The air feels soft, the sky covered with gray clouds, it looks like it will rain anytime soon. But—why am I running so fast? And what is chasing me from almost all directions? shadowy shapeless beings, too many, closing in. Oh no! I need to find a shelter or some kind of hiding place. No wall, no roof, no tree in sight…..Papa? When and how did he appear, I don't know., I have no time to think. I have to quickly touch him. I put my hands in his pants pocket…where did they go? They just vanished. I couldn't understand it then, but now I know why. I had exams scheduled for the following week. Feeling anxious and stressed, I had a small argument with my younger brother over a pencil case. I was 13. It escalated to a point that my brother started crying. I saw him going to my father, getting hugged and consoled. A part of me quietly broke. Deep in my heart maybe I was also craving for that affection. My father called my name lovingly, “Fatima beta, come here”. I went to his room. Witnessing my brother still in his embrace, fired up my anger and I shouted, “ You only love him, You don't love me”. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I went straight back to my room, curled up like a baby with my face pressed into a pillow and cried. “Maybe he will console me too.” Thinking about this I went to sleep. The next day was a bit unusual. A heavy air surrounded yesterday's lively house. My father had his Sunday breakfast, read the newspaper, and watched political shows. Everything seemed normal except for the fact that he didn't smile once….he went SILENT. A few days later, as he came back from the office, I went to the front door to greet him. With a smile, I stretched my hand out to take his briefcase from his grip but he pulled away. The words he said next wrenched my heart,” learn some manners first, then talk to me.” He walked through the front towards the living room, leaving me standing there in shock at what I had heard. I spent the remaining day, choking back tears, questioning myself, “Have I hurt my father? Have I been so disrespectful?”. I pondered all night hoping to uncover the reason for his reaction to my outburst and how I can smooth things over. This is when I realized—I had to be careful with him. By the end of that week, I mustered up the courage and apologized. He accepted but a gap still remained, waiting to be bridged. I knew he loved me and so did I, without a doubt. So I started learning a new language, a language of his silence. A sweet from lunch money, a question about his day, a flower from a random bush—simple gestures that are hard to refuse, too notable to be ignored. Daily conversations with him made my day complete. “I went out with girls today, we had chocolate ice cream but I think strawberry one tastes better”, I murmured. “Hmm…right”. He brought strawberry ice cream the next day. I was happy not because of the ice cream, but the fact that he remembered “strawberry”. I felt satiated after seeing a subtle but gratified smile playing on his face. He did not reply mostly but I was starting to grasp HIS language. Like this, a year went by. Then, one evening, I heard something I was not expecting to hear this early. “I had a bad day today.” Tears swelled up in my eyes before I could gather my words. He opened his heart to me, not because I'd asked but because, for once, he wanted to. “Don't worry, everything's gonna be okay. You have me”. I opened my bag, took something out, reached my hand to him and slowly unclenched my fist, letting the toffee drop in my father's hand. He didn't say anything, just took it, as if it was a ritual for him. Now, I'm 26, coming back home from a tiring day at the office. The crowded bus is acting as a trigger for my burnout. My phone screen lights up with a text message on top, “Location Plz. Pulao for dinner.” The edges of my tiredness softened, no longer heavy, a feeling of languor washes over me, as if my body exhaled all the burden. I used to call him but now he calls me first, asks for my location whenever I go out on work trips. We converse for hours, sharing our recent purchase and how uncle Mubashir's cat broke his vintage vase. We laugh, share burdens and sometimes he covers me with a tapestry of his childhood days. After putting each fragment of his memory together, I unfold the story of his efforts, along with a fear of disappointing others. Till now I couldn't understand why the shapeless shadowy beings in my dream vanished. But now, I can vividly picture and sense my fathers warm pocket and why they couldn't harm me in his embrace. The language I learnt for his reticence, finally bore fruit. I'm glad, in the end, I was the one reaching out first.

