits. The house would suddenly become lively, loud—full of laughter, games, even arguments. And the sadness was all the deeper when they left after a week. Then I had to get used to the ever-present silence again—a silence that was so difficult for me back then.

All of these experiences sowed a deep desire in me to one day leave the village behind. I felt so clearly that I couldn’t stay there if I wanted to grow. And the only path I could see was through education. Only if I went to university would I have a real chance to shape my own life and experience something different than what the village had to offer. That’s why I wanted it so badly. That’s why my biggest dream was to graduate with a “red diploma” and then go to university.

The disappointment was all the greater when my grandmother told me she couldn’t afford to register me at a university or send me to the city. The money simply wasn’t there. People began predicting that after the 11th grade, I would end up with a job in the village and probably start a family very early... but even back then, having a family of my own was never part of my life’s dream.

That was a nightmare for me: not growing. And the bigger that nightmare became, the stronger my desire grew to move to Germany as quickly as possible. We had already submitted our applications for resettlement and were waiting for a response.

And during that stage of life, there was nothing—absolutely nothing—that suggested I would one day become a healer or that my spiritual development would ever take center stage. I didn’t have a specific vision for what my life should look like, but I knew one thing for sure: I could not stay in the village. There were no opportunities for personal growth there—let alone any connection to the modern world that fascinated me so deeply—the world I only knew from a black-and-white TV…

All the more overwhelming was my joy the night we received confirmation: In the year 2000, we were allowed to enter Germany.

My mother didn’t want to come with us back then – Germany was never her destination. That’s what she said.
Not because life in the village was somehow better. But because she had no real sense of how much better her life could be. It was her inexperience. Her inner limitation. And perhaps also a quiet fear of the unknown.
And then, when the moment came – when my father, my grandmother, and I were about to leave – she suddenly wanted to come after all. But by then, it was already too late.
And I had three sisters I left behind. With the youngest, I shared both parents; with the two older ones, it was our mother that bound us. But there was never a sense of "more" or "less" for me. Siblings are siblings. We were all carried under the same heart, and that was what mattered to me – what still matters, now more than ever.Emotionally, I never made a difference. I loved them all. And yet – on a deeper level, one that's hard to put into words – there was a special resonance between me and the youngest: Valentina. Not outwardly. Not in biography. But soulfully.

It felt as if our souls were meant to meet on a finer frequency – subtle, barely perceptible. And yet, that’s what made it so powerful. I could feel it. Like a quiet memory of something that was never fully lived.We were separated very early. And not just separated — it was as if someone had drawn an invisible line between us, a thin, almost imperceptible trace that grew sharper with each passing year. The people in the village began to turn against me. In their eyes, I was to blame simply because my life seemed a little easier. Because they thought I believed I was better. And if I’m being completely honest — there was some truth in that. Not because I placed myself above them, but because somewhere deep inside, I could feel: I was different. Not just different from them — but different on a level older than words. As if my soul had been planted into a lineage it was never meant to fully belong to. As if I was here — but not truly of this place. Like a quiet glitch in time. Or perhaps a deliberate placement by the universe, meant to remind me: you live here, but you are not this place. I could feel the difference. I saw that my life was lighter, more structured, maybe even safer. And somewhere within me, the feeling began to grow that I belonged to another world. One that wasn’t open to everyone — and therefore needed to be protected. Even from her. At some point, I came to understand that there was a deep divide between our worlds. I had something she didn’t — more stability, more opportunities, more attention. And with the rawness of a child who doesn’t yet understand their feelings, I showed it to her. Not out of cruelty, but from a confused, inner need to belong somewhere. I believed that belonging was something that had to be guarded. Especially when our relatives came to visit, I felt like I was stepping into a different realm. Not because of them — but because of what they brought with them. In their presence, something reminded me that there was more. Something beyond the village, beyond the narrowness, beyond the everyday. They came from outside — and their presence alone opened something within me. A gate to a space I had only felt inside myself until then.In those moments, I almost became protective of what I was. Of what I felt, of what I sensed. And sometimes I didn’t want anyone there with me. Not even my sister. I wanted this feeling to be mine alone. This secret wonder. This quiet knowing: there is more. I shut her out. Not out of coldness, but because I sensed that this very feeling was a delicate key — to what would one day become my path. She was left behind… My father promised her that he would bring her and my mother over later. And he kept that promise — but it took five long years. It wasn’t until 2005 that they were finally allowed to come to Germany. But back to our relationship. We were only a year apart — and looked almost identical. So much so that people confused us all the time. She was often called “Irina” — and I was just as often addressed by her name: Valentina. I don’t remember exactly how old I was at the time, maybe five. I was still in kindergarten. And I remember a particular early morning when, like so many times before, I went to pick her up on the way there. I stepped into the room, and my mother was brushing her hair. But it wasn’t a gentle brushing. It was a struggle. Forceful. Angry. Without any tenderness. My sister, that delicate, far too thin little girl, was crying. She cried because brushing her hair was a battle — not just against the wild curls, but against herself. My mother, with almost cold severity, forced her to “tame” that unruly hair. And every time, she repeated the same phrase: “Terpi, kasak, atamanom budesh.” A saying, probably from some old Soviet film. It loosely meant: “Only those who endure pain become strong — and are accepted as a Cossack.” A sentence like an imprint on the soul. Harsh. Without warmth. And with no room to simply be a child. On mornings like that, we would then walk to kindergarten together. I don’t remember if I was alone or if our mother brought us, but I remember those moments: people would look at us — and sometimes call us by the wrong names. And even back then, I could hardly bear it when my identity was mistaken for someone else’s. Especially when I felt that I — in comparison — was “more.” More seen. More wanted. More noticed.

