I remember one evening when my grandmother washed me in an old iron bathtub.

It was in the kitchen, in a room where there was also a traditional wood stove on which she heated water for bathing. The hot water was poured into the tub, and I still remember how scalding it was. My little bottom, as Grandma lovingly called it—“strawberry-colored, plump and red”—got really hot in that bath.

When the bath was over, she lifted me out and immediately wrapped me in a big towel so I wouldn’t catch a chill—and probably also so I wouldn’t run naked through the house.

Then she brought me into the living room. My grandfather was already lying on the sofa waiting for me. Before I was allowed to play with him, my grandma dressed me right here beside the sofa. I clearly remember how she pulled the T-shirt with red-orange polka dots from the three-piece set over my head and gently guided my little arms through the sleeves. And already, I felt the anticipation rising inside me. I put on my tights—no skirts or pants; it was typical for kids my age to run around like that.

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...

At some point, the inner conflict within me settled—and I became a granddaughter to my grandmother.
Not by birth—but through everything that connected us. I became a diligent student, curious, ambitious. At school, I was among the best. My success was received in very different ways. Even within my own family. My grandmother herself had never expected it. She had no education. During the Second World War, she only completed two years of school.
The family was so poor, she didn’t even have winter shoes to walk to school. So she stayed home—with basic knowledge of reading, writing, and arithmetic. That was all that had been possible.
That I would one day be among the top of my class—that was hardly imaginable to her. But after every parent-teacher meeting, she came home content.
With a simple sentence that meant more to me than any award:
‍"You were praised again."

‍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.

Before I speak about the move, I want to share something else. Something that still goes deep under my skin to this day: the people I had to leave behind. Even before everything truly began.

My parents were officially life partners, but they weren’t married. And that became a major hurdle later on, when the time came to leave for Germany. So much had to be arranged, clarified, legally sorted out. But one thing stood out as especially important – a decision whose weight only truly hit me years later: my grandmother had to officially adopt me under Kazakh law. Only then would I be allowed to leave the country without my mother.

Because my mother and all my siblings stayed behind: Maria, Olga, and Valentina.

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.

December 1, 2000 was the day we left our village in Kazakhstan. To this day, that moment is etched in my memory as if it had happened only yesterday. For me, it was filled with anticipation, with a sense of inner departure – finally, I could leave the old world behind. I had always been someone drawn to the new, carried by a thirst for change. But this was the very first time I was truly leaving everything familiar, without any experience of what it meant.

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

When I moved out, a new life began for me.
It felt unfamiliar – a little frightening – to be alone in a room for the first time, to live by myself, carrying all the responsibility that suddenly rested on my young shoulders.
I was still very young, but I embraced everything with an open, positive heart. I dreamed of a vast future, a world at my feet.

My performance at the gymnasium was never particularly good. Somehow, I managed to move up every year. At one point, many advised me to repeat the eleventh grade. They said it would be almost impossible to graduate later if my grades were just barely enough to pass. I listened to their advice. I had no one in my family who could truly guide me – no one had ever come this far.

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.

When I moved in with my boyfriend after finishing school, a new chapter of my life began.
Suddenly, everything felt brighter. Calmer. Safer.

The next five and a half years felt like an exhale — as if, for the first time, my inner world could finally rest.

I don’t want to go too deep into that time, because my former partner is married now,
and I wish to leave the past in peace — with respect.

But one thing must be said: he was the first man who truly saw me as a partner.

He treated me with respect - genuine, steady, and with a quiet depth that still touches me today. Through him, I learned what it means to be seen, appreciated, and accepted.

And for that, I am still deeply grateful.The most important realization, however, came later — in another chapter of my life.
That relationship became the foundation of something I still carry within me today:
I have never allowed a man to treat me badly - because I knew it could be different.
I had experienced what it feels like to be loved with respect, warmth, and sincerity.

Maybe that first real relationship became a kind of invisible measure - a quiet bar against which everything that followed was compared. Not only by others, but by me.

And I don’t mean that I compared partners. It was something deeper. Through that first relationship, I had learned where my personal boundaries were - what level of respect, depth, and presence I needed in love.

That inner standard stayed with me -not out of pride, but out of awareness. I knew what felt right. And I could never again go back to anything less.

He gave me what my parents never could - what my father never taught me.
And that’s why I could no longer overlook it when something felt smaller than that.

I learned to set boundaries - lovingly, but firmly. I learned what respect truly means.
And I began to expect it, naturally, without hesitation.

No man was ever allowed to belittle, hurt, or demean me.

I was often in love — or at least I thought I was. It took me many years to realize
that I had truly loved only two men in my life — deeply, honestly, soulfully.

Back then, I saw my partner as a safe place, a quiet harbor. Before that, I had known only disappointment - nothing dramatic, but painful enough to awaken a longing for stability.
And if you knew the life I’d lived up to that point, you’d understand why I longed for something steady.

At that time, I made a conscious decision that he was the right one. But somewhere deep inside, I already knew he wasn’t right for me.

Once, he even stood up for me when my father called me something no father should ever say to his daughter. My boyfriend didn’t hesitate. In a calm, firm voice, he interrupted - and my father immediately fell silent. He remained respectful, but his quiet strength was enough to stop him.

It was the most powerful and beautiful gesture anyone had ever made for me.

That’s why I experienced his affection as something precious - refreshing, healing.
It gave me air to breathe.

I entered that relationship believing that reason and stability could be enough. But my soul was asking for more. Perhaps it was right for a time - certainly healing - but not for a lifetime.

It’s well known that many women struggle in relationships because they’ve never truly known their father’s love. And although that wound followed me through the years, and although I never again allowed anyone to mistreat me - I still attracted men who couldn’t love me deeply.

So yes, pain returned later in life - not because someone deliberately hurt me, but because I always sensed too early when something was off. When words and intentions didn’t align.
I recognized patterns before they repeated themselves.

And so many connections ended before they could truly begin. Because deep inside, I didn’t know love - not the kind that nourishes, not the kind that stays.

That became the seed of my healing journey - of all the shadow work, all the lessons, all the inner transformations that would one day help me understand why certain things in my life unfolded the way they did.

Too much had gone wrong from the very beginning - from birth itself. And I had to heal it, piece by piece.

But even in that early relationship, I could feel that everyday life - the routine so many people call “normal” - was slowly suffocating me. Work, home, cooking, routine - my soul was drying out. It was starving for something else.

I was the one who looked sideways - at the world, at life, at people. At work, in a club, on the street - II was searching for movement, for a spark of aliveness. I didn’t want attention for the sake of attention. I just needed a pulse - something new, something real.

This hunger for “more” often led me into extreme situations. It was as if life itself was sending me exactly where growth was unavoidable.

I was drawn to conversations about inner work, about self-awareness, about consciousness.
Topics that went beyond what people usually talked about. Now I know that this was no coincidence. My soul carries the vibration of Five - freedom, change, depth, experience.

I was never meant for a static life. I need to feel, explore, move - to understand.

I love with my ears. I fall in love when I learn something - when a conversation expands me,
when a thought touches my soul.

Even in love, that never changed. To this day, I feel no spark if a man cannot teach me something new - if I sense that I’m ahead of him in awareness or growth.

It’s not about superiority or power. It’s about resonance - about meeting on the same frequency of consciousness.

I speak of evolution. Of a man who leads without dominating. Who gives stability because he himself is grounded. Who doesn’t hold his woman small - but grows alongside her.

Today, when so many men chase material things, I lose interest quickly. A paradox -because I do love the material world. I’ve always dreamed of a refined life. But what fascinates me most is balance - the harmony between the spiritual and the material. That connection awakens all my senses.

A man who spends his evenings on the couch, without dreams, without fire - he has no space in my life. That realization sharpened over the years. With every lesson, every experience, every fall and rise, my standards evolved.

Today, I no longer have room for anything less than depth, for empty talk, or shallow encounters.

I am too risky. Too unpredictable. Too free.
Too conscious to be manipulated - and that, I know, silently frightens many men.

But let’s return for a moment -back home.

I remember having to buy my own computer in installments. Neither my grandmother nor my father wanted to help me. I needed it for school - even back in secondary school, I knew that without one, it would be almost impossible to manage in higher education.

Looking back, I was right. But you can imagine what that caused among my family. My grandmother supported me as best she could - always. Yet later, that same support became the reason for arguments. Whenever money was involved, things turned heavy.

All my small failures - especially the financial ones - were remembered, collected, like invisible notes stored away in their minds.

And when I went through one of the painful phases of my life, they used those memories against me. Every payment, every choice, every risk - suddenly it was all brought back up.

Not as compassion, but as proof. Proof of what they had always wanted to make me believe:
that I wasn’t good enough. That I was nothing without them. That the way I lived was a mistake.

But that was never the truth. It was their mirror - not mine.

They had gathered my past to use against me when I was vulnerable. But by then, I already knew how such people operated. I understood why they attacked. And I had long since learned to face, accept, and transform my own weaknesses.

They couldn’t do that - because they never faced their own. Shadow work was foreign to them. Inner healing was a territory they refused to explore. They preferred to judge, rather than look into the mirror.

I had chosen a different path - the raw, honest path back to myself. And that made all the difference.

As for that “computer story”… my relatives told my grandmother I didn’t need one. Their children hadn’t had one for the school purposes - why should I?

They said a computer was a luxury, not a necessity. And maybe it was but underneath, there was a hidden message: that I didn’t deserve it.

Advice given from limited experience can become a cage. And my grandmother, as she often did, listened to other voices more than to mine.

That’s how I learned early on that understanding and support can’t always be expected - not even from the people closest to you.

Over time, I noticed something else: it’s often those with the least awareness who have the loudest opinions. And when it comes to morality - not everyone can truly wear that label.
Morality is not about words or appearances, but about consciousness, empathy, and inner truth.

