If I spoke about it, if I finally did, what would I tell you? Would I recount the time the sky turned gray? Or describe the market, fresh from the smell of dried fish? Or would I tell you about the little prince who spent his childhood among strangers? Perhaps I would just warn you. For this was not a fairy tale story. But rather a tale of love and loss. — Once upon a time, there was a 12-year-old boy named Ato. Every morning, at exactly six o'clock, Ato walked five miles to the public market. The weave of the bilao he carried bit into his small arms, leaving red marks in his tender skin. As soon as the unmistakable scent of dried fish hit him, the little prince wore his innocent smile and raised his voice for all the strangers to notice. “Banana cue! Turon!” he shouted until the coins dragged his pockets down, hopefully enough to feed his family for one more day. Ato returned home right before the clock struck 12. “How much did you earn today, anak?” his mother asked softly. “Around two hundred pesos, Ma. Enough for today's meal, I guess.” His mother nodded gently. “What about the allowance of your two older sisters?” Her hands trembled as she wiped the kitchen table, exhaustion worn on her face. “We'll make it work,” he said. But every night, the little prince would always cry himself to sleep, praying for some things to change. The next morning proved no different whatsoever. It was six o'clock again, so Ato began the five-mile walk to the market. Except that when he passed by the neighbourhood playground, his friends were there playing joyfully. “Ato! Come play a game of patintero with us!” they shouted at him. His eyes sparkled, and for a second, his feet moved on their own towards them. But his fingers tightened against the woven bilao on his arms. “Maybe next time, guys.” Ato forced a smile before walking away. That next time never came. Until one cloudy morning, at six o'clock, the loud shattering glass tore Ato from his sleep. His knees were trembling as he darted towards their living room. The closer he got, the clearer the smell of cheap gin became. “Where's the goddamn money?!” his father shouted, towering over his mother. Before his father's fist could find a target, Ato emptied his pockets and handed the crumpled bills he had earned the day before. “PUTANGINA!” His father snatched the money from Ato's tiny hands before aggressively slamming the door shut. Seven years passed and mornings remained the same for Ato who became 19. He earned admission to his dream university and thought that his fairy tale was about to begin. Until his mother sat beside him one evening. “We can't afford it,” she whispered to Ato. “Your two older sisters should finish college first.” Ato felt silly, what was he even thinking? He looked down on his arms, a little bigger than before, but still the same ones that were expected to carry bilao, and not notebooks. So instead of fantasizing those impossible dreams. The little prince just worked harder and harder until everything finally exploded on a perfectly ordinary morning. At six o'clock, his mother entered Ato's room with the same demand on her lips. “Anak, your sisters need their allowance.” These exact words hung in the air, slowly suffocating Ato. His throat began to tighten. And before Ato realized it, words were already coming out of his mouth. “I am the youngest, Ma. Why am I the one growing old so everyone else can live?!” Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was anger. Or maybe his resentment toward the family he carried since childhood can no longer be bottled up. “It's for the family, anak.” Ato looked down to the invisible red marks on his arms that suddenly felt piercing in his skin, in his once-gentle heart. “If I do this any longer, there will be nothing left for me.” Ato turned his back to hide the tears falling from his face. Because for the first time in his life, he chose himself before anyone else. Some months later, Ato began doing something that once felt impossible. He started saving his hard-earned money. Not all of it, but enough to remind him that he existed too. And when the alarm rang at six o'clock again, Ato would smile before opening his eyes. With a plain black bag on his back and a tidied university uniform brushing against his arms, Ato felt his chest lighten. Perhaps, this time around, he could love himself better. — If I told you about that little prince, what would I say? That he lost his childhood? Yes. That he believed in fairy tales? Possibly. But I would also tell you this: Even after life stole nearly everything away from him, it never managed to steal his hope. For dreams are patient and stubborn. And when his heart is finally ready to dream again. Perhaps, at long last, he lived happily ever after.