Today I ask myself: where did this feeling come from — the sense that I came from “better circumstances”? That I — even though we belonged to the same family, shared the same blood, the same house — was somehow more than she was? Was it the quiet memory of my soul? A knowing from another life — perhaps one in which I came from noble, educated, spiritually rich circles? Or was it the image that people in the village had drawn of me? The girl with the clever mind, the good grades, the smooth hair and the pretty face. Perhaps it was both. But one thing I know: my soul was confused. It didn’t know where it belonged. To the “better” group, the one I was so often placed into — or to my own family, to my sister, with whom I was supposed to be connected? Did I even want to belong to that “better” group? And who decided which group was better anyway? Who had taken it upon themselves to define my belonging — or to manipulate my feelings around it? I carried this confusion within me for many years. A quiet, stubborn question: who separated us? Who drove that wedge between us? I’ve asked myself that all my life. Because there were people — and I call them deliberately that: certain people — who made no effort to hide it. They envied me. For my academic achievements. For my appearance. For the way I thought. For how I “stood out.” And they had my sister by their side — a quiet, malleable, searching soul — and they took advantage of that. All they needed was an open ear, a child’s heart — and they turned it into an echo chamber for ridicule and division. They talked behind my back — and my sister listened. Again and again. Without ever truly realizing it. To this day, I don’t believe she understands what really happened back then. That we were intentionally turned against one another. That her childhood anger, her helplessness, her sense of not being enough, was carefully directed toward me. And that years later, she returned all of it — in the form of coldness, rejection, sometimes even hatred.We had many mutual friends — we were almost the same age. And every time I was excluded by the girls because I was somehow “different,” our sibling bond was used against me. It was like others took a perverse pleasure in splitting our closeness — just to have someone to blame. And that someone was quickly found: me. I was accused of being a bad sister, even though I was still a child myself. A child who was already lost in her own chaos, with a heart full of questions, and far more confusion than I ever showed. Yes, she grew up in poverty. But she had both parents. And despite all the hardships, she knew where she belonged. I, on the other hand, lived in suspension. Between places. Between people. Between belonging. This feeling of not belonging has accompanied me my whole life. It sat inside me like a dark shadow behind my chest — quiet, invisible, but always felt. Only much later, after many years, did I understand: my heart is my home. And the faster I learn to get along with myself, the faster I understand that I am enough for myself, the faster peace returns. And joy. Maybe not loud happiness, but a quiet, sustaining one. I remember her in moments when she cried. Then came my mother’s anger — merciless, directed at anyone who had hurt her. She was the youngest, the family favorite. And she knew it. Often she played this privilege, staged a hurt expression, a little drama, so that I or my siblings would bear the consequences. In my memory, she was the spoiled baby, a “brat,” around whom everything seemed to revolve. Today, looking back, I see how all of this formed — how we all tried to survive in our own way, how our characters developed from pain and protection. My father had a closer bond to her because she grew up with him.I was often the one blamed, the one attacked. Maybe because I was loud, because I was present, because I showed with my light that not everything was right. That they had made mistakes. That I was different. And this being different triggered them all. Because this difference always existed, it showed itself also at school — in the way we presented ourselves, and how we dealt with others. Each of us tried, in her own way, to overcome the wounds of childhood. One of those wounds was me. Not because I had done something wrong, but because my very existence was a trigger. I don’t know if she thought everything came easier to me because I was always fed and clean, or because I didn’t grow up in dirt. But the truth is: until I was four, I lived in the same household. Anyone who knows child psychology understands that the first seven years are the most formative for a child’s development. And right in the middle of that time, at four years old, I experienced a deep break: I was given away. From then on, I had to observe two worlds, almost like parallel worlds... This turning point changed my life fundamentally. And all that came after can’t simply be described as “easy” or “simple.” Because true strength often grows from the deepest wounds. The more I was praised, the more, somewhere deep inside her — unconsciously — a sisterly hatred grew against me. She would probably never admit it, if she ever reads this text at all. But in recent years, it has often become clear that my development, my path, and my life trigger her very often. Especially when other people ask her about me. It’s not always about turning her against me. Often it is even praise given to me — for the path I have taken. And that is exactly what hurts. That’s why I was never angry at her for how she felt. I knew where it came from. And I felt that much of it was a foreign energy that had nested inside her — especially because she was always close friends with people who didn’t like me.