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Explore French language education in Delhi at LFID. Experience bilingual learning, qualified teachers, a globally recognized French curriculum, and a multicultural environment that supports academic excellence and personal growth. https://lfidelhi.org/

It is hard to find a language more criticised, misunderstood, and occasionally mocked by speakers of other languages than English. Yet it is equally hard to imagine another language that has spread across the world and connected so many nations. English gradually became the language of business, families, distant lands, and increasingly, everyday life. People often complain about English. Too simple, too practical, too strange. The spelling makes little sense, the pronunciation seems to ignore logic, and half the world grumbles about it while still trying to learn it. I understand why. I did not begin learning English for love, literature, or travel. I began because I had no choice. At the time, I was running the Tashkent branch of ComputerLand, an American-Swedish computer training company. Every important programme seemed to speak English. Software manuals were in English. Business websites were in English. Computers, it appeared, had made their choice long before I had made mine. I already spoke several languages and assumed English would simply become one more. I was wrong. After Uzbek, the language of my childhood, Russian, rich and emotional, German, where words obediently sounded much as they looked, and French, soft and poetic, English felt oddly rebellious. The words were short, slippery, and impossible to trust. Letters refused to behave properly. Why write one thing and pronounce another? I tried grammar books. I memorised vocabulary. Progress felt painfully slow. Yet somewhere in the background, another teacher entered my life. Humour. At first, British humour made little sense to me. Nobody explained the joke. People smiled politely while I sat wondering whether something important had just happened. Then everything began to change. Humour began helping me learn. I started watching short comedy series in English. The characters misunderstood each other, mispronounced words, made mistakes, embarrassed themselves, and somehow survived. More than survived — they laughed. Slowly, I realised something liberating: saying things incorrectly could sometimes be funny, even charming. One imperfect sentence would not destroy the world. For the first time, I stopped being afraid of making mistakes. Then one day, someone told me a joke about eleven couples from different countries stranded on a desert island. Each nationality behaved exactly as expected. The Russians somehow found vodka. The Japanese began planning a factory. The Welsh broke into song. The Germans discussed the economy. The English, however, did nothing. Why? Because they had not been introduced. I laughed far too late, after everyone else. But something shifted in me. Suddenly, I understood that English was not simply a language. It carried a culture inside it. Restraint. Distance. Dry humour. Rules that nobody explained aloud. The joke taught me something grammar books never could. Language was not only vocabulary and verbs. It was personality. Years later, after moving to New Zealand, English continued to surprise me. I learned that “not bad” could actually mean excellent. That invitations were sometimes politeness rather than plans. That silence did not necessarily mean coldness. Little by little, English stopped being merely practical. It became the language in which I slowly rebuilt my life. It became the language that brought me to the people who would change my life and become my family. The language in which I dared to imagine new possibilities for myself. Back in Tashkent, I had a dear friend with a little grandson named Ilyashka. At the time, I was preparing to leave for New Zealand. My friend and I spent hours talking about visas, plans, fears, and this distant country where I was about to begin a completely new life. The boy listened. Then one day, he announced: “I want to go to New Desire too!” The adults burst out laughing. He had simply transformed a country he could not yet understand into something warmer and closer to his own imagination. Not New Zealand. New Desire. The name stayed with me. Because, over the years, that is exactly what New Zealand became. A land of new desires. A place where I began again. A place where I learned to write in English, publish stories, write novels, and slowly discover new parts of myself. Eventually, the child's little mistake became the name of my English-language website: New DesireLand, or Land of New Desires. It is more than a website. It is a small literary world I created in this beautiful language, where my stories, essays, travels, and dreams have found a home. Language gives us more than words. Through jokes, misunderstandings, and small accidents, it changes the direction of our lives.

A nineteen year old girl stands perplexed as the room full of cousins burst into laughter. Everyone is laughing, except her. She does not know what they all are laughing at. Excitedly she asks her cousin sister, “What happened? What happened?” The perplexed look on her face only results in them laughing harder. Finally one of them blurts out, “Pijjaa ! Hahahha say it once again! Pijjaa !” Everyone bursts into another round of laughter, high-fiving each other and some even rolling down the floor holding their stomachs. She looks around in confusion. Until one of her cousin's mother enters the room to check on the commotion. “Mummy, she called Pizza ‘Pijjaa' !” She says pointing towards her, seeking approval. There is an inherent sense of superiority in the way she looks at her, expecting her mother to join her. The mother hushes her off, “shhhh, it's bad manners to make fun of anybody.” Unlike her, all her cousins studied in English medium school. She did not know THAT the Difference between Pizza and Pijjaa was not merely of pronunciation, but Much More Than That. That, in a world of Pizza, ‘Pijjaa' was unforgivable, Pijjaa brought shame. The two come from two totally different planets, and their worlds never intersect. That this world applauds Pizza & shuns Pijjaa. That in the World of Pizza, Pijjaa did not Belong. That in this World Pizza had the Power to decide how ‘Pijjaa' would be treated. She earned a new name that day, the official “Behenji” of the group. She hated it from her core, she wanted to feel belonged too. But somehow, her skills, ability, talent and intelligence all got eclipsed behind the cardinal mistake. She had to pay the cost of not knowing the difference between ‘z' and ‘j'. Several years later when she gives birth, she decides her daughter is not going to face the same humiliation that she had faced. That she will send her to an English medium School. That she grows up Belonging. So then, did her daughter really grow up with a sense of Belonging ?