People project their fears and limitations onto you - especially when you dare to live differently. They never allowed themselves to go beyond their own boundaries,
so they can’t understand how you do.

They might say, “Who do you think you are? If we can’t do it, how dare you?”

But here lies the invitation: understand that what people say about you rarely says anything about you at all. It’s projection - a mirror of their limits, not yours.

They don’t reveal who you are - they reveal who they are.

Yes, I made mistakes. I wanted things too soon, too quickly. I took on installment payments -
but never for pleasure, never for meaningless things.

 Always for growth. For learning. For becoming.

That time taught me more about responsibility than any classroom ever could. It also showed me how hard it is to walk your path alone - to fight for a vision no one else sees.

Even now, decades later, many of those same voices remain trapped in the same small patterns they once defended. Because they never learned anything new.

The reason I mention this whole “computer thing” is because it played a much bigger role in my life than one might think.
I was already eighteen when I could finally afford a computer — only then was I allowed to begin a payment plan. And that seemingly simple fact had consequences that went far beyond the material.

Because of it, my computer skills remained limited for a long time. Even later, when I attended high school, I still lacked what so many children in Germany had been learning naturally since early childhood.
That missing foundation showed up again during my training as a technical draftswoman — a profession where you’re expected to start with a certain level of experience.

It also showed in my confidence. An older trainee often laughed at me when I didn’t know certain basic terms or programs. And the person who was supposed to train me sometimes used my visible insecurity — my trembling uncertainty — to make belittling or hurtful remarks.
I felt mocked, misunderstood, humiliated. I can no longer recall her exact words, but I still remember the feeling — that burning, painful sense of shame.

After about a month of training, I had a panic attack while driving home.
I cried — from pain, from helplessness, from being completely overwhelmed. I stopped at the side of the highway to calm myself down. I don’t know how long I sat there — but eventually, I managed to drive on.

Maybe that moment was the reason I still finished the training — because it was the first time in my life I had to pause and breathe, instead of just functioning.

And perhaps you’re wondering why I didn’t say anything back then — why I never told anyone at work what was really happening.
The truth is: I was afraid. Afraid they wouldn’t believe me. Afraid it would be seen as weakness. Afraid I’d lose my position — that they’d believe the person who had been there for years, not the new, insecure trainee.

Deep inside, the old trauma from my school years was still alive — the experience of failing my final exams. That wound gnawed at my self-worth, pulling me downward.
Today, it all feels so far away — like another lifetime. But back then, I didn’t yet have the life experience, the inner strength, or the trust that I have now.
My life was still heavily shaped by external influences — and my inner world too fragile to protect itself.

And if you ever find yourself in a similar place, I want to tell you one thing:
Speak. Silence does not protect — it only makes you lonelier.
No one has the right to belittle or hurt you. Reach out, talk to someone you trust. You don’t have to carry it alone.  And above all: never allow anyone to use your insecurity against you.

Learn to work with your weaknesses — gently, patiently, honestly. Because once you know your own shadows, no one can turn them against you. Every attack loses its power, and the light returns to the one who sent it out.
Your sensitivity is not a flaw — it is the expression of your depth, your feeling, your soul. Hold yourself when no one else can. Because in those moments, true healing begins.

That time also taught me how the professional world really works:
You are observed. And the moment you show insecurity, some will use it as an entry point — especially those who feel triggered by your energy. That’s why so many people hide their true emotions, wearing a mask so they won’t appear vulnerable.
They build up immense pressure inside — too much stress, too many expectations, all just to avoid failure.

But this constant hiding, this swallowing of pain, slowly destroys the inner system.
That’s how depression, illness, exhaustion, and burnout are born — until, eventually, the person beneath collapses.

In our society, those who show their feelings and weaknesses openly are often seen as “too soft.” Yet in truth, they are the strongest of all. Because they open within themselves the process of real, pure love — for themselves and for life.

Yes, back then there were many gaps in my awareness, many insecurities.
And they were visible to others. Some attacked me for them — perhaps because, despite everything, they sensed something in me they lacked themselves: my light, my yearning to grow, my inner call toward something higher.

And despite all my weaknesses — I kept going.
And I did not stop.

Later, life unfolded again- and after five years, something inside me began to stir. A quiet pull to leave everything behind. To break free from the relationship everyone saw as “perfect.”

On the outside, it looked ideal - the kind of love people dream of. But inside, I felt as if I was slowly suffocating. I couldn’t understand what was happening. After all, I had everything a young woman was “supposed” to want - a stable relationship, security, plans for marriage, children, a shared home. And yet… nothing touched me deeply. I didn’t want any of it. It wasn’t truly my life.

Sometimes I cried without knowing why. Not only for myself - even my partner couldn’t understand it. Now I know it was my soul crying - asking to be heard. Begging for freedom.

Back then, I didn’t understand what was wrong with me. Why was I unhappy when everything seemed perfect? Why did I feel as though I was betraying someone - when, in truth, I was betraying myself?

I was living the life of others - the life I thought I was supposed to live. Perhaps I stayed because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, because I didn’t want to be called selfish.

But in doing so, I hurt myself - because I was lying to my own heart.

I wanted to be the perfect girlfriend, to meet expectations, to do everything “right.” But in that constant effort to appear right on the outside, I lost touch with what was true inside.

I no longer felt myself - my needs, my truth, my soul.It doesn’t happen often that you meet uch a kind, generous partner -  someone who gives you everything you think you need.
And yet, despite it all, something was missing. Something unspoken, something I couldn’t name.

And that’s why my soul wept…

Not because I didn’t love him - but because I could no longer hear myself. Because I had silenced my own voice in the attempt to be everything for everyone else.I was following standards and ideals that didn’t belong to me. I was being the woman society wanted —
not the woman my soul came here to be.

And so my soul cried - quietly, persistently - until I finally listened.

I wanted to go out into the world. To soothe that hunger in my heart. To experience something new - something that could heal the parts of me I didn’t yet know were broken.

At the time, I didn’t even realize there was something to heal.

But the truth is - the worst thing you can ever do is lie to yourself just to please others. That is the fastest path to inner destruction. I later understood how deep this truth runs. Because how can you trust someone who lies to themselves? If you’re not honest with yourself, you can never build real intimacy with another.

That became one of my guiding principles - in love, in friendship, in every connection. I watch for honesty - the kind that begins within. Because only then can trust grow. It’s not about being perfect - it’s about being real.

And that’s what matters most to me now. Your past doesn’t define your worth as long as you learn from it. True value doesn’t come from flawlessness - it comes from awareness, from the courage to face yourself fully.

My life had evolved by then - I was strong, independent, focused on material success. I thought I had left my past behind. I didn’t believe my childhood wounds still influenced me.

But later, I realized - to be truly free, you must face them. 

And so I made a decision: to go abroad for a year, together with my best friend at the time.

A fire of excitement lit up inside me. I had a dream, a goal - and suddenly everything felt possible.I was inexperienced,  shaped by family expectations and social norms, but something inside me wanted more.

I chose Canada. There were many reasons - but mostly because it was easier than going to the U.S.

After my apprenticeship, I planned to study fashion design. Fashion had always played a role in my life. I organized everything so I could start studying upon my return.

First, I needed to finish my apprenticeship. It lasted three and a half years - but I didn’t want to wait that long. So I decided to shorten it by six months.

That was only possible with good grades - and I had them. Over the years, my scholar performance has improved.That feeling of safety and stability I had, gently reflected onto everything in my life.

Yet still, a thought haunted me: “It’s just an apprenticeship — real studies are for the smart ones.”

How deeply wrong that thought was.I had convinced myself that my earlier failure was about intelligence - that those who “only” took vocational paths weren’t clever enough.

But that was never true. I had cornered myself with my own beliefs.And that’s why I want to tell you: never underestimate your own strength. Your thoughts shape your reality.

I submitted my request to shorten my apprenticeship - and it was approved.
Three classmates followed my example, and soon we were a small study group, meeting several evenings a week to master what school had not yet taught us.

It was an exciting time. We had set a goal that few dared to pursue - and we achieved it.

I completed my vocational apprenticeship with good results, and for the first time, I felt the door to freedom open.

Afterward, I began preparing my portfolio for the fashion design program in Hamburg.
I joined a short preparatory course, where within a few months we built our creative portfolios.

I loved that time - the art, the expression, the freedom to create.During the week, I stayed with an acquaintance, someone I’d met through another friend. I moved in for three months - we shared a small apartment, one bed, and many evenings filled with laughter and deep conversation.

That brief encounter grew into a lasting friendship - one that still warms my heart today.

Around that time, my relationship with my boyfriend grew more fragile. We argued often, broke up a few times, but always found our way back.

I remember one argument vividly - I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. It turned into a panic attack. Maybe that’s why we stayed together. Maybe compassion held us longer than love.

Looking back, I know - if I had still loved him deeply, I would never have gone to Canada alone. I would have done everything to stay.When I love, I love with all of me. But leaving was my soul’s way out. Had I stayed, I would have never been able to let go.

It wasn’t the love of passion anymore - it was the tender affection for a soul who felt like family. A love pure and quiet —-for a man who was kind, who I wished nothing but light.

His family became my safe place. They gave me what my own family couldn’t - warmth, belonging, genuine love. To this day, I’m still close to his mother. There’s a quiet, loving bond between us - something many never understood, something a few even envied.

My father, of course, disapproved. He thought it was wrong to stay close to an ex’s family.
But I knew - that was only the limit of his understanding.I learned that it’s pointless to argue with those who live from a different level of awareness.

Some people simply don’t understand heart connections because they’ve never allowed themselves to feel that deeply.

And it’s not about judging them - it’s about seeing them, understanding that every soul acts from the level of consciousness it has reached.

We meet others only as deeply as we’ve met ourselves. 