It is a complex web of wounds, loyalties, and deep soul dynamics. And I accept it — with compassion for all of us. And yet — we both shared so much when it came to our childhood. Especially in how our mother consciously neglected us. How little care there was. How little genuine, nourishing closeness. I was often told stories. For example, that as a baby I would only fall asleep in my mother’s arms — and would immediately wake up as soon as she put me in my crib. It happened over and over again. Until my grandfather eventually noticed that something was wrong. Because the mattress she laid me on was wet. Damp with urine she had not changed. And every time she put me back into that wetness, I woke up. Can you imagine what that does to a baby? What it means when your own mother shows no care? No loving attention? Not even a normal, clean feeling of safety? As a baby, I was literally trained to be satisfied with the bare minimum. With what no one truly deserves. And that deeply imprinted itself into my childlike consciousness. Psychologists have long proven: The bond between mother and child is fundamental — especially when it comes to self-love. When exactly where warmth should be, coldness is felt… a child learns very early to undervalue themselves. Not consciously. But quietly. In the nervous system. In cellular memory. In the soul. There are many stories my sister experienced too. One in particular stayed deeply with me. She was only a few months old when she was once left alone at home — with a blanket over her face. By chance, my grandmother came by. She heard a faint moan, searched, and found my sister in her stroller. She pulled the pillow away — we were covered as babies with a pillow so we wouldn’t move and would lie very still. This experience was more than a physical restriction for us. It was a moment in which we lost our freedom and felt a deep sense of powerlessness and loss of control. A heavy pillow on our tiny chest — it meant not only…..not only physical confinement, but also the feeling of not being heard, not being seen, and not being protected. Such early experiences often leave invisible marks on our psyche: They can create fears and inner blocks that follow us throughout life. Trust in ourselves and in others is shaken; the ability to feel freedom and safety is impaired. Her face was completely wet — from her own breath, from sweating, from struggling. She was almost suffocating. Probably only minutes away from something terrible happening. Was it thoughtlessness? Or something else already? No one knows. But one thing was clear: Our mother was not someone to be entrusted with care.

My older sister often told me that throughout her life, she repeatedly met people who showed a very specific behavioral pattern — a pattern familiar to us from our childhood. What exactly this “diagnosis” might be can only be guessed today… It’s not that she was evil, but that her own vulnerability and insecurity shaped her actions. She was never examined. But no one needed to. You could feel it. Even with an untrained eye.

My father often called her “полоумная,” which means half-witted. I often saw her cry because of that. It shows how deeply she suffered and how fragile her inner world was. But she could also become so angry that she hit my father — with a force he often felt in bruises. Physically, she was incredibly strong — a strength we all inherited from her. Maybe it’s not obvious at first glance, but a great power lives in our bodies, one that could make some men quite envious.

And so, somehow, we all grew up — not cared for, but rather survived. A way of being shaped more by “getting through” than by “being held.” Yes — I had similar experiences. On the outside, it eventually got better for me. But inside, another trauma remained. One that showed itself quietly but palpably throughout my life.What I want to say is this: We came from the same family. From the same parents. And each of us had our own wound to carry. And yet — I was the one who was hated. Not because I did anything wrong.Not because I did anything wrong — but because I was different, and I showed it without shame. Because from a young age, I strived to become better and better.I never truly belonged. Not back then. And not even today.

And you know what?
Today, I am even grateful for that.
Because this path of not belonging taught me to choose clearly.
I have become selective.
With my environment.
With the people I allow into my space.
Not out of spite,
but out of respect — for myself.…
And so we left Kazakhstan.
Me — without my siblings.
Only with my grandmother and my father.
A part of the family stayed behind.
A part of my heart, too.

And yet, joy was stronger than sorrow. Yes, for a brief moment it hurt to say goodbye to my sisters. But the excitement for what lay ahead was so powerful that it gently pushed the sadness into the background.

We traveled together with my grandmother’s children and their families. Not by plane, but by bus. Plane tickets for the three of us – my father, my grandmother, and me – were out of reach. What little remained after selling our house and our modest belongings, my grandmother wanted to save for our first steps in Germany. And so the decision was made: we would take the long journey by bus.

The three days on the road were exhausting and at the same time exhilarating – especially for us children. The route took us through Russia, Belarus, and Poland. The bus was full of other migrants. Some carried so much food that the entire bus was heavy with the smell of boiled chicken and sweat. I remember vividly sitting next to a woman. At some point, I dozed off and unknowingly laid my head on her shoulder. When I startled awake, I wanted to pull away in embarrassment – but she let me rest peacefully. That quiet, wordless act of kindness engraved itself deep in my heart.

My grandmother suffered the most during the trip. Her legs swelled painfully, so much so that it was even mentioned when we arrived in Friedland. Fortunately, the swelling went down soon after.

And then at last: Friedland. A place all migrants know, each carrying their own story of it. For me, it was a revelation. For the first time, I saw another country: unfamiliar houses, unfamiliar fences, unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar trees. Everything was different – and all of it seemed more beautiful than what I had known. It was as if a door had opened. A door to a new world, waiting to be discovered.