Sergey had arrived in the capital just a few months ago. Five years of study at the coveted music conservatory awaited him. Since childhood, Sergey had harbored a passion for the violin. Growing up, his love for music only grew stronger with each passing year. One seemingly ordinary morning, Sergey emerged from the entrance of his multi-story apartment, violin case in hand. He lived with his uncle. As usual, Sergey was running late that morning; he lived on the other side of town from the conservatory, so the commute was long. Suddenly, turning the last corner, with only a few feet to go before the stop, he saw a bus turning—his bus. He ran as fast as he could to the stop; if he didn't make it, he'd have to wait half an hour for the next bus. Suddenly, Sergey felt his foot hit something, looked down at the sidewalk, and saw a cane, an ordinary cane, the kind used by elderly people. He turned his head, wondering who could have lost his cane, and saw an old man on the floor. An ordinary-looking old man, he wore a white summer shirt and olive trousers, a newspaper lying next to his hand, and was leaning against a small bench, a small shop that had existed since the Soviet era. Sergei picked up his cane from the sidewalk and wanted to quickly return it so he could catch the bus, but he saw that the old man was sitting on the floor for a reason. The old man had a large, bloody wound on his bald head, and dried blood was on his face and neck. The bus had already pulled up to the stop, but Sergei only turned and hesitated for a moment, then walked closer to the old man and crouched down, holding out his cane. "Are you all right, Grandpa?" Sergei asked, looking at the old man's broken head. "I was walking to the store, tripped, and fell," the old man replied weakly, taking the cane. Sergei's heart sank when he saw the elderly man in such a state. "Does something hurt?" Sergei asked worriedly, taking his phone out of his pocket and dialing an ambulance. "My head is spinning, I can't get up." "Don't worry, Grandpa, I called an ambulance. Drink this, it's hot outside," Sergei said, pulling a bottle of water and handing it to the old man. The elderly man accepted the bottle of water, and Sergei quickly ran to the nearest pharmacy. He bought cotton wool and hydrogen peroxide with his stipend. He returned to the old man's seat and, soaking the cotton wool with hydrogen peroxide, began wiping the dried blood from the old man's face and neck. "Thank you, I've been sitting here for an hour, and no one else has come up to me. What's your name?" the old man asked. "Sergey," Sergei replied, continuing to clean the blood off the man's face. "And I'm Volodya, I served during the war," Uncle Volodya began to tell his story. Sergey, having cleaned up the old man's skin, listened with interest to his story until the ambulance arrived. When the ambulance arrived, Sergei took off his net cape and gave it to Uncle Volodya. "Seryozha, at least give me your number, good man," the old man asked Sergei gladly gave it to him, waited for the ambulance to leave, and then headed to the bus stop. Uncle Volodya called Sergei the next day. He'd stopped at the supermarket and bought a bag of groceries, even though his scholarship was running out. "Sergey, thank you very much," the old man thanked him. Uncle Volodya lived modestly, but never complained. He tried to return Sergei's net cape, but Sergei refused. It turned out Uncle Volodya had no family, not a single one. They drank tea, with an inexplicable warmth in his heart. When Sergei left Uncle Volodya's building, he silently promised himself to visit him more often. But the end of the semester was approaching, difficult exams lay ahead, and he still couldn't find a free moment. It was already December, five minutes before the New Year, exams were over, and wonderful holidays lay ahead. Sergei stood in front of Uncle Volodya's house, holding fresh gingerbread cookies. He rang the doorbell for a long time, but no one answered. A neighbor across the street heard the noise. "Looking for Volodya?" she asked. Sergei nodded. "Volodya died three days ago. They say his heart stopped," the woman said, but seeing how pale Sergei had become, she continued, "Are you by any chance Seryozha?" Sergei nodded again, his legs buckling, and his face deathly pale. "He left you some kind of cape and a note," the neighbor said and entered the apartment. She returned with the same mesh cape and a scrap of paper. Sergey took the things from the woman, quietly thanked her, and went outside. The snow was thick, and the sky was darkening. With cold fingers, Sergey unfolded the note with the next, single sentence. "To the only kind person in my life." The gingerbread cookies fell from his trembling hands. Sergey put the note in his pocket and, clutching the cape tightly to his chest, fell into the snow, real tears of pain, sorrow, and loss streaming from his young eyes.