May I post here using other than English. I don't know how to write in English well. Saya berasal dari Indonesia. https://pepe.sayalagi.com/pages/chat Terima kasih !

I did not speak a word of english until I turned 10 years old.That too, I started with basic english sentences such as: "This is a boy, This is an apple, I love apples, This is a cat, This is a dog, A dog has a tail.” These were very basic english sentences. English was not my primary language but when I came to America, I was an adult. By this time I had learnt to communicate in basic english language, but any time I had to express something complicated, I would fumble or become silent. People are very forgiving in the U.S. They always helped, tried their best to not let me feel embarrassed. I concluded that there is no short-cut to solve this problem. I learnt that writing will help me improve my english language learning. I started writing more . Very soon I started to love writing. I was able to express myself and my thoughts in my writing. Writing turned out to pay off a lot. When I wrote, I had enough time to process my thoughts and express them on the paper. I still had a very thick accent. Accents tell you which country you are born in. Beyond country and region, accent also tells us a lot about which social class a person grew up in, their level of education.This can represent a strong bond. I consciously started working on improving my accent.It was my conscious choice to shift my accent towards American english. I wanted to be in the position, where I travel from one end of America to another end, and pass the accent test with as little sniffs as possible. Along the journey of correcting my American accent, I used to listen to the radio a lot. When I am cooking, cleaning, exercising, the radio is always on. Over a few months, I realized that I have improved a lot. I was passively grasping a lot of understanding in dialogue delivery. I can now communicate in a more colloquial way. The more I listened to the podcast, the more I would find flaws in my english speaking skills. I figured, what I was doing was not enough. In the meantime, every now and then I would get that disapproving look because of my accent. I still did not have the neutral American accent, and it caused unhappiness inside my heart. I wanted to sound obvious, so people could recognize me without an effort. I was lagging, but I was still not disheartened. My next strategy was to repeat after the radio hosts. Word by word; sentence by sentence. It was very tiring. I wanted to be the same way as I was. I wanted to just chill and relax without worrying , “what will people think?” Every night in the dark it felt so gloomy and depressing, but thankfully every morning, I would have my confidence back. After 10 months of continuous repetition and practice, it started to show the result. I felt more confident speaking to people.The fear and thought that someone is judging me became less everyday. Now I don't have trouble ordering food in restaurants. I can order exactly what I want. Every now and then I would have the classic set-backs. Accents are a point of connection, and connecting to people was very important to me. Not only me, but all of us are constantly influenced by the people we are surrounded with and that extends to accents too -- any Indian who has moved to America will hear from their own people that they have gone very stylish in their accent, even though they would themselves do the same thing. Even though it happens subconsciously when you intend to change your accent, I have not found anything this difficult to change on purpose. Some Days I have good learning experiences and some days are very bad. I still remember a story where I went to order a salad plate, and I wanted to add Ranch dressing, but I was not clear enough because of my accent. The waiter was too hesitant to ask me again and I realized that I am not saying it right.I finally got the dressing which I did not want, because the waiter had to guess and add something else. When I was in public talking to my friends, I would not hesitate accepting my thick accent flaw, and I would humbly ask them to correct me with the right pronunciation. Most of the time, someone would take super interest in correcting me, but at times I would also get that “look”. However I never mind constructive criticism but for sure these set-backs take you 2 steps backward, I had to remind myself, “I am learning, Mistake is a part of learning.” Now I am at the point, where people rarely guess what I just said. I never gave up. The fact that I was able to master something this hard, makes me proud of myself. I always remind myself, “if I can conquer this challenge, I can win any challenge in life.” I know, mentally it is more taxing to listen to someone with a foreign accent. People had to listen to me more closely to catch the underlying change in tones and stress. I still listen to podcasts and radio channels to constantly improve myself. Un-learning the accent or language you grew up with, is plain "hard", but now I believe you can do it.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to have four or five, or maybe more, songs stuck in your head? Imagine having that many people crammed into a small room and all desperately vying for your attention. Now imagine that, in a classroom, when you really want to sing so they leave you alone. But you can't, because a) you'd look like a total weirdo and b) there are other people trying to focus. That's an average day for me. Music is a big part of my family's culture, and it has a lot of meaning for me even beyond that. I think about this a lot: what if we could use music as a tool to connect with people? What if we could use it to tell stories and bring communities together? Growing up, my dad was a music enthusiast. We're a big family - eight kids, all from the same parents - so we made a lot of dishes at dinner. We live in an old farmhouse with no dishwasher, so at the end of the day, we'd all clean the kitchen and do the dishes together. This was in the days before Spotify and iTunes, back in the mid-2000s to early-2010s so if we wanted music, we had to sing. And sing we did. My dad would lead the melody and my sisters would sing harmony and to my eight-year-old ears, there was nothing more beautiful. The world was