We spent about a week there – the memory is blurry. But I still feel how everything was thrilling, simply because it was new. We met people, spent countless hours with our cousins. For us teenagers, it was a radiant, dazzling time.

But there were shadows as well. Once, I quarreled with a cousin. To this day, I have no idea what caused it. I only remember how suddenly she became aggressive and wanted to hit me – and I stood before her, ready to fight back. Another cousin, who always delighted in stirring conflict, added fuel to the fire. I am still surprised it didn’t turn into a physical fight, but remained a heated exchange of words.

Looking back now, I see a pattern running like a red thread through my life: from early on, I had difficulties with girls – in this case, even with my own blood relatives. A theme that returned again and again.

Much later, during my studies of numerology, I came to understand what role these experiences played. Children born in February often encounter deep challenges in their female ancestral line from early childhood. Their task is to break through and heal these patterns. It often means they spend a lot of time with grandmothers and have complicated relationships with mothers or sisters.

I came to see why in our lineage there was so much envy, hostility, and hidden conflict among women. I realized: these souls crossed my path as triggers, so I could consciously look into my ancestral themes and heal them. My soul had chosen this path.

After a week in Friedland, we were sent to Wolfsburg. My grandmother’s children were scattered to neighboring towns. As much as she pleaded for us all to remain together, her wish was not granted. She never forgot it, spoke about it often, holding onto her resentment toward the woman responsible for the decision. Sadly, this tendency marked her life: my grandmother could not forgive easily.

And so we – my grandmother, my father, and I – stayed with my grandmother’s sister for several weeks. The others were temporarily placed in shelters until they received their own homes.

The first days in Wolfsburg were full of wonder for me. Everything was new: the products in the stores, the unfamiliar food, the bustling city life so different from our village. What thrilled me most was something simple – a toilet inside the apartment. Until then, I had only seen it in films. In our village, only a few families could afford such a luxury, and they were considered well-off. For us, it was normal to use the yard outside or, at night, a bucket inside the house.

It was these small things, seemingly ordinary details, that filled me with true delight. Already then, material things, comfort and convenience held a special attraction for me. Everything new and unfamiliar filled me with joy and curiosity, stronger than any longing for the past.

I remember my first school in Germany well. It was a Realschule in the neighborhood where we lived. Based on my grades, I could have attended a Gymnasium. But since I didn’t know English – the first foreign language there – it was decided I would go to the Realschule, which offered Russian as a foreign language. My native tongue suddenly became a “foreign language.” Today, I find this almost absurd.

The decision about my schooling was not made by me, not even by my grandmother. She spoke only Plattdeutsch and could not handle such matters, so she handed the responsibility to a distant relative. That aunt decided it would be “enough” for me to attend Realschule rather than Gymnasium. Many years later, I realized I could have taken private lessons, studied English in evening courses. And indeed, that’s what I began doing at eighteen.

I came to see that in life we do not always receive the full support we hope for. But hidden in this is a gift: the strength to walk one’s path with confidence and independence. So, after graduating from Realschule, I entered Gymnasium through my own efforts.

Today I know: every boundary that appeared before me only led me deeper into my own strength.

School was, overall, a pleasant time. I never experienced mockery or rejection simply because I was not from Germany. Many pupils were migrants or children of migrants, and that naturally made everyone accepted. In that, I was fortunate.

Among Russian-speaking teenagers, I quickly found friends. They welcomed me into their circles, and most of my time I spent with them. This gave me a sense of belonging until I moved on to Gymnasium.

Even then, I knew I wanted to go to university. At that time, I dreamed of architecture, as I could imagine nothing that seemed so creative and prestigious at once. My decisions seemed mature, yet I was moving unconsciously – walking into darkness where only later I would learn to see the light.

By the end, I was among the top students across the four tenth grades. Of course, my marks were weaker than in Kazakhstan, due to my lack of German, but they were enough to enter Gymnasium directly into the eleventh grade.

I vividly remember the moment when, after being honored as one of the best students, I stepped off the stage and the principal walked over to where my grandmother sat. He shook her hand and thanked her for raising such a remarkable granddaughter, who within two years in Germany had become one of the best students. For my grandmother, this was profound recognition. That moment was engraved in her heart so deeply that even years later she recalled it with joy and pride. Especially precious was experiencing such recognition far from home, in a new land.

Between Closeness and Division
Before speaking of my Gymnasium years, I must share something about my relationship with my father. Moving to Germany meant we had to live together in one apartment – and I saw with my own eyes that he continued to drink here too. The state provided him with benefits, including my share, to support our life. But he never passed that portion on to my grandmother. She carried the burden of providing for me, while he surrendered to alcohol.

The nights were often filled with shouting. He screamed, cursed, vomited so loudly we could not sleep, sometimes ran naked through the flat – and in the morning denied it all, calling us liars. Those who have lived with alcoholics know how tightly truth and falsehood intertwine in their world.