And that truth changed everything for me. Because every encounter mirrors the space we’ve already opened within.

In those moments, you don’t always know what’s right. You simply listen to that quiet voice inside - even when it makes no sense.

It’s your compass. Your truth. The one voice that will never betray you.

And listening to it - even when fear walked beside me - was the beginning of my journey back home to myself.

And so it happened that I stood at the airport in Berlin – with only one suitcase of my belongings, 1000 euros in my pocket, which were supposed to last for a whole year, and my best friend holding my hand.

My boyfriend at the time had driven us there; back then we were still together, and saying goodbye to him was hard. At that moment, it suddenly became crystal clear what it means to go to another country – without him, without any stability, without any support.

Many people considered my decision naïve and risky, simply because they themselves would never have dared to do it. But it had always been my wish to live a life I would never regret. And so it was – and so it still is, to this day.

There is nothing worse for me than living your life according to someone else’s standards, burying your own desires out of fear, and later – perhaps at the end of life – realizing how deeply you regret the things you did not do. That has never changed: I have never regretted what I did, and I have never been ashamed of my mistakes or unconscious hurts.

I regret only one thing: something I didn’t do.

And it is still alive somewhere inside me... even though I am satisfied with my life, this one question still returns:

What if I had done it?

Maybe one day I will write about it. It is more private. It is about another person, my first love.

But back to my departure. Tears came. We hugged. We promised each other to meet again after one year. And yet, deep in my heart, I knew it was a farewell forever. I never planned this. As you know, I always acted in those moments out of feeling – out of what my soul wanted. My human mind did not yet have enough life experience to understand why.

I went into the unknown, full of expectation that I would experience an incredibly interesting year: new people, new customs, a new language, a new country. The unusual waited for me behind the ocean – and that is exactly how it was.

When we arrived, we lived for a month with strangers, for free. It was called CouchSurfing.

Among travelers it was very popular – a platform where people all over the world could stay a few nights in a home without paying. You left a review, and people who offered their home usually already had a rating and used the service themselves.

Probably your hair is standing up now, thinking how dangerous that was – and yes, somewhere you are right. But living in fear and trying nothing was never an option for me.

My greatest fear was something else: public speaking. That was the worst thing that could ever happen, I thought back then...

So during the first month we were able to save a lot of money, while my best friend and I were looking for a job. Most CouchSurfing hosts were men, because men are often braver in such things. And of course – we were two young, pretty girls, and we were always lucky with the stays.

Some of these encounters even became short friendships – not deep, not forever, but enough for that moment. That was CouchSurfing: an exchange of cultures, opinions, little life worlds. Some meetings were fleeting, others a bit deeper, yet everything remained light.

Would I do it again today? Probably not.

Not because of fear – but because of my life standards now, the expectations I have for myself. Today it would not feel aligned anymore.

But back then, at 25, it was perfectly fine. The world was open, I was curious, brave, and ready to try everything. It was a different time inside of me – a time of lightness, discovery, and trust in life and people. And the experience was always positive.

Whether in Canada or in America – we used CouchSurfing again on our trip along the WestCoast. In this way, we paid nothing for accommodation. We met new people who showed us their cities, guided us around, shared their favorite places with us.

To be able to stay in Canada and afford everything, we needed money. So we started looking for jobs. My friend had already been in Australia for a year. She had improved her English and it was much easier for her to find work. Her first job was in a café, selling coffee and cakes at the counter.

I still remember the moment when she told me on the beach that she would already start working. I swallowed deeply, because I had no English at all, and I knew I would have to settle for a less good job... and that it would take a long time until someone would hire me.

But I was positive. I set off with the only sentence I had memorized: “I’m looking for a job.”
I went into different hotels, trying to get a housekeeping job. Some said they would call. I don’t know how many rejections there were. Was there doubt that it was a wrong decision?

No. I knew: you always have to take the first step before the second comes.

And the Universe always walks with you – you just have to go. And so it was.

A pizza shop gave me a job after two months in Canada. I was supposed to sell pizza slices on a main street in Vancouver – Granville Street, a street very active day and night. All the nightclubs were there, junkies drifted across the street like in a dream, between small modest shops. I could already say a few sentences, communicate, explain how much something cost – and that is how it began.

The job was so intense. I was often scheduled in the evenings, and the pizzeria was open until four in the morning. Party people came to eat. In Germany people would probably get a döner – they had it there too, but not as tasty as ours. Pizza was very popular at night.

They came drunk, high, sometimes aggressive.
I remember the day when I had to ask a homeless woman to leave the shop.

It was also part of my job to make sure the customers felt comfortable and were not harassed.

Sometimes that meant asking someone to go. I did exactly that – with my broken English.

She became very loud and insulted me. Then she stood outside for a very long time, staring at me through the window...

Every night I risked being attacked by junkies. I also had to worry about not being attacked by homeless people – Granville Street was full of desperate, lost souls, especially at night when I walked alone.

At five in the morning, after everything was cleaned and the shop was closed, I had to walk home through the darkness. Luckily we rented a room downtown, my friend and I. It was also to save money. Even today, in Canada, it is very common to have roommates.

Life is so expensive that many cannot afford to live alone. So many share a place with others – especially students, travelers, people from around the world.

Every night I risked being attacked. And yet, after some years it became so normal that I stopped being afraid. The harder part was the time itself. The night shifts stressed me.

At home I had nightmares – I walked in my sleep or talked in my dreams. Once I reached for the floor lamp, because I believed it was taking pizza slices off the trays – as if it were a customer. I did all this half awake, half asleep, somewhere between dream and reality.

My friend had to shake me awake. I dreamed of the stress of that job, where everything had to keep moving like on a conveyor belt, so the line at the counter would shrink.

My strength was always my speed. I was very fast, and I could handle stress. It was a skill I had to learn quickly abroad – and I learned to use it. Every employer who ever hired me valued me for that. I replaced two, sometimes three employees. And that opened doors for me.

But I also had to learn that my emotional health suffered. Back then I didn’t know aboutthese things. I had already learned to be strong. Do you remember when that moment was?

I could not stand it when someone was weak, when someone was a crybaby or didn’t lift a finger. If something was “too much” for someone, it irritated me. I convinced myself I could handle everything. I thought I had no choice...

Then another hotel owner gave me a housekeeping job. And so I worked two jobs at the same time – until I quit the hotel. I preferred selling pizza instead of cleaning rooms –and that was right for many reasons.

First, I had much more contact with people, and I could improve my language skills.
Yes, on a minimal level, but I was constantly interacting. I listened, I answered, I repeated, I learned a little every time. In the hotel I was alone between beds, towels, and vacuum cleaners. No conversations, no encounters, nothing that would improve my language.

Second, every time I finished a room in the hotel, I remembered that in Germany I had agood profession, a nice apartment. And now here I was doing these jobs, just because I didn’t speak the language well enough.

This shame, this feeling of stepping down a level, made me feel like I was going backwards.

It had never been a plan of my life. So I had to get out as quickly as possible – not because it was a “bad job”, but because you are so physically exhausted that you have no time and no energy to do something that would offer you a better life.

And yes, I knew it was only for one year. But I had left to experience something better.

The pizza shop was loud, chaotic, full of energy, sometimes hard – but it was alive. And that was exactly what I needed.

With every month, I became more aware how minimal my English really was. To this day I wonder how I managed everything.

Sometimes someone asked me something not about pizza, and I smiled like a mute person, because I didn’t understand a word – and still I didn’t want to be rude. So I learned a new sentence or word every day.

For New Year’s Eve I was supposed to work in the pizzeria. And I decided it was time to leave. I had not gone abroad to work on holidays – especially not in a job that didn’t make me happy. I found another job in a pizza bar, a little more upscale, and I was allowed to celebrate New Year.

But with better working conditions, my language had to get better too. I became a waitress – and that required more than just selling the same pizza slices.The language had to flow, I had to express myself, talk to people, take orders, react, laugh, listen.

My English had to improve – so I adapted. I observed, I learned, I got better.

I never had English in school, if you remember. My English came from life in Canada: by communicating, by reading, and through many, many mistakes. And I had to do all of this to heal the shame – the shame of being different.

I was again in another country, without speaking the language well. And it was up to me:
hide because I was embarrassed not to be perfect... or join people and learn.

I chose the second – and I was very happy with that decision.

But language shame was not the only one. There were many moments when I thought:

You had a good life – why all of this?

Every time the question came, I knew it was my mind – ego-driven, not my soul. My soul knew that I had to go down somewhere. That I had to learn humility.

My experiences in Canada didn’t only change me as a person. They showed me how much Icould do alone. It was only the beginning of the obstacles I had to overcome.

I changed jobs a few times in Canada. I don’t want to list them all, but it always went forward. I was still in service, but the places became more upscale. My confidence grew, my English improved.

That year I had to learn a lot about myself. Especially about the fact that abroad, people saw me differently. I received more compliments for my appearance, my character, my qualities, than ever before in Germany. And I had to learn something: to receive.

People in Canada were open and positive. They didn’t complain as much. Even though many probably had a harder life than in Germany. I could feel it immediately: I was among people who stood positively towards life.

Maybe it was because it was a multicultural country. Among ten Canadians, maybe threewere born in Canada. It is densely filled with foreigners.

And yes, there are always exceptions – but in general it was natural there to have an accent, to speak another language. You were not “different”. It was part of the Canadian culture – that’s how I experienced it.

Alongside the new language, I also began to see my best friend differently. I began to noticethat she saw me differently too – perhaps because people reacted to me in a certain way.

She had never seen this side of me.

Over the years I understood that I always stood in her shadow. Our friendship was seen as aduo, but she was the dominant one.

And yes, I remember how often I just went along, so Icould be “the good one”. Because being who I really was, with my shadows, with my opinions when I didn’t like her behavior – I couldn’t do that before. The fear of losing her as afriend was too big. And so many decisions in our friendship were influenced by her.