at its brightest when we were singing together. It made - actually, still makes - you feel like you're part of something greater than the sum of its parts. Even before I was born, my family was musical. So much so that I began to recognize certain songs in the womb, and to put me to bed when I was little, you had to sing "One Hand On The Radio" by Aengus Finnan or I wouldn't sleep. I'm seventeen now. I'm going to be a part of the senior music class, studying in-depth music theory and refining our skills on our chosen instruments - the flute, for me. This class has reinforced what my childhood led me to believe: when you're involved in music, you become part of a greater whole, on two levels. The first level is the local community. I've met some amazing people through music, people that otherwise I'd have no way of knowing. It draws strangers together, with all different strengths and weaknesses, and helps them overcome their failings to create art. Painters use pigments to decorate space, but musicians use sound to decorate time. Being part of that is a spectacular feeling, but one that's quite impossible to describe to someone who hasn't felt it before. The second level is the global community. Just about everyone I know has at least a superficial appreciation for music in some form. If you showed someone from the other side of the world a classical piece like Vivaldi's Four Seasons or Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, they'd have a hard time denying that it's beautiful music. Even if you think it's boring, you can certainly appreciate the skill required to play the pieces. This is true for many other forms of music too, not just classical. Music is a community thing and it's meant to be shared. I could go to Europe or the Middle East or Africa and find another musician to play with, regardless of lingual, cultural, or social differences and perform a piece with them. As long as we can both read music, we can let go of the barriers of society. As a musician, I'm not constrained like others are. My art form allows me a certain kind of freedom and a crazy connection to others that can't be taken away from me. You can't unlearn something, after all. So whether you just listen to music when it plays on the radio or you're a fanatic like me who listens to everything under the sun, remember that music is much more than nicely organized sound. Imagine a scene from your favourite movie, a very emotional one. Now remove the background music, and you're left with something a little more shallow. Music is the language that communicates beyond words and extends beyond the barriers of language. It is the one thing that can speak to anyone no matter where you are or what your culture is. It's the universal language and using it, we can connect with all kinds of people. And in a world that's so divided, so disjointed, couldn't we use a little more unity?

Guten Tag! Ever since I was little, I have loved to just sit around and day-dream about all the various, vivid places I could visit when I was older. Whether it was pure fantasy or not, I could see myself taking little endeavors. Even now, while I may not have the money or transportation to do so, that is what lead me to my current avocations. I study six languages: German, Japanese, Spanish, Italian, Russian, and French. I am still quite a beginner at all of them, but I plan to learn more languages, like Portuguese and Romanian, once I have fully mastered them. German was first at almost 4 years of study, then Japanese with 3 years. Next is Spanish at 2 years, the only language that I have been learning at school. These three are the best languages I can speak most fluently at the moment, while the rest are my most recently started, since the summer of 2018. I began learning for the same reason as everybody else, you see something you don't comprehend and decide to go a bit further. Yet, it goes beyond just wanting to be a polyglot. This may sound cheesy, but it's true, when you study a language, you are able to go places you never would have discovered through a regular tourist map. When you think about it, that's one of the major goals of vocabulary and history, to introduce you to a new frontier more meaningful than the last. My favorite thing about foreign society is all the situation and adjustment stories from those entering a new country. Even if translation isn't what drives you, or the culture is all that attracted you, if you listen hard enough, individual success and tragedy can be heard from everyone. Languages can bring you closer to understanding those seeking better opportunities, even things like war and separation. Novel stories as such become more common, literally. One of the most inspiring accounts about foreign hardships for me was Helen Thorpe's “The Newcomers: Finding Refuge, Friendship, and Hope in an American Classroom” and it truly helped me clarify and ignite my goals. The book tells of the struggles of immigration, from being born in war-stricken countries to relating one's home to the undulating ways of American society. Most importantly, it shows how everyday children around the world can be so akin to anyone anywhere else, despite race or ability to speak. You have students no older than 18 representing their families in court as to why they cannot be sent back to the bloodshed of their country's society, or every other eager danger that awaits young souls. These children can't even make into their own words what they've seen-let alone anyone else's, but are impressive in the way that they still try to convey their own feelings about the world to their fellow peers and instructors, overcoming language barriers, some more difficult than others. That's why I want to lend my skills in any way possible. While reading this book, I discovered the TANF organization, which provides financial aid and even housing or apartments in some cases to families on little or no income. In their foreign and refugee department, if no one understands English, they hire translators to explain the situation and importance of getting a job, since the financial aid is not enough to support most families. It's a blessing really, because they are almost always understaffed and deal with more than 60 families a day! Regrettably, I don't live near this TANF, it's around California and I live in