What hurt me most was that he suddenly tried to interfere with my upbringing. I was fifteen or sixteen then – and I had no respect left for him. Our past, our constant fights, the violence, and what he continued to show even here in Germany – none of this left space for trust. We quarreled, sometimes physically. My only refuge was often the bathroom, where I locked myself away. Once, in rage, he even tore out the doorframe to get to me.

At that time, I realized I had to defend myself against my own father – something a child should never face. A father is meant to be protector. In my story, he was aggressor, a man who provoked me to drain my energy. And he does so still – only now I am strong and aware enough to give him nothing.

When he flew into rages, he bit his own arms. Since childhood, he had suffered from a nervous condition he was born with. In those moments, it seemed as if a demon were pushing to break out of his body and hurl itself upon me. My reaction – almost my only one in those years – was utter disgust, a defense against his madness.

Beer glasses, plates – anything within reach he would throw. The reason was always the same: he demanded respect, which I could no longer give him. It felt like a sudden attempt to claim the role of father, which he had never fulfilled. My inner being rebelled. In such moments, I was bursting with a sense of justice I had carried for years. I longed for truth and could not accept people demanding attention and respect while offering none themselves – instead acting in the opposite way.

On top of it all, my grandmother became even more fearful in this foreign country. For me, that meant even more restrictions and prohibitions. I wanted to do sports, have hobbies, develop myself, but was often not allowed – partly for financial reasons, partly because of her fears.

We lived as three generations under one roof, each with our own temperament. And in the middle of it all was me, thirsting for another life. Today I understand it was not just hunger for something new, but a deep longing for freedom, a desire to break out of the cage.

At that time, I had some friendships, but none truly absorbed me. I was in a phase of development I didn’t yet understand, and I adopted many unhealthy patterns.

Since neither my father nor grandmother gave me money, I began borrowing from friends. When invited somewhere, and I had nothing, I asked for their support. I often didn’t know how I would repay, yet somehow I always did. Sometimes I was gifted money, sometimes helped in other ways.

My father gave me what he called fifty euros of “pocket money.” For him, that was supposed to cover food, clothing, school supplies, and all my expenses. In truth, everything was provided by my grandmother. His money was symbolic rather than real support.

Thus I learned early to borrow money – and I internalized a heavy family pattern of dependence. While one relative fought with alcohol, I carried the burden of money.

At the same time, I searched for ways to be more independent. My father drank away the allowance meant for me. It was unbearable, and I made a decision: I wanted to deprive him of that possibility.

So I began working weekends at the Volkswagen factory. Many students had such jobs, cleaning new cars. For me, it was more than work. It was a conscious choice – to stand on my own feet and take away from my father the money intended for me.

And indeed: as soon as I began working, the benefits he used to receive on my behalf stopped. He exploded with rage…

The work became a valuable school, even if it took time from my studies. But it gave me my first taste of independence and the strength of knowing I could actively shape my life, even in hard circumstances.

Years later, in my study of numerology, I understood why all this played out so strongly. It was not just my “personal problem,” but an ancestral theme. In our lineage, dependencies recurred – alcohol for one, money for another. My soul had chosen to pass through this in order to recognize, break, and heal it.

Today I see clearly: what once seemed like weakness was in truth the beginning of my healing work – for me and for my lineage.

First Steps Into Freedom
At Gymnasium, I met the girl who would become my best friend. She spoke to me during Russian class – yes, I continued studying Russian as a foreign language, and this was the only Gymnasium that admitted me without English. That’s how a close friendship began.

She was bright, interesting, full of life, and we clicked immediately. On the very first day, I placed her on a pedestal. Over time, our friendship took the shape of her leading and me following. Back then, I was insecure, too yielding.

We spent eleven wonderful years together – filled with joy, closeness, and unforgettable moments. But it was also a phase in which I learned to understand myself more deeply.

Meanwhile, the pressure at home grew heavier. I could no longer bear it. My father was losing control, my grandmother ever more restrictive, and I longed to live. I was always dutiful: I studied well, helped at home, never touched drugs… And yet my wish for freedom was constantly denied. “No money, something will happen to you…” – such were the answers.

What drained me most was life with my father and the constant restrictions from my grandmother. I could no longer endure the madness – his outbursts, her fears, their limitations…

So I turned to child services. I wanted my own apartment. But my situation was not seen as “extreme.” My father was invited as well, and as always he played his role perfectly: at home the devil, in public the angel. They believed him more than me. Outwardly he looked like a caring father, and I was seen as a difficult teenager. I received no help.

But I did not give up. I kept seeking support, and eventually succeeded through social services. After several attempts, I was granted an allowance that enabled me to rent a room. At nineteen, I moved out. Not far from school, I found a townhouse with rooms for rent, and one became mine.

I told my grandmother only in the evening, the very day I moved. I knew why: had I told her earlier, she would have “talked me out of it.” Even then, I had a fine sense for people. I could not bear her constant scolding or the negative energy she carried with her. My grandmother knew how to manipulate, how to press on emotions – and in such a situation, it would have been unbearable. I did not want to put myself in a place where I would be worn down, so I kept silent until the end.