I didn’t trust myself. I betrayed myself, without knowing. I didn’t value myself enough to understand that I was not less than her. She was not “better” than me. She was only more successful at school, better with languages, and had status because she came from a good family, loved and spoiled by her parents. And that is exactly the situation where I betrayed myself: because my abandonment trauma left something in me that I never understood – but it influenced my life deeply.

There comes the inner belief in yourself – at least on the surface. Later I often saw that even that is not enough to truly love yourself. I knew people who had a much better childhood and still didn’t believe in themselves. But at least in youth, such people often felt comfortable intheir own skin.

It was also a time when it bothered me so much that people didn’t separate us. That even my decisions were questioned with:
“And what does your friend think about this?” As if Ineeded to run my life decisions through her. I felt my identity was mixed. Things she didwere automatically attributed to me. If she behaved a certain way, people assumed I would behave the same. I didn’t like that.Very quickly I realized that outside of my familiar environment in Germany, I finally began to see myself. I wanted to shine with my own light – not be dimmed by another person. I didn’t want my qualities attributed to her, or hers to me.

I began discovering parts of myself I had never seen before. And so an unconscious aversion toward her grew in me. Today I know exactly what it was: By her side I could not be who I really was.

Not because she forbade it – but because I was not confident enough to show myself.
But I was smart enough to understand that I would never manage while she was still there.

Because she would always remind me who I used to be. And she loved me exactly that way: comfortable, insecure, easy to influence, a nice girl, somehow a gray mouse.

Yes – maybe from the outside I was no longer a gray mouse. But inside, I was so deeply wounded that I could neither explain nor see how deeply my true self was buried.

And I can imagine that if she reads this one day, she will say she never saw it like that.That she admired me for certain traits – because later those words came from her too. But I am sure she would admit that being with me was easy. Because I said yes to everything.

Because in our friendship, I was the follower. I was convenient.

There were a few moments when I said no or refused something. In those situations, she called me “difficult” or was angry because she supposedly couldn’t rely on me.

What she meant: she did not like it when I stood up for myself. She did not like it when I chose myself.

There were times in my life when I often heard from people that I was stupid, crazy, difficult, or not empathetic enough. These judgments always came when I separated from narcissistic people – when I cut the connection completely and no longer allowed people to project their programs and fears onto me.

Every time someone had a problem with me choosing myself, I could clearly see who benefited from me being “the good one”.

I say it consciously so, because back then I didn’t understand it differently. I had not yet accepted my shadows.This path began with saying no. Holding my own opinion. Walking separate ways. It was long, painful – and over time, it became easier.

Today I do it consciously. When a person has been important to me for a long time, I give a warning before I leave completely. Not out of drama, but out of respect. But deep inside I know: the ones who want to stay by my side will grow with me. Not for me – but for themselves.

I know how hard it is to change. I have been doing it for many years. And I learned: there is no point changing for someone else. Therefore, I don’t expect it from others.So only two paths remain very clearly: I accept someone completely as they are, if I want them in my life, or I leave, if their behavior pulls my energy down, makes me small, makes me doubt myself.

I no longer have the willingness to make myself emotionally small so that someone else feels better. For that, there are therapists. They get paid for it.

My only invitation is: if you want to come with me where I am going, I expect that you are already working on your inner path.

But if someone holds on to the old version of me, or the old version of themselves, without changing anything, then our paths separate. And I wish them love – just without me.

And I act this way today because I know exactly how many years, how much time, how many emotional rollercoasters such a path takes. Even if someone begins it with the wish to succeed – it is a process. You cannot expect a person to arrive within one week where you have been walking for years. And this fact is important: experience accumulates over time, through countless decisions, steps, mistakes, insights, and new beginnings.

And therefore, it is so important for me to understand:

If I see a person who does not want or cannot walk the same path, we cannot continue together.

Not because I don’t want to help – on the contrary, I am willing to help. But it must not come to the point where their energy pulls me down.

I cannot sacrifice my life, my direction, my health, just so someone else feels better. Help yes – but not at the cost of my own path.

Because my emotional health is sacred.

It is my foundation. And today, it is the most important thing I have.

Back then, I did not yet understand that. I could not put it into words – those realizations took years. I only felt one thing: I must walk this path alone. So that I can arrive.

About this part of my life, I will tell in the next chapter.

In Canada, I met someone who changed my life completely. It did not work between us...surprised? Back then I was. Because I did not even find him very special and thought I wastoo good for him. How naïve...

Something I had to learn on my own skin: the outside of aperson does not determine their worth.

And because in my last relationship I had learned to respect myself and to expect that respect, I could not see certain things in new encounters – not before anything even began.

I noticed patterns only inside the relationship, not before. I expected certain behavior, but I chose the wrong men. I searched for self-confidence (strength)– and I did not notice how well some men could perform it. Only when I was already in the middle of it, I recognized that much of it was just a façade. Then came the real questions that led to the relationships ending.I knew very clearly what I wanted in a partnership – but I had no experience in attracting such a partner. Because I still had many open wounds. Still so much to heal inside me.

But this person caused something in me that went deeper than any relationship before:

I began a journey into myself. For the first time, I consciously worked on my weaknesses.

I took a sheet of paper, probably a method I had read in a book, and wrote all the negative and positive traits of myself.

I already knew where I was weak – and I began thinking how I could do it better.

What was necessary. Which steps.

This person broke my heart so deeply that I looked for mistakes in myself. How typical it is for people who don’t believe in themselves.

They think first: What is wrong with me?
And yet there was nothing wrong with me. I was simply not the right person for him.

But I began to work on myself. And I still do. After every breakup, I came back to myself.

I sat with myself to understand why I was so good – and why it still didn’t work. And everytime there was something I could improve.

It was so important: not to run into another relationship to numb the pain, but to face my wounds and dig deep.

Over time, I no longer needed to search for mistakes after a breakup. Each separation became easier – emotionally, as a person. I no longer looked for errors in myself, because Ihad already healed many of them.

I suffered because I missed that person.

He left something important in my life. He showed me through his presence what it means to feel a fulfilled life – a life where you constantly grow.

And no, he was not the great love I once mentioned. It hurt because he opened my world to my weaknesses. In a way that felt like love – but in truth, it was the disappointment of having been so wrong. Believing I was “too good” for someone, and then realizing how many wounds inside me were still open.

Wounds that needed healing before an emotionally mature relationship could ever work.

It was the beginning of a journey I never knew I needed.

I had to understand why I always attracted emotionally unavailable people. Why it always failed so quickly. It began like a fairytale and ended just as suddenly. Always.

I was born on 23.02. And the energy of the number 2 learns its lessons through relationships.It was always that way for me – unconsciously before, consciously today.

Yes, my heart was broken. Into small pieces. Many times.

But I learned: what breaks can be healed. Piece by piece.

And even if afterwards it is no longer the untouched, smooth heart... it becomes something special. Something much stronger.

In Japan there is an art and a philosophy: Kintsugi.

Broken ceramics are not glued invisibly – they are repaired with gold. The cracks are highlighted, not hidden. The message moves me deeply: what breaks can become more beautiful and valuable than before.

The breaks are part of the story. They make it unique. And that is how it was with my heart.

My heart was not less worthy because it had cracks. It became more precious because of them. With each healing, each step, each insight, gold flowed inside.And there I found my inner strength: not in perfection, but in the ability to heal again and again. You develop the ability to love yourself – just as you are. With all wounds, all cracks, all scratches. And I collected new scratches in Canada...I had to work a lot. Very often my friend was out – without me. She could afford it better.

She had no debts to pay.I, on the other hand, had to pay off our furniture credit in Germany every month. Not much, but it showed in everything I could do and what I could afford.

I remember so clearly how physically exhausted I was. I was completely done, because Ialways worked so much. I was already used to this from Germany: during my education, I worked in a nightclub on weekends, and sometimes we helped my boyfriend’s parents withside jobs. Not much – but always several jobs at once.That was my life: I worked myself tired. I worked myself sore.

Because I thought it was the only way to move forward. I only knew that I was physically strong. But also because the programs of the entire ancestral line sat deeply in me.There was no one in the family who had an intellectual profession. As far as I knew, everyone always worked with their hands. Beliefs were passed down, from generation to generation.They flow in the blood.

To believe that you can do better – is not enough.The blockages must be released. And that can take years.And that is how it was in Canada. I worked – a lot. And I thought it was normal for me...

Yet that year, we still traveled a lot. A trip through California.

The West Coast trip wasunforgettable. We rented a car, flew first to Los Angeles, spent a few days there, and then drove to San Francisco. It was one of the most beautiful routes I had ever seen.

We stopped again and again at viewpoints – along the ocean, on cliffs, the wind in our faces.

So many beautiful places on the way: Santa Barbara, San Diego, San Francisco...Those two weeks were one of the happiest times of my life. We had so much fun. It was free, alive, light. Later, my friend said it was the most beautiful trip of her life.

And years later, I heard the same from another friend who visited me in Canada.

She also said it was the most beautiful trip of her life.Both friends are no longer in my life. At some point, I consciously separated from both.

And every time, it was a shock for them.
I was never just what people saw from me. Many people see only the smile, the courage, the lightness with which I make decisions. One might think I was reckless or naïve. But in truth,I am very deep – especially when it comes to people in my life. I see much more than I show.

I feel very precisely when something is off, when energies no longer match, when nothing grows anymore. And when I leave, it is not out of mood, but out of clarity.We also traveled through beautiful Canada, flew to Toronto, and spent four more months there before returning to Germany.

At that time, I already knew that the university in Hamburg had not accepted me, because my portfolio was not among the best. Out of about 600 applicants, only around 40 wereaccepted for fashion design.