Georgia. Georgia does have one, however it's almost 4 hours away at the north of Atlanta, which I know will be hard to attend a college in. Still, I won't let it deter me! Don't get me wrong, I'm sure this sounds, no, IS, pretty selfish for one person to tackle, but I want to at least try to gather all forms of expression and craft this little passion of mine someday. There is a future I'm looking forward to and it's one where everybody can express simple, meaningful moments of life, philosophy, and true strength without running to a dictionary or cutting ties because of language barriers. If I win this scholarship, I'll be a little bit closer to seeing myself across the globe. I'll be closer to connecting these shared ideas, whether through education or travel. It may not be super impressive, but after taking a step back from the ideals of the world and society, communication is something I heartily value now. I want to see the world and be able to truly connect to the millions of untold foreign stories around the globe. Not only that, but relay such adventures to my own kind and even some English ones back to foreigners. I want to teach people, one in the same, through language all the hidden alleys and markets it can take you to, all the wild forests and colorful celebrations it can lose you in. Even if you were just too bored one day, or someone said doing so and so, like learning a language, would make things a lot better, you had to at least imagine the scenery of the resulting journey.

In the molecular biology department's lab at the University of Southern Denmark, where I participated in a one-week biotechnology camp, I was doing an experiment using the PCR technique. Using this technique, I increased an amount of DNA exponentially, generating thousands of copies out of one copy of a DNA sequence. I was quite fascinated by the experiment. It didn't take my fantasy long time to start applying the technique outside of the university's walls. I started imagining how astonishing it would be if we could replicate our wealth, achievements in academia and all the goods in the world by just replicating one single segment of them. The clock suddenly rang, and one of the professors signed our attendance, indicating the end of the lab. On the way home on the train, I was thinking about the experiment, but also about the coming high school application interview of a mentee of mine, and from this my mind wandered to the whole experience of teaching her. My mentee is a young Syrian refugee living in the town where my parents and little brother now live, and I volunteer my time to help her. She is my age and she was still attending language school when I became her mentor, to help her learn Danish and prepare to get into Danish high school. On our first meeting, we had to get to know each other. She told me that she had always dreamed of studying economics and she had been a refugee in Turkey for the last three years where her parents had not been able to send her to school, and thus, she suffered from learning difficulties. She also told me about her worries of not being able to learn the Danish language and if that would possibly prevent her from attending a normal school with teenagers who share the same interest as she does and who are at the same age. At that time, I had developed mixed feelings of responsibility for and connection to her that I hadn't expected. Despite both being refugees from Syria, we were two very different people and our challenges with regards to education and learning were very different. But we were, however, both trying to find a source of hope for our futures, or as they say, a light at the end of the tunnel. Gradually, I began to realize that we had more things in common than we might have thought originally. What I really wanted to do was not just teach her Danish, I wanted to open her eyes to the possibilities in this different world, which both she and I had been thrown into. The language was a tool for this and I had that tool. I had managed to take hold of it quite quickly, but passing it on to her and others often felt like a whole set of challenges. Suddenly, everything became dark as the train passed through a tunnel along the way. I closed my eyes letting my thoughts wander deep into the Danish language, trying to find some tips that might make learning easier and more enjoyable for her. The next day, I bought a small notebook for our next meeting, and in that notebook, we wrote down all the new words she learned while reading. We had agreed together to practice them in our conversations every time we met. As her vocabulary grew, the Danish language began to acquire a distinct rhythm to my ears; a rhythm that I didn't have the chance to feel properly or to hear closely before, as my brain was absorbing the language very quickly during my first seven months in this new country. Our words were multiplying in the notebook, and as they did, our will was rising and fighting against the consequences of an illogical war that had brought both of us here. As our conversations in Danish advanced from very simple sentences to more complex thoughts and phrases, I began to sense a change in the essence of our exchanges. With each new word that my mentee added to her vocabulary, I tasted words of resilience and hope that were never present in our Arabic conversations. I began to realize that the Danish language had become not only a means of communication, but also a source of strength and resistance and hope for a better future. With this realization, I repeated each sentence, uttering the words again and again, allowing her to understand the layers of meaning within this new vocabulary. Fortified with this new language, she was rebuilding a life and lighting up the dark tunnel with her education. It was only a few days before her high school interview that our notebook was almost full of new vocabularies. Her Danish conversations had developed remarkably and her confidence in her own skills has grown as well. After my mentee passed her interview for high school successfully, I discovered that replicating our academic achievements would never have the same value as replicating DNA copies. I realized that the true value of these achievements comes only through sharing them and using them to make a difference in the lives of others.