Only once my things were packed and there was no turning back, did I tell her. I remember how hard it was for her. Later I learned from a cousin that she had cried and called her children, telling them I had left.

Even now, it pains me to know how deeply it hurt her – the person who loved me most of all.

Years later, she still claimed I had left only because of my friend – that it was she who had changed me. In truth, my friend was just one piece of the puzzle. She showed me that life could be different, and with her I could try new things. But the decision to leave home came from my inner drive – my thirst for freedom and my longing to walk my own path.

It was my first great decision – to choose myself. I needed silence, peace, a space free from fights and pressure. And even if my grandmother could not give me that, I knew I could give it to myself.

It was one of the best decisions of my life. That was when I realized: we choose our destiny. Yes, decisions can be difficult, and their consequences painful. But in the end, it is in our hands to choose what best serves our soul.

And so, my move became the beginning of a new chapter. For the first time, I lived within my own four walls, free from the shouting and control at home. I continued my studies at Gymnasium and worked to support myself. The rent was covered until I earned more. I worked part-time in an ice cream café and earned my own money.

It was the beginning of a new life – one that was not always easy, but finally truly my own

And yes – my grades were not the best, but they were good enough to stay in school. In some subjects, especially Italian, I did very well. Languages had always come naturally to me. But in everything else, I struggled – for many reasons.

One of the reasons I struggled so much at school was the language barrier.
I had become shy, almost silent. And anyone who knows the German school system knows that the oral grade often counts for sixty percent, while the written one counts for only forty. So on paper, I was perhaps average – but when it came to speaking, I was a disaster.
Not because I didn’t know the answers, but because I felt insecure.

Someone who had once been lively and open had suddenly grown quiet.
I was afraid of making mistakes, afraid of being laughed at if I said something wrong.
I couldn’t understand how others spoke so loudly and confidently, defending their opinions even when they weren’t right. It didn’t matter what was said – only how it was said.
Confidence was rewarded more than truth. And that shook my self-esteem deeply.

But exactly there, something new began. That uncertainty became the beginning of my inner journey – to know myself, to face my weaknesses, and to discover my strengths.

Many years later, I realized that my shyness didn’t only come from insecurity – it came from shame. I was ashamed of my accent. It was like a quiet signature of my origin that always gave me away. I wanted to belong, to sound “right,” to sound like everyone else.

Only years later, when I lived in Canada, did that begin to shift. I decided to work on my accent and invested in accent reduction therapy to minimize my German-Russian pronunciation.
And indeed – while I sat in the therapist’s office, I could hear the improvement.
My voice sounded smoother, clearer, almost native. But every time I left the room and returned to daily life, my accent came back – naturally, effortlessly, as if it were part of my DNA. And at some point, I understood why: it was.

I never “fixed” it – and today, I would never want to. You can hear, in every language I speak, that I carry others within me. And that, to me now, is something beautiful.

I would not trade it for anything in the world. Because that sound in my voice – that blend of tones and roots – tells my story.

It reminds me that I am a person whose essence was not diluted by social expectations, not shaped by the pressure to sound like everyone else just to be accepted.

Because the truth is – you are not truly accepted when you lose yourself trying to fit in.

My accent remained. But what I gained is priceless. The shame I once felt has disappeared. No matter what language I speak now – I speak from within.

This is my small message to you:
You may not always get what you think you want when you strive for something new.
But often, life gives you something far greater – something beyond perfection or approval: yourself.

Another reason my performance at school fluctuated was work.
I often worked up to six hours after school. I was already living alone, and although it was quiet, the family arguments never seemed to end – even when I visited.

I still remember one situation vividly, as if it were carved into my memory.
Once, I brought my laundry to my grandmother’s house because there was no washing machine in my room or in the whole building. My only option was to wash things by hand. So, I thought it practical to bring them to my grandma.

But instead of understanding, I faced bitter disappointment.
My father became angry and accused me of wasting their money – because of the electricity the washing machine used.
My grandmother tried to comfort me, told me not to listen to him and to keep bringing my clothes. But I was too proud. I never did it again.

That moment hurt me deeply. Even years later, I could still feel that sting – the coldness in the air, the loneliness that followed.

From then on, I took my clothes to the dry cleaner. It cost money, of course – so I had to work even more to afford it. Later, I bought a small bucket and began hand-washing everything at home, drying it in my tiny room. I did what I could. I fought quietly, with the strength I had.

Some might say, “Well, if you moved out, you have to take responsibility.”
And yes, of course.
But that was not the point. It wasn’t about responsibility – it was about being left alone once again.
There was never a moment in my life when my father truly supported me. On the contrary, later it was even expected that I would be the one to take care of him.

There was another reason my school performance suffered.
Somewhere deep inside me, unnoticed, a quiet depression had taken root.
I did not know when it began. Back then, I hardly even knew the word – let alone what it meant.
But looking back now, I believe it started when I was around sixteen or seventeen – in the time when I slipped into an eating disorder, a kind of bulimia.