And if I am honest: what had I expected from a two-month preparation course, if I had never seriously worked on this before? If I had never truly drawn in that direction?

So instead of six months, I stayed a whole year in Canada – because my Working Holiday Visa was valid for one year. And my friend made the same decision. She wanted to stay with me. She said she did not want to move away while I was still there.

Maybe it was a sign of love she felt for me. But deep inside, another thought would not leave me: that she did not want me to experience something better without her.That she could not accept not being part of it. Do you notice how many questions and thoughts kept appearing inside me – in a friendship that was supposed to feel harmonious?

And this is not an accusation. It is simply a sign that I needed to separate – to understand how much of this friendship was real. Not only from her side, but also from mine.

Because sometimes you only recognize in distance how much was true closeness, true connection, and how much was just habit, comfort, or the need to please someone.

Separation brings clarity. Not to make someone bad, but to see: What was real?

But at that time, I only separated from my partner in Germany, after three months in Canada.

I understood that it would not last a year. It was time to separate. And that chapter of my life ended too. Was it easy? No. But probably a little easier for me than for him. I was the one who left. I was the one who wanted to end the relationship. I was the initiator.

And yet, I had to deal with the separation. It touched me, confused me, hurt me, challenged me.

Some years later, a cousin commented on it – as always, without anyone asking. She simply had to say it. She found the breakup negative, something wrong that I had done.“You had fun abroad, and he was alone here...”Hm. I was ALONE... ABROAD. Okay, with my friend... but the first cracks were already there. He, on the other hand, was here, in the environment he knew, loved by his family.But that was not the point. The point was that I was again examined by the family.

My decisions were constantly discussed – even when no one asked for their opinion.

I was always like a thorn in their eye. To this day.

After a year in Canada, we had to return. Our visa expired.

End of August 2012 we cameback to Germany.

The world looked very different to me now. So much had opened inside me, so much had changed. I looked at the people I knew with different eyes. I looked at people in general differently. Everything felt foreign.

I didn’t want to belong here anymore, because I felt limited. Maybe everyone who spends time abroad feels that way.

My friend even said she had lost something inside through that year abroad. You no longer fit in, because you cannot simply accept everything. You are no longer satisfied with a “normal” life. You have outgrown that place – and if you stay, something must change.

You never want to go back to how it once was. And also, you don’t know how it should continue.

So I found a job in Hamburg, in my profession as a technical draftswoman. It was my first official position after my education. I sat in a beautiful office in St. Georg, near the central station, with my own desk and a vase of flowers on the table, a gift from my new employer...

Back then I always wanted to live in Hamburg.

I stayed two and a half months. Then I quit. Still in the probation period.

And I went back to Canada.

Canada had never felt cruel. When I look back today, I do not see darkness – I see light.

I only told about the parts that shaped me. But the city itself... Vancouver... it had won my heart immediately.

Vancouver is a place where nature and city touch like two old friends.

Ocean, mountains, forests – everything in the same movement. You breathe salt and rain.

You hear seagulls and cars at the same time. You feel freedom on your skin.The city is open, multicultural, wide. Many languages are spoken, and you feel understood.

You are never “different”, you are simply a part of the whole.
Vancouver has a special softness. No heaviness – only gentleness. Even the rain feels like awarm coat. It belongs to the city, like breathing. It cleanses, it clarifies, it makes the trees shine.

At the sea, you sit quietly and look into the distance. And I even had a place I always went to when I was breaking inside. I searched for healing by the water.

And when water moves, thesoul becomes calm.In the background the mountains – big, protective, strong.

Many would say:
Vancouver is a place where you meet yourself.You can sit on the beach, have a coffee in the city, and stand on a mountain later – all in thesame hour.

Life has space there.In Vancouver, you learn to walk slower. To see more consciously. To breathe deeper.

It is a city where you feel:
I am allowed to be here.
Exactly as I am.
And maybe that is why Vancouver touched my heart – quietly, naturally, without effort.

Returning to Canada felt strange to me, because I wasn’t going to Vancouver, but to Toronto—the city where I had held my last job. There, I could start again from scratch… but I didn’t stay long. Only about six months. I had a plan: to go to Australia as soon as possible.

My best friend at the time had spent a year there with her partner before we traveled to Canada, and through her I knew that you could earn quite well on Australian farms if you worked fast and hard. And that was something I had always been able to do. I knew I would never shy away from work. Early on, I learned to use my unusual ability to be strong exactly where others lacked stamina or perseverance.

After a year and a half in Canada, I could speak English—but not well enough to get an office job. And at that point, my self-confidence wasn’t strong enough to take on a well-paid city job anyway. That would have come with many other expectations and social dynamics in which I would have felt uncomfortable. So I decided to start with something I knew I could do well. I picked fruit, because I was certain of one thing: I could work. And I could only do that while I was still young. I knew that when I got older, I wouldn’t want to do jobs like this anymore. But at that moment, I could do them better than many others.

While most backpackers in Australia earned money to travel, I decided to finance my future studies in Canada. I wanted to study fashion design in Vancouver—not exactly a city known as a fashion capital, where many people walk around in Lululemon sweatpants—but for me, one thing was clear: I wanted to leave Germany for good. I wanted to live in Canada.

There were two options: either marry someone—as some people do in Canada to be able to stay—or study, in order to later obtain work visas and build a life. Marriage never fascinated me. I never wanted to give up my freedom for it, especially if I could achieve my goals on my own. So I decided to pursue my dream of studying fashion design—at a private university, which of course meant paying a lot of money. But I did it. I knew my strengths, and I had something many people lacked: perseverance and the will to achieve something, even when others wouldn’t even begin. Eventually, I decided to apply to the Blanche Macdonald Centre in Vancouver.

Perhaps it’s important to mention that in Germany, I wouldn’t have been able to save that much money so quickly, because the standard of living there is higher. In Australia, as a backpacker, you had to adapt to a very simple lifestyle. I bought a T-shirt for five dollars and felt incredibly happy about it. In Germany, I probably wouldn’t even have noticed such a small purchase. There, a certain detachment from material things was much stronger within me.

The school cost me 22,000 CAD. They had my credit card details, and once a month they withdrew a fixed amount. The money I earned through hard work was taken immediately. This ensured that my tuition was paid before I returned to Canada. It was a way of “tricking” myself: I paid everything in advance, guaranteeing that after a year and a half I would go back to Canada to study—and not spend the money elsewhere. At 27, I started studying again. But the path there was anything but easy.

First, I traveled to Australia, where I met up with a couple I already knew from Germany. Knowing someone who was familiar with the country, the laws, and backpacker life was a huge advantage. They had a car, which made many things easier—especially traveling from farm to farm, the usual way to find work.

In Germany, I had already experienced many rejections, so being turned down on farms in Australia no longer discouraged me. At first, rejection hurts deeply. But the more often you experience it, the easier it becomes to handle a “no.” Eventually, it becomes normal, and you simply keep going. A “no” no longer feels final—it can even turn into a “yes” over time if you learn how to deal with it. Most of the time, a “no” simply means “not yet.” With time, it feels less personal, and life becomes much easier.

Arriving in Australia was incredibly exciting. I was fascinated by the nature and by farm life—the simplicity and clarity of that lifestyle. I must say, I was probably one of the happiest people in Australia. Farm life suited me very well. I was born in a village, and nothing frightened me—not the animals, even though they were different from those in Kazakhstan, not the dusty ground, the simple way of living, or the people. Everything came easily to me, and hard work never scared me. I could do everything, and I felt incredibly confident.

I was fast at every job. The sentence I heard most often in my life—no matter where I worked—was: “Irina, you’re so fast.” Whether it was an office job or farm work, I completed tasks efficiently and quickly. Maybe it’s my numerology: I carry the number 7 five times, a number associated with fast energy. That energy has helped me many times in life. I even earned the nickname “Irina, the fast German.”

That energy also helped me endure the hardest times. There were days when I worked up to sixteen hours. I spent seven to eight hours in the early morning picking grapes outside, then went straight to the shed to pack them.

On those days, my body hurt so much I couldn’t fall asleep. It trembled from the inside. I felt nauseous and couldn’t eat. You were so exhausted that your body couldn’t find rest. And on exactly those days, I knew: I had promised my body I would never do this again. I only asked it to endure this phase a little longer.

Giving up was never an option for me. I was too proud to quit and return to Germany—for many reasons. I knew that if I failed, I would never forgive myself. Could I have done things differently? Absolutely. Less euphorically. Less uncompromisingly. But that was exactly what I was proud of: that strength. Do you remember when it began?

I even remember one packing shed where, after six hours of grape picking outside, I continued working inside, packing grapes. We worked as a group. My task was to pack the grapes into bags after the other two team members had processed them and removed the bad fruit. It was like a carousel of fruit: my job was to select the clean grapes and pack them into boxes, which were later delivered to supermarkets.

Our group was the fastest—only one other group, which had been doing this work for years, was slightly faster. My hands already had blisters from working so quickly, and the plastic bags caused additional cuts. Yet we had only been there for about two months. That earned admiration—and, as so often, a bit of envy.

As a backpacker from Germany, I was different from many others who earned money just for fun. I worked hard toward a clear goal and had a plan for my earnings instead of spending them recklessly. Not that spending was wrong—I simply had a different purpose. My goals taught me to leave when I was being exploited or treated like a slave. I worked through a contractor who also profited from my labor.

One day, there was a meeting. The shed manager berated everyone, claiming that our speed caused the grapes not to be packed perfectly. He yelled at all of us as if we were people who depended on this job and had no other choice.

Many workers there came from poorer countries, supporting families in Nepal and India. They depended on this work, and he exploited that. He made no distinction between people and objects. It felt as if he looked down on all of us.

After the meeting, I returned to our carousel. Anger boiled inside me. I had had enough. One thing I had to learn—and never could accept—was to walk away from people like that. My boxes were fine; otherwise, he would have come to me. He used fear to ensure people didn’t slow down.