“So, what do you choose?” – her mother looked at the girl and smiled, she was ready to put all her support and kindness in a serious decision of six year old girl. “I want to speak like this lady!” – she answered. And this is how this girl entered the school, which was specializing in foreign languages. The curriculum was rather complicated and required lots of passion, dedication and patience. But she was very hardworking and responsible girl, so she had never went to sleep until her homework had been done. Sometimes she took her education too seriously, nevertheless the girl really wanted high results. Her passion to languages didn't show itself until fifth grade, when the new teacher of English started to teach the class. The woman was rather elderly, she worked as an English teacher and also was in charge of little school museum where different pieces of the history of the World War II were taken care by her. She made a huge contribution to the development of the museum, taking care of war documents, photographs and another memorable things. She loved to teach and she was very passionate about her job, maybe her character or professional skills and experience motivated a little girl to pay more attention to English. She became interested in the subject, first time in life she really enjoyed doing homework. She wanted to learn more not because she was told so, but because she enjoyed it. The girl is still thankful to her teacher for opening this magic world of language to her. She will always remember kind smile of her teacher and her attitude to students, school and memory of schoolchildren who had been sent to war. In the university the girl started to feel the lack of foreign language in her life. It was like a hole in her soul, she was depressed, because university program of foreign language was easier than her school one. The girl wanted more practice, some challenges in her life. So she took a chance to fight for the language internship that her university had provided. And she succeed in it, ten students were sent to London for a week and she was one of them. She could not ask for more, her dream was coming to life. The girl was proud of herself and in that moment she understood the approximate direction of her future and what she wanted to do in life. This was the first time when her knowledge of language benefited her in such level. When she was a little younger she heard a story of her cousin that changed her attitude to the world. While Alexander studied in Russia, he decided to move to Germany and finish his education there. He didn't know German, he just followed his dream, and sometime later he discovered that it was not the easiest thing. He wanted to give up several times, but nevertheless he continued studying, despite failures he faced while passing exams. Right now he is one of the greatest engineers in Germany, who makes projects of alternative sources of energy. When the girl was thinking about her future, the special trait dominated in her character. That was the feeling of fear that she would not succeed in life, that time is running out too fast and she would not make any progress. It seemed to her that that her studying, career, self-improvement and other significant things would not lead her to what she really wants in life. She was constantly afraid of not having time to do something big. That was it until she heard her cousin's story. He spent thirteen years getting higher education, thinking of was that right thing to spend so many years not knowing if he achieves something. But he have been fighting, he kept going and showed everyone what he was capable of. And it was a motivation for a little girl… When I think about my past I understand that lots of wonderful things that happened in my life were the result of influence of different people. I think every person has its own idol, someone who inspires him to keep going, whatever the field of interest is: sports, music, science – people who achieved success become an example to follow. I know that sometimes our world is rather challenging and it is difficult not to lose inspiration. We all feel depressed from time to time, but it should be remembered that every day of our life is a new experience, and we can do our world better than yesterday by the power of our minds. And I am highly grateful to people who influenced my world outlook. I made a conclusion that the greatest happiness people can have in their lives is the existence of people who support and lead them. And I am lucky enough to have them in my life. I hope that someday I will become an example to follow as well.