I still lived with my family.
It was that age when girls want to lose weight, when the mind begins to equate beauty with worthiness – to believe that only those who are beautiful are loved.
It’s the stage when the psyche starts to learn that love often seems conditional: be pretty, be strong, be perfect.

Now I see how many signs there already were that I needed to learn self-love.
But there was no one around me who could recognize it, no one who understood such things.
I went through all stages of my inner struggle alone.
And, as it often happens, what was not understood was punished.

My grandmother eventually noticed that I always went to the bathroom right after meals. She didn’t know why.
I made myself throw up – I put my fingers down my throat, trying to regain a sense of control that I lacked everywhere else.
But instead of receiving help, I was scolded.
She accused me of wasting food – and with it, money.

So I fought not only with an invisible pain, but also with guilt and accusation. The worst part was that soon the entire extended family knew.
I was mocked, shamed, humiliated.

Once, when I stayed a week with my uncle, the bathroom door was locked after dinner. When I asked why, my “problem” was mentioned right in front of everyone.
I felt exposed – and betrayed by my grandmother.

It seemed that in this family there was never a secret that stayed protected. Everything was discussed, passed around, absorbed – and later used against me. My weaknesses became gossip; my vulnerability, a source of shame.

Looking back, I believe that was the time when my depression truly began to take shape. At that time, I wasn’t aware of it.
Only later, when I was at the gymnasium and the pressure grew heavier from all sides, did I start to have panic attacks – especially during the preliminary exams for my final graduation.

My best friend told her mother about it.
Her mother said it sounded like depression, since I often felt as if I were “under a glass dome” – as if everything around me was unreal, distant, dreamlike.
So I decided to see a neurologist.

But the appointment was disappointing. He barely listened, asked no questions.
After a few minutes he reached for his prescription pad and wrote down antidepressants. I felt unseen – dismissed.
I was sent away with a slip of paper that was supposed to heal my soul.

I took the medication at first, but deep down I knew – this wasn’t the way. I stopped soon after.

When I told my younger sister – who was already in Germany – she laughed and said I was crazy for taking pills.
That hurt more than she could imagine.
It felt so lonely – to not be understood by anyone.

During that same time, I was taking driving lessons.
It took me a long time – I even paused for six months after failing the practical exam three times.
The theoretical test I passed without a single mistake. But driving itself – that was different.

Now I know that it was because of my mental state, the exhaustion and pressure I carried. My driving instructor was not kind either; he often shouted at me, adding more fear and tension.

And as I write this now, I realize how many layers of stress, fear, confusion, and silent pain I carried back then – without knowing, without anyone to help me hold it.

It was a long road before I finally held my driver’s license in my hands. So much money, so many hours, so many small tests – not only on the road, but also in life itself.
At first, my grandmother didn’t want to support me. She said she wouldn’t give me any money for it and asked why I wanted to do it at all if I wouldn’t be able to afford a car afterward. Those words weren’t truly hers. They had been whispered to her – by someone in the family, someone who, as so often, interfered in decisions that really only concerned me.

I see it differently today. Back then I didn’t understand, but now I can feel how deeply the voices of others shaped my path. Later, my grandmother changed her mind. She helped me, covering about half of the costs – and I was grateful for that. My father, as usual, contributed nothing.

When I look back at that time now, I feel both gratitude and a quiet ache inside, where a pattern reveals itself – one that was already forming back then. Too many influences from outside, too many people who believed they knew what was right for me. And yet, despite everything, I was always the one who kept going my own way. Perhaps not loudly, but with quiet determination.

Today, many years later, I sometimes hear that things didn’t happen that way, that people remember it differently. And each time, I feel how truth shifts depending on the eyes that see it. Everyone carries their own version of the story. But mine lives within me – quietly, clearly, and truthfully.

Maybe that’s why I speak differently now. I no longer tell my story to prove something or to correct anyone. I share it so that others can take something from it, something they can use in their own daily lives. Without struggle, without defense – simply as it has become within me.

And perhaps that is where also your forgiveness begins – not outwardly, but inwardly.
Of course, not everything was dark during that time.
There were also moments when I felt life pulsing through me – when I laughed, danced, and dreamed. I was young, and all the ordinary desires of youth did not pass me by.

That was when I began to care deeply about how I looked.
The money I earned from my job at the ice cream shop went into clothes – little things that made me feel like I belonged. I believed that being well-dressed made me prettier, maybe even more lovable. That through this, I could somehow become “normal.”

And yes – the saying “clothes make the person” carries some truth. But they only soothe the soul for a moment. Healing, true healing, begins only when we start to look inward and invest there.
Back then, though, fashion was my escape. My way of coping with the noise inside me.

I also went out – to small gatherings, to discos, sometimes with a drink or a cigarette. I was never addicted; it was more of a social ritual, something that made me feel part of a group.

And so my years at the gymnasium passed – between school, work, and small escapes into nightlife, most often with my best friend by my side.