That kind of strategy was never something I aspired to—or was willing to accept. I stormed out of the shed and said something along the lines of: this kind of work environment wasn’t for me.

Both managers stared at me in shock. My contractor said, “It wasn’t even about you…” He had just lost one of his best workers.

Yes, it wasn’t directed at me personally. But being lumped together and tolerating such treatment would have meant accepting that behavior from my superiors. So I left.

And that feeling of liberation surged through my body. I laughed loudly and proudly, because it felt so good to step out of that hamster wheel.

I had something many didn’t: a Plan B. I could always return to Germany. And I had myself. I knew I could find a job anywhere. That knowledge still gives me the confidence to walk away when things become unhealthy.

Later, I found out that a group from Taiwan, working next to us, had secretly timed me to see how many minutes I needed for a full box. Their goal was to outperform me later. The funny thing was that they competed with me without telling me—not out of hostility, but because they wanted to improve and observed me. It was an unfair game. If you want to compete with me, tell me—then I can push myself even harder. Because in truth, you’re not really competing with me.

If someone truly wants to study me, I must disappoint them: I still outperform myself to this day. I am different. I evolve constantly. That is my strength. I am almost always underestimated. Over time, I learned to use that to my advantage.

When I sense that I am being underestimated—which happens often, because I am open, friendly, and approachable, and some people think they can manipulate me—I step out of the fight internally. I don’t play games. And if I do, it’s only in declared battles, never where things are sneaky or unspoken.

Life experience gradually showed me how many people first see me as an inspiration and then try to surpass me—whether in family, friendships, or work. That used to trigger me. But I learned that I inspire people to become better versions of themselves. Once I fully accepted myself, it no longer bothered me—especially because there is one thing I never do: play those games.

When people hide their intentions and turn things into a competition, it reveals not only arrogance but also deep insecurity. And that says a lot about a person. I don’t engage with such “opponents.”

But that confidence came with time. I wasn’t always like this. My self-confidence grew through the long experiences I accumulated—even through fruit picking.

In Australia, I picked mandarins, grapes, blueberries, persimmons, apples, lemons, and more. We spent ten to twelve hours a day outside in the sun. Each fruit came with its own physical challenges. Lemon trees, for example, often had sharp thorns, and sometimes you had to climb trees to reach the fruit. I vividly remember climbing trees with a 25-kilogram bag of fruit while thorns pierced my skin and the sun burned. Sometimes a huge spider—looking like a tarantula—sat there, and it was up to me to stay calm and carefully push it away.

I couldn’t tolerate the heat well, so I wore tank tops instead of long sleeves. My arms were completely scratched. I didn’t care. I knew my young skin could handle it. The pain was manageable—and even gave me a good feeling: proof that I could do it, no matter how hard the work was.

On days between picking seasons, I got into the car and drove to neighboring towns. Distances in Australia are vast—you can drive for hours without seeing anything before reaching the next town. I loved turning the music up as loud as possible and driving straight ahead.

There were hardly any traffic lights—mostly just forest or open land. You drove with the wind, and that’s how I recovered from the monotonous life of a fruit picker.

One of those days, after ten hours of moving like a monkey between trees picking mandarins, I had a lot of time to think. While my hands worked, my mind wandered. I imagined my life, planned my future, and thought about what I would do once I was “done.”

Those thoughts were repeatedly interrupted by one sentence: But if you have a family and children, you can’t do that. Over and over again. Until I realized that I wanted a freer life than that of a mother or wife. Not because I rejected children, but because the traditional family model comes with limitations I wasn’t willing to accept.

I wanted a life for myself. A life where I could live out all my wild dreams without constantly having to sacrifice. Not giving things up just because a child needed me. That’s why I always treated this topic with great seriousness. I knew what it does to a child when they are not loved, not seen, or emotionally neglected. I came from such a family myself. I spent my entire life healing those wounds. I saw how deeply flawed upbringing can affect a child’s life—and I never wanted my child to experience the same.

I also didn’t want a child to live out my unfulfilled dreams. Many parents project their own unrealized ambitions onto their children, without allowing them to live their own lives. I understood the immense responsibility of bringing a child into the world—and the responsibility not to damage that child just because you haven’t made peace with yourself.

That responsibility was always present in my life. And so I often asked myself whether I subconsciously chose partners in a way that relationships never became truly complete—so that children would never happen. Whether that’s true, I don’t know. I never analyzed it deeply enough. But the thought crossed my mind often. Perhaps I will explore it in the next chapter of my life.

One day, while moving between trees in my “habitat,” I suddenly had the idea to cut my hair very short—maybe even shave it completely. That crazy idea wasn’t born in Australia; it had been sleeping deep in my subconscious. To me, it symbolized freedom, rebellion, and releasing the weight of expectations. It was an inner scream that needed to come out. I had probably always wanted it—now I could finally live it.

I asked a friend to cut my hair. That same evening, I had no hair left. At that time, a close friend of mine was fighting cancer and had to lose her hair due to chemotherapy. I wanted to support her in that way as well. It wasn’t a purely selfless act—but the combination of circumstances and timing made it feel right. I lived that moment fully. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to save her life. She passed away later that year, and I couldn’t say goodbye properly—only later, at her grave. That friendship left a deep mark on my heart, and I will return to it again.

The shaved head was also an act of self-protection. I wanted to focus solely on work and avoid romantic distractions. It’s safe to say that men generally prefer women with hair—so I made myself look tougher on the outside because I carried a deep wound inside, one I had brought with me from Vancouver. I was still grieving the man who had opened my vulnerable world, and I wasn’t able to truly engage with anyone—not even casually.

I took my inner development so seriously that I built barriers to avoid distraction. Funny, isn’t it? So many women do everything to please men. I did the opposite: I did everything not to stand out.

And yet, my inner self was still present, and men still noticed me. I remember arriving early one morning at a grape plantation. We backpackers stood waiting for instructions. I arrived in my red car—a small Opel, good enough to get from farm to farm.

A few Italians smirked and said in Italian: “Oh, look at her, coming in her Ferrari, thinking she can work here…” They assumed I was lazy and superficial and wanted to test whether I could actually work. Like so many before them, they underestimated me. What they didn’t know was that I spoke Italian—not perfectly, but well enough to understand. I didn’t reveal it. Sometimes it’s better to let people underestimate you. They’ll see.

And when they later saw me working alone, doing the job of two people, I heard things like, “Wow… she did all that by herself.” I never convinced with words. I always did it through actions.

In Australia, I did so many wild things that later helped me understand something important: you have to do the things you were never allowed to do as a child. If you wanted to swim as a child and weren’t allowed—do it now. If you wanted a doll and never got one—buy it for yourself. You don’t have to show it to anyone. It’s for you.

When you give your inner child what it was once denied, it heals. The more you do now what you always wanted as a child, the faster that wounded inner child heals. It’s like reclaiming a piece of lost freedom—and it feels incredibly liberating.

Australia didn’t bring only freedom. It also brought something very heavy.

On my birthday in 2013, I was informed that my grandmother had suffered another stroke and was in intensive care. That was my “birthday present.”

Without thinking much, I booked a flight the next day. Within 26 hours, I was back in Germany. When she woke up and saw me, something broke inside me. Seeing my fragile grandmother in that hospital bed filled me with fear and worry.

But she grew stronger. Day by day. After two weeks, she was stable enough to be transferred to a normal ward. And then I faced one of the hardest questions of my life: do I go back and follow my dreams—or do I stay with her?

The inner conflict was brutal. I knew I couldn’t give my life to her. But not staying felt cruel. I had to make a decision.

At that moment, it was the hardest decision of my life—and the harshest test of self-love: do you give up your dreams to stay with the person you love most? Or do you leave to live your own life?

She had four children. That responsibility could not—and should not—rest on me alone. At least not then.

Saying goodbye was incredibly painful. When I left her, I saw disappointment in her eyes. She never said it, but I felt it. She wished I would stay. And yet, today I believe my role was fulfilled. That my presence gave her the strength to get through that phase. Sometimes love doesn’t mean staying—it means being there at exactly the right moment.

I have never regretted that decision. I was tested by the universe, and I passed. With tears in my eyes, I went down the elevator with my sister and flew back to Australia. My entire body ached, yet I did what my soul demanded.

I always listened to that inner voice—and trusted it. That’s how I learned to stay true to myself.

After returning, I stayed another six months in Australia. During that time, I traveled through Bali, India, Singapore, and Thailand. I was always surrounded by people. That small journey was the crowning finale of my time in Australia. Looking back, I wish I had traveled longer and experienced it more deeply. I was eager to return to Canada to begin my fashion design studies and shortened my stay by half a year. Today, I would do it differently.

My mistake was not living in the moment. I wanted everything at once and couldn’t relax. My constant urge to move forward pushed me on, even though I could have stayed longer.

That’s how I learned a new lesson: living in the present. I realized I needed to learn patience—a quality that balanced my weaknesses. My impatience had often caused financial difficulties because I always wanted everything immediately.

What I took from those countries is the realization that in the Western world, we have everything—and yet we complain constantly. Many people there live in poverty but enjoy nature, life, and simple pleasures. They are often happier and friendlier, despite having far less materially.

And that became my goal: to find a balance between the material and the spiritual world. Only then can one live a truly fulfilled life.

During my time in Australia, a friend from Canada joined me. She was quite young, and we had met in Toronto while working at a golf club. When she heard I was going to Australia, she wanted to come with me. I didn’t hesitate and invited her. Looking back, it was a kind of test for both of us.

She was rebellious, intelligent, but not suited for farm life. She wanted only fun and avoided responsibility for her own life. Somehow, I felt responsible for her behavior simply because we were together. Even then, it was important to me that my environment did not become a reflection of me—that others’ actions didn’t define my life.

