Living a Dream 10 Years Later

When you have this one dream throughout your whole life. Your every cell of body and mind feels ready for it and yet it’s not. And you keep dreaming, keep breathing, keep living superficially, waiting and trying to do anything possible to male your dream come true. It finally happens 10 years after you started yearning for it. The sorrow reached its peak, the gap between and the loved one stretched to a guilt, bitterness and grudge size. The love for the dream-come -true grows strong but as much as tiredness and the anxiety that because of focusing on trying for your dream to come true life passed by. And all you see in the mirror is an old soul without memories …


Depressed? So What’s So Funny About It?

A few months ago I googled “funny books” because I felt a need for a laugh. I came across “Furiously Funny” and I decided to give it a go especially because it tackled depression. Having gone though it myself I thought it would be a great experience to see how the author managed to use humour through this gloomy emotional state.

And it was hilarious. I must say. I even recommended it to my friends who I knew also had gone through depression.

But then I got into a rather boycotting mode. Angry even. No, why on earth should I try to take distance to my own mental illness, find something funny in it as a sort of coping mechanism or to pretend that I am coping. 

Then I googled “funny books about depression” and all the searches showed lists of titles whose authors were mostly women (Goodreads).

We really try our best to put our best face forward, we women, aren’t we… 

I became very negative about this phenomenon. It is a problem that one laughs at their own mental disorder. What has it come to? Because it’s still so unknown, untouched, misunderstood, we try to grab any safety wheel to swim on the surface and being funny about it became a trend a sort of dilusionist gimmick that is supposed to help us survive.

Laugh is the best medicine (I realised it helps with migraines) but ridiculing your own illness is not. What’s needed is a fully fledged support mechanism, science, 

I say NO. 


Thank you life for letting me be a mother. An experience which I yearned to feel since I was a little girl. An experience which I wrongly thought would be a given and journey to which turned out to be a horrible struggle. 

Every day I think of all those who haven’t been given the chance yet and I pray to you: Let them!

The unfulfilled need to be a mother is worse than hunger, sleeplessness or any other torture known on earth. 


Never been a fan of Disney movies. Bambi, Lion King – parents die, Sleeping Beauty waiting for her true love sleeping prior to serving 7 other men (O.K., I know, it’s Grimm’s story originally). Yes,  I understand all of them tell beautiful stories of being strong and believing your dreams but I could always find something wrong about each of them. Well, not always wrong, but not quite right.

My first and only (up to this day) favourite one was for a long time was Princess and the Frog with its beautiful Almost There song (no, it’s not a chanting tune for during sex), very close to my heart. And now, Moana joins this short list.

Perhaps it’s a commercial grasp of the moment (as it’s usually the case) , as Christy Lemire says: “Moana would have been enormously entertaining regardless of when it came out, but its arrival at this particular moment in history gives it an added sense of significance—as well as inspiration.” but Moana takes every girl to walk with her arm in arm, with their doubts, good, gentle hearts,

She’s strong, kind and beautiful, willing to learn, loving her family, devoted to her community, doubting herself but listening to her heart which is entwined with her intelligence. She’s the woman. She’s every single woman. Ridiculed by some big muscle demi-god:

“You are gonna stay here with the other chicken.”

“Daughter of the chief.
I thought you stayed in the village.
You know, kissing babies and things.”

“If you wear a dress and have an animal sidekick, you are a princess.

And she puts up with this. And she makes him a better man.

For all of you ladies:


Beautiful and sexy can go very well together with strength, sporty, intelligent.

My Relationship with Pink

Many of you already know very well my strong feelings about baby pink. Even before Arya was born I refused to buy and dress her into anything pink. Main reason for this is that it makes me cringe how the world labels you when you’re straight out of the oven. A fresh bun must know instantly her/his place – you’re either blue or pink, you’re a boy or a girl. From now on you will operate within these cathegories but don’t worry. There’s more. This is just an introductory package. With days, months, years there will be a label of your nationality, your background, your culture, your religion, your school, your occupation, etc etc etc.

My resentment towards pink has been somewhat a protest against these conventions. So much that I actually believed that I hate this colour. But guess what. I don’t.

I have a huge crash on salmon pink and blush pink.


I even get to like baby pink. What matters though is how the shade is used.

I would say no to this one.

And yes to this one.

And this one

is a definite NO.
So this huge pilava about pink is now forever explained. We do not hate pink. We hate labels.

Bubble Beyond Time 

It’s been 11 months now since Arya is in our world. I have no recollection, not awareness of the time that passed. I have experienced a timeless bubble of baby development. My baby. There has been no time. It’s only been an indicator of the duration of Arya’s feedings and sleeps. It hasn’t mattered if it was 01:00 or 15:00, day or night. Ever-changing sizes of Arya’s clothes have been happening. Shorter feeds and fewer sleep breaks have been happening. Cooing, grabbing, growing hair, walking have been happening…

I’ve lived in this bubble beyond time and my mind has no ability to frame this whole (almost) year into a memory of a passed days and months. 

Recently I catch myself more frequently staring at Arya while she sleeps and going back to the picture of her in that first snowsuit of hers. The one that I was so dreading to buy before she had been born to not jinx it. That very snowsuit that was too big for her on the very first day, when we were taking her home. She was such a little stranger from the universe, somewhere out there, with her mind completely blocking the memory of who she was and where she was coming from, so lonely, thrown into this world on her own… She looked so much different from what she looks like now and it is so hard to comprehend that it’s the same little creature. 

It’s not been a journey, it’s not been a year time… It’s been a bubble where nothing else exists. Just me and her being together…

From my Beliefs Compilation

Luck is just a probability outcome regarded as positive and outstanding by a society.

You’re not lucky that you recovered from cancer.

I’m not lucky that I eventually got pregnant after 7 years of trying.

He’s not lucky that he got out of the accident untouched.

It’s all just a matter of probability. We know as much as we know and simply whatever still unexplained, uncertain we call “luck”.