But the chapter ended differently than I had hoped.
I did not pass my final exams. I failed three subjects – only Italian, my language of the heart, I passed well.
I had one week to retake the exams, but I chose not to.

I didn’t believe that I could make up in one week what I had been struggling with for years. Deep down, I knew that my failure wasn’t just about studying – it was about my inner exhaustion, the fatigue of my soul.

I pretended to be fine.
I acted cool, as if it didn’t touch me – especially in front of my best friend. I didn’t want to appear weak or emotional. But that was a mistake.

I should have faced it, felt it, understood it. Instead, I buried it all – just like I always did.

I thought it was better to appear strong, to be who others expected me to be.
Only much later did I realize how much of a wall that created inside me – how it closed the natural flow of my feelings.

You can imagine what that does to someone who once was among the best in school, and suddenly finds themselves failing.

During that time, something happened that I will never forget.
A relative stepped on my foot while standing in the doorway – seemingly by accident, yet it didn’t feel accidental at all.
Something in me sensed that it carried another meaning, something energetic, something not quite right.
I let it go back then, dismissed the strange feeling, tried not to dwell on it.

Only years later did I learn that in certain forms of folk magic, such an act is used as a ritual – to block someone’s path, to hinder their personal growth.

In old stories and magical traditions, the act of stepping on another person’s foot in the doorway is not seen as a simple gesture, but as a symbolic act.
In many cultures, feet represent one’s path – movement, development, the soul’s progression through life. They carry us through all our stages, through joy and transformation.

When someone steps on another’s foot intentionally – out of envy, dominance, or old custom – it can be seen as an attempt to disrupt that person’s path, to obstruct the natural flow of their life.
Such beliefs appear in old Slavic zagovory (spoken spells) and in foot- or footprint-magic rituals found in other parts of the world.

Everywhere the Earth is revered as the keeper of our steps, such an act was once seen as interference with destiny itself – an attempt to change the direction of someone’s life.

And when I learned about this much later, I realized that something like that might have been done to me – precisely at the time when life had become so heavy, when I could barely move forward.

Yet every energetic act carries its counterpart – awareness.
The moment I recognized that something might have been directed against my path, the healing began.
It was as if a pattern, long hidden, had suddenly revealed itself to me.

With light, with mindfulness, with inner clarity, I began to transform the shadow on my path. Not through struggle, but through understanding.

Whether one believes in such things or not – for me, this realization was healing. It helped me see the unexplainable parts of my life with greater compassion.

I understood that some paths do not close because we fail, but because something – internal or external – blocks our flow.

And yet, the moment awareness awakens, the path begins to open again.

That is exactly what happened to me.
As I started to see the connections, as I stopped questioning my own light, the knots that had bound me for years began to loosen.

I realized that no shadow is eternal – and that even what tries to stop us can become part of our awakening.

After the exams, I decided at least to complete my Fachabitur – my specialized secondary diploma.
I wanted to prove to myself that all those years of learning, striving, and holding on were not for nothing.

So I began a one-year internship at the public health insurance office, and together with my earlier school records, I was finally able to confirm my qualification.

It wasn’t a grand triumph in the eyes of the world – but for me, it was a quiet victory.
A small, steady step that showed me that something within me had never stopped moving forward.
That even after all the setbacks, the flame in me was still alive.

I learned that success has many faces.
Sometimes it doesn’t come through grades or certificates, but through the inner strength to keep walking – no matter how slow, no matter how heavy the path feels.

Five years of my life – for a Fachabitur.
Five years of trials, detours, lessons, and silent resilience.
Five years in which I failed many times, and yet, each time, I stood up again.

By then, I was already living with my boyfriend in Braunschweig.
It was another new phase of my life – quieter, more grounded, and yet filled with inner questions.
After all the years of fighting, searching, and stumbling, I began to feel something change inside me.
A new awareness was taking form.

I realized that not every path we choose is truly ours. Some dreams are meant to transform so that we can grow. And as I began to accept that truth, I felt a deep peace settling in.

Looking back now, I see how deeply those years shaped me. All that happened – the pain, the lessons, the disappointments – they didn’t break me. They formed me.

No, I didn’t come out of that time with the best results — at least not in the way society usually measures success. After seven years in Germany, I had preserved something far more important: myself. Back then, I didn’t spend much time researching whether I could study architecture with my Fachabitur.

Today, I sometimes ask myself why I didn’t try harder to find out — because, in truth, it would have been possible. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the weight of all the circumstances that surrounded me at the time — so many decisions, so many unanswered questions, all pressing in at once.

And yet, I feel that everything happened exactly as it was meant to. I chose to stay in that direction and began a vocational training as a technical draftswoman in the field of heating, climate, and sanitary systems. It wasn’t a glamorous path, not the dream I once imagined as a child. But it was real. Tangible. Grounded.

And perhaps that was exactly what I needed back then — something to bring me back to earth after all the uncertainty and fragility of the years before.

Because just as life tested me again and again, it also taught me to keep walking – step by step, with an open heart. Always forward. No matter what.
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And so I began to embrace this new chapter – not as an end, but as the beginning of something different.