Despite everything that irritated me about her, I loved her rebellious spirit. Something about it attracted me—perhaps because I had suppressed that part of myself for a long time or was never allowed to express it. One weekend, we spontaneously traveled to a neighboring city just to spend the day there—without a plan, without a goal.

There, we made another spontaneous decision: a nipple piercing. To this day, I don’t know whose idea it was. We walked past a piercing studio, and I think I was the one who said, “Let’s go in.” Deep down, I had always wanted to do it.

We decided on the spot. Within two minutes, I had a piercing in my left nipple. Why? An act of freedom. A symbol of self-determination.

Today, I know I was raised far too strictly. So much was forbidden. I wasn’t allowed to swim because my grandmother feared I would drown. I wasn’t allowed to stay out late. I wasn’t allowed so many things. I am a “five,” and the worst thing you can do to us is take away our freedom or control us. All that constant “no” created a rebellious energy within me. I was only able to release it fully at 27. But it doesn’t matter when—it matters that it came out. And that’s what I want you to understand: don’t suppress your desires. Live them—even if it happens later in life. It heals.

Our friendship eventually ended when she betrayed me. I won’t go into details. But today, I see that I sometimes attracted people with good hearts but without the inner strength to control themselves. Perhaps they were mirrors for me—a lesson in not being too harsh on myself while working on my own weaknesses.

Later, her mother wrote to me and thanked me. She said she felt safer knowing her daughter was under my care. That touched me deeply and confirmed once again: caring for others also means strengthening them without losing yourself.

At that time, I put enormous pressure on myself because of remaining loans in Germany, which I was paying off monthly with my ex-boyfriend. On top of that, high transfer fees from Australia accumulated every month. It became more expensive, and I told my grandmother about it.

She offered to cover the remaining amount over about eight months so everything could be paid off at once. I accepted her help. I didn’t ask for it—it was her voluntary decision to support me.

But this also became known within the family. To this day, my father reproaches me for accepting her support. My cousin made a strange remark about the word “voluntary.” She couldn’t tolerate that the bond between my grandmother and me was strong enough for her to support me financially.

What was always forgotten: she was a parental figure to me. Do we accuse parents or grandparents of supporting their children? To me, it’s something entirely natural. It doesn’t burden me to this day—on the contrary, it only shows how much jealousy, resentment, and judgment existed within the family, long suppressed.

What they didn’t know: I had always felt it. And years later, it was finally spoken aloud.

But here, in Australia, something else was also born: an open and deep hostility toward me. In their eyes, it was already audacious that I allowed myself to live such a life. And then I even received voluntary support from my grandmother—who had other grandchildren as well.

What they never asked was: how much did I do for our grandmother? How present was I in her life?

Instead, it was used against me: “You’re bad with money—that’s your weakness.” The more I achieved in life, the more this area was scrutinized. It was implied so often that I eventually began to believe it myself.

It was an inner program passed down through generations. It wasn’t mine—and I had to break it. I carry the strength of my lineage within me. I am the one who recognizes and breaks old patterns—imprints, programs, and dynamics passed down through generations. And that makes you uncomfortable. I am not always understood by my family—and sometimes even hated. But that only shows how strong the changes are that I bring.

Not everyone can—or wants to—see someone break the cycle. That’s why it often meets resistance, rejection, or misunderstanding within families. Because change is frightening.

But fear was never something I carried—at least not when it came to change.

And so I continued living my life — without fear.

There were countless moments and situations in which even simply listening to my stories made very conservative people raise their eyebrows in disbelief. Yet to me, none of it ever felt especially risky or extreme. It felt natural — like an honest expression of the path that was meant for me.

Along my way, I encountered many fascinating people — people who lived life even more intensely, even more radically, fully embracing the energy of the 13th arcana. I, however, moved at my own rhythm. Carefully at times, sometimes impulsively, sometimes thinking far too long — and yet always willing, at some point, to take the risk.

Because risk was never recklessness to me.

Risk was adrenaline.
Risk meant growth.

What can you truly expect from life if you live it according to the ordinary patterns of others

— patterns they themselves have labeled as “reasonable”?

But what is reasonable, really?
To be accepted?
To be loved?

To never step out of line — and for what, exactly?

So that someday some Karen, who has never dared to live at all, can pass judgment on your life?

Is it truly worth shrinking yourself for that?

I understood very early on that my only true role model had to be myself.

Every day, just a little better than the day before.

Yes, I made many mistakes in my life — because I did not grow up in the best circumstances, because there was no one who could ever understand me one hundred percent, and because, in one way or another, I was repeatedly met with devaluation.

I gave away many years of my life.

So much time to people who fed off my potential — while quietly pulling me further and further down.

This became especially visible in close friendships.

Never openly.
Never clearly.

There was always a layer covering it — a subtle disguise — because I was meant to be kept in their lives.

Not out of love.
But out of need.

Only when I truly began to work on myself did something start to change. Not overnight. Not suddenly. Not loudly.

It was a long process — a quiet journey that strengthened me step by step, made me more self-confident, and eventually revealed the true faces of the people around me.

Not to hurt me — but to finally lead me back to myself.
And so my paths continued to guide me into dangerous situations — moments in which my courage and my patience were tested in a quiet, yet deeply penetrating way.

Still in Australia, one day I set off together with a friend from Taiwan toward Brisbane. We wanted to go shopping, as I needed to buy a suitcase for my upcoming journey back to Canada. The drive took about three hours, and we could easily have stayed overnight in the city. It is well known — almost an unspoken rule — that one does not drive at night in Australia, due to the wild nocturnal life of the animals that makes the roads unpredictable after dark.

And yet, I felt drawn home.

I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I didn’t want to spend yet another night away, surrounded by unfamiliar walls. So we decided to drive back — even though I knew that one does not drive at night in Australia.

That the road from Brisbane leads through dark, endless forests where there is no phone reception.

That kangaroos, wombats, and emus can suddenly jump onto the road — heavy, powerful, unpredictable — and that a collision can not only destroy a car, but endanger one’s life.

I knew that massive trucks use these roads, that there are stories of backpackers who disappeared — stories told quietly around campfires at night and pushed away again by morning. And I also knew that even during the seemingly warm months — which in Australia are considered winter — the nights can become so cold that the body begins to shiver without a jacket, grows still, slows down.
And yet, I drove off.

Carried by an inner calm that was stronger than any logic.
Not out of recklessness.
Not out of defiance.
But from a deep, unexplainable pull — as if something within me was whispering that this path had to be taken, even if it disappeared into darkness. And so, it was confirmed.

It was pitch black. We were driving through the forest — without reception, without light, without any orientation other than the narrow road ahead of us. I drove faster than one would normally recommend at night in Australian bushland, but not so fast that it felt truly dangerous. It was that in-between pace — the speed at which you believe you still have everything under control.

Until it happened…

Something jumped from the left directly onto the car.

There was a hard, dull impact — a brutal thud that shook the entire vehicle. The car came to an abrupt stop, and we pulled over in fear and total shock.

I had seen it for a split second — that movement emerging from the darkness — but I had not been fast enough to brake in time.
A few seconds passed before we were even able to understand what had happened. The silence afterward was almost more frightening than the impact itself.

I got out of the car to see what it had been. Was I afraid that something might jump at me?

Yes — maybe a little. But not really. My greater fear was something else entirely: that this being might be dead.

And that was exactly the case.
It was a wallaby — an animal similar to a kangaroo, only smaller and more compact. A kangaroo would most likely have completely destroyed the car at that speed. After all, it was only a small Opel. But something else caught my attention immediately. Water had begun leaking from the condenser. The impact had probably not come from the animal alone, but from the car hitting a stone on the ground as the collision occurred.

We got back into the car right away. A little saddened by the animal — yet with a clear intention to continue driving.
But something was wrong.
The car jolted.
It would not start properly.
The engine would not respond.
And suddenly, we were simply sitting there.
Without jackets.
It was 9:00 p.m.
In the middle of nowhere.
A car that would not start.
No warmth.
No phone reception.
No lights.
Only darkness, forest — and that growing silence slowly settling around us.

Perhaps it is important to mention that during the summer months — much like wintertime in Western countries — it becomes dark very early in Australia. Yet this darkness cannot be compared to anything known in Europe. It is not simply night. In Australia, darkness is complete.

You see nothing.
Not even a shadow.
No outlines, no movement, no transition between light and blackness.
The world seems to disappear.

In moments like these, thousands of thoughts begin rushing through the mind at once — scenarios, fears, questions without answers.
And yet, something strange happened.

While everything outside became completely uncertain, something inside me grew calm.

I knew that panic would not help now.
That fear could change nothing.
That there was no reason to lose control.

I knew — in a way that cannot be explained — that everything would be alright.

This calm was not new.
It had accompanied me my entire life.
And perhaps it was in that night in the forest that I understood for the first time where it truly
came from.

When I was four years old, my world changed.
At that age, a child does not understand reasons, decisions, or explanations. It only feels that something fundamental has shifted — that the world as it once was no longer exists.

From that moment on, I lived between two worlds.
No longer fully where I came from.
Not yet truly where I now was.

In that in-between space, my inner world began to form.
A quiet place I created long before I had words for it. A space where I found order while everything outside kept changing. A place where I was allowed to remain when nothing felt safe.

There, I learned something essential very early on:
to become calm in order to survive.
Not out of coldness.
Not from a lack of feeling.
But out of protection.
While other children found stability in the outside world, I had to create it within myself.
And this early inner order later became my strength.

To this day, it takes the lead in difficult situations. When uncertainty arises, when danger becomes tangible, when everything begins to sway, something inside me becomes still — not empty, but clear.

This control is not a conscious act. It is memory.

The memory of a four-year-old child who lived between two worlds and learned there how to hold herself.

That night in the Australian forest, I was there again — not as a child, but as a grown woman. And yet it was the same inner voice, the same calm, the same inner space that carried me.

Not because nothing could have happened.

And perhaps this was exactly the moment when the circle closed — between then and now, between childhood and the present, between fear and trust.

I trusted that everything would turn out well. And that is exactly what happened.

After about an hour — perhaps a little longer — the engine suddenly started again. Not because I knew how to fix it, but because I kept trying, without haste, without pressure, carried by the feeling that giving up was not an option.

We were able to continue driving.

About two and a half hours still lay ahead of us. Yet I knew that if we could simply make it out of this dark forest, that alone would be enough. Then there would at least be a road — perhaps a light, perhaps some place where help might be possible.

And indeed, at some point, we reached a country road.
At its edge stood a single house.
A light was on inside.

We stopped briefly, looked at one another, and considered whether we should stop there or keep driving. After all, there were only about one and a half hours left until home. So we continued on.

All the while, water kept leaking from the car, and no one knew what was happening inside — what damage might be forming, which parts might already be giving way, and whether we were still safe to continue driving at all.

But only a few meters later, my inner voice spoke — quietly, yet clearly.
Go back. Ask for help there.

This voice has accompanied me my entire life.
This voice is my protection.
And I learned very early on to listen to it.
Without much discussion, we turned around and stopped at the house at the crossroads.

The people had already heard our car. Before we had even fully stepped out, several of them came outside. It was a family — mother, father, two daughters, and the boyfriend of one of the daughters.
And that boyfriend happened to be a car mechanic.

They welcomed us warmly, as if they already knew us. They offered us food, a warm shower, and a bed for the night. While we finally felt warmth again, the boyfriend moved the car into the garage and began checking what had happened.

Early the next morning, he had sealed the hole temporarily. It would be enough to get us home safely, so that I could later bring the car to a proper workshop.

Everything happened so naturally.
So human.
So quiet.
We were strangers.
In a foreign country.
In the middle of the night.

And yet these people opened their door, their garage, their home — without hesitation, without fear, without suspicion.

In the late afternoon, after the sealant had dried for about eight hours, we said goodbye. We drove off slowly, filled with gratitude, deeply moved, almost speechless — and arrived home safely.

It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.
A blessing.
A moment guided by fate.

A quiet proof that there are still so many good people in this world — people who set their own fear aside in order to help.

In that moment, I asked myself whether someone in Europe would have done the same. And sadly, a quiet, heavy answer formed within me — because there, danger is often discussed first, before the heart is allowed to speak.

These people, however, acted in the moment.
From inner clarity.
From humanity.
For me, it was a sign — perhaps even a greeting from our angels.
I knew that this night was meant to show me something.

To offer proof of what inner calm can create — and what happens when we do not allow fear to control our thoughts.
Because where trust remains, life always finds a way.

A few weeks after this experience — once the car had been repaired — I returned once more. This time not out of need, not out of fear, but with a box full of beer and sweets in the trunk.

I wanted to say thank you.
Not only for the help that night, but for the humanity they had given us. For the warmth they offered when we were strangers. For the trust they extended without asking a single question.

I wanted to pass that kindness forward.

I wanted them to see that their actions had mattered — that they were not taken for granted, not overlooked, not forgotten.

That such gestures leave traces behind.
Because that was what I truly wanted to show them: that their openness and their support were seen — and deeply appreciated.
And at the same time, I felt something deeper within me.

How much more beautiful this world would be if moments like these were not seen as exceptions — but as something natural.

If help were not filtered through fear first.
If humanity were not explained, but lived.

Perhaps this, too, was part of the message of that night:
that kindness multiplies when it is passed on.
And that every small action — no matter how insignificant it may seem — has the power to make the world a little brighter.
Australia left a special value within me. There, I allowed my inner self to finally emerge — as free, as untamed, and as alive as my soul had always longed to be.

In Australia, I did not enter into romantic relationships. That time was not meant for that. I read a great deal, improved my English through reading, spent countless hours with myself, and began to get to know myself on a deeper level — beyond distraction, beyond external
roles.

On one of those days, while we were waiting for the next picking season to begin, my friend and I were sitting on the farm. We lived in a simple donga — a container-like housing module — and that afternoon we lay outside on the grass on a blanket. I was reading, she was playing on her phone. Everything felt quiet, wide, almost timeless.
Until I suddenly heard her voice.

Very calmly, she told me not to turn around.
And as human reflex often works in moments like that, I turned anyway.

About one meter away from our blanket, a brown snake was moving — almost dreamlike. It glided slowly across the grass, coming directly from the direction of the field. For a moment, everything felt unreal: the sun glaring brightly, the grass intensely green — and in the middle of it all, one of the most dangerous animals in the world.

It was an Eastern Brown Snake — one of the most venomous creatures on this continent. Its venom acts quickly, silently, mercilessly. A single bite can paralyze the nervous system, destroy blood clotting, and place even a healthy adult in mortal danger if medical help is not
received immediately. Yet its danger lies not only in its venom, but in its unpredictability. It does not strike to hunt, but to defend — often faster than the human eye can react. One wrong step, one careless movement, one moment of panic would have been enough.

Her body was slender, muscular, perfectly designed for speed. Every movement appeared controlled, almost silent, as if she were melting into the ground itself. She needed no threatening gesture, no hissing — her mere presence was warning enough.

In that second, I became aware of how thin the line between life and danger can be. How quiet it is. And how little it takes for everything to change.

Yet she seemed to ignore us completely — as if we were not there at all.
We froze.
Completely still.
As if turned to stone.
No one knew what to do.
When the snake slowly moved a little farther away from us, my friend began calling out for the former farm worker — a man who was already retired and still lived on the property.

The snake crawled beneath a pile of wood and disappeared.

It was winter in Australia — likely a day in July. Under normal circumstances, she should not have been outside at all. Perhaps that was why she seemed so sluggish, so slow.

The man’s name was Mof.

He came outside, visibly confused that we had pulled him from his midday nap. With a questioning look, he asked what was going on. We explained the situation. Without many words, he walked back into his trailer, fetched a broom, and began striking the woodpile forcefully to drive the snake out.

And then she appeared again.

She slithered out — not aggressive, not attacking, rather disoriented.
Mof struck her several times along the spine until he was convinced she was dead. We could hardly believe what we were seeing — her body continued to move. Calmly, he explained that a snake’s body can keep moving for up to an hour after death. Eventually, he lifted her with the broom and placed her into a large bowl.

He told us that one must always break a snake’s backbone — that is how it is killed.

An animal rights activist would probably be upset by this situation. Yes — I found it sad that the snake had to die. And yet I was also aware that it could have been one of us instead, had she not been driven away from the area. And once again, we were protected by a guardian angel.

Yes — we had acted correctly. We had stopped, paused, and not reacted impulsively. That inner calm made it possible for the snake not to perceive us as a threat — and for us not to be attacked.

Had we reacted out of fear, everything might have turned out differently. Perhaps I would not be able to write this book today. Because fear is loud, uncontrolled, visible. It radiates unrest — and unrest is perceived as a threat in nature.

But instead, everything remained still.
And once again, it became clear that inner calm is not weakness, but a deep protective instinct — a force capable of guiding a human being safely even through the most dangerous situations, if one dares to trust it.

The universe sent us a guardian angel.
This time in the form of Mof.

Not spectacular.
Not otherworldly.

An old man holding a broom — and yet at exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

Perhaps guardian angels are sometimes precisely that: people who act without hesitation when others are still debating.

And perhaps life reminds us through moments like these that we are never truly alone — as long as we are willing to trust.

Mof was seventy-five years old. An Australian of the old school. A man who had spent his entire life around such animals — with respect, but without fear. After work, he would drive every evening with the other farm workers to a small local bar.

That was where the entire village met. They drank a few beers, exchanged stories, and knew one another.
Mundubbera was a small rural community, located about 400 kilometers northwest of Brisbane, along the Burnett River. Just over a thousand people lived there — and precisely because of that, everyone knew everyone else. Life was simple, calm, almost timeless.

And that was the social fabric of this place: community, closeness, and simple conversations after a long day — nothing more, and nothing less.

This scene stayed with me deeply. Not because of the snake — but because of the naturalness with which life was lived there.
Raw. Real. And completely present.

In September 2014, the time had come for me to go home. I left Australia with deep gratitude for all the experiences and inner growth this chapter had given me, and stopped in Germany for one week before continuing on to Canada — to the place where my studies would begin.

I visited my grandmother and my family and felt that I was ready to begin a new life. A life in Western civilization. For me, it meant welcoming the material world back into my life — consciously, mindfully, and with the awareness that it was no longer meant to be my measure, but merely one part of my path.

That week in Germany felt like a quiet transition — a conscious pause between two chapters of my life.

During that time, one of my cousins got married. My ex-partner was also invited to the wedding.

He arrived at my sister’s place, and we had consciously decided to meet after the separation in a protected setting. It was the first time we would see each other again since our farewell.

There were still a few pieces of furniture we had once stored at his uncle’s place that needed to be collected.

We handled everything calmly and respectfully, dividing the belongings — some went to my parents, others I sold.
But this meeting was not about objects.

It was about emotional release.

I did not want our family to witness our reunion during the wedding. I did not allow something so personal to be placed on display.

When he arrived at my sister’s home, I opened the door — and fell into his arms. It was a healthy feeling. The reunion with someone who had once been deeply important in my life. We had parted on good terms. And in that embrace, everything that still existed revealed
itself: appreciation, gratitude, and respect for what we had shared — and at the same time, the clear knowing that emotionally, I was already walking a very different path.

I was grateful for our time together.

But my life had long since moved forward.

Shortly after my cousin’s wedding, I left Germany once again — this time with a clear plan in my heart: Canada.

A new chapter was already waiting for me.