If someone had asked me in 2023 what major I wanted to study at university, I would have answered without hesitation: Economics! I had imagined my future in that field and believed it was the right choice for me. However, life had a different plan. Because of the opinions of people around us, my plans changed. Instead, I chose English Education, the same field my older sisters had studied. It was not a dream I had carefully planned. At that moment, it simply felt like the best decision I could make. Looking back now, I realize that this unexpected choice became one of the greatest blessings of my life. The first weeks at university were far more difficult than I had expected. I have always been an introvert. While everyone around me was introducing themselves, making new friends, and laughing together, I struggled to start even the simplest conversation. Every morning, I quietly walked into the classroom, hoping no one would notice how nervous I felt. Most of the time, I chose a seat where I could simply observe everyone else. My English was another reason for my silence. Many of my classmates spoke confidently, and I constantly compared myself to them. I worried that my English was not good enough and feared making mistakes. Instead of speaking, I stayed quiet. During my first semester, I became friends with a classmate named Saira. She was one of the strongest English speakers in our class, and I admired her confidence. Although English came naturally to her, she sometimes found mathematical and logical questions difficult. Those happened to be subjects I enjoyed, so I was always happy to help her. In return, simply being around her encouraged me to believe that I could improve my English too. At the end of our first year, Saira was accepted to the University of Arizona and continued her studies there. I was genuinely happy for her. But after she left, I felt alone once again. For a while, I wondered if university would always feel this lonely. Then something changed… Instead of waiting for confidence to find me, I decided to build it myself. I began studying harder. I practiced English every day. I challenged myself to speak even when I was afraid of making mistakes. Progress was slow, but every small step gave me a little more confidence than the day before. Around that time, another classmate gradually became one of my closest friends. There was no special moment when our friendship began—it simply grew little by little. She encouraged me without even realizing how much her words and support meant. Whenever I doubted myself, she reminded me that I was improving and that I was capable of achieving more than I believed. Today, I have completed my third year and am preparing to begin my fourth. When I walk into the classroom now, I no longer look for the quietest seat. Instead, I look for my friends. Sometimes I think about the path I wanted to take. What if I had studied Economics? Perhaps my life would have been completely different. But I don't regret the path I didn't choose. If I had studied something else, I might never have met Saira. I might never have met the friend who quietly helped me believe in myself. I might never have experienced this warm and supportive environment or made the friendships that have become one of the greatest gifts of my university life. Most importantly, I might never have discovered a different version of myself. The quiet girl who once avoided conversations is now the one who starts them. People often say that everything happens for a reason. I didn't always believe that. Now I do. Sometimes life quietly closes one door so that it can open another we never expected to walk through. Choosing English Education was never part of my original plan. Yet it gave me something far more valuable than a degree. It gave me confidence. It gave me unforgettable friendships. And it helped me become the person I am today. Sometimes, the life we never planned becomes the life we were always meant to live…

The sharp tang of vinegar and old dust always meant one thing: someone's history was rotting away. Nineteen-year-old Maya sat under the harsh light of her basement workshop, holding a scalpel with the steady grip of a surgeon. In front of her lay a water-damaged portrait from the 1940s. The canvas flaked badly, dropping tiny flecks of blue paint onto her black table like dry skin. Maya didn't restore art because she loved beauty. She did it because canvas never lied to you. Unlike people, it stayed perfectly still while you tried to fix what was broken. Her phone buzzed on the metal table, the vibration making her blade slip by a fraction of a millimeter. A text from her brother: “We sold the house. Mom's things are in boxes on the curb. Come if you want anything.” Maya didn't text back. Her hands simply pressed the blade harder into the wooden edge of the frame. She felt a cold; familiar knot tightens in her chest. She didn't want those boxes. Her family had spent years treating memories like useless clutter, cleaning out rooms the very second someone walked out the door, as if wiping away the physical evidence could somehow erase the emptiness left behind. They called it "moving on." Maya called it cosmetic surgery. She looked down at the portrait. To anyone else, the ragged tears in the corner were just damaged. To Maya, it was an entrance. Three weeks later, Maya was hunched over a rare, leather-bound diary brought in by an elderly man whose eyesight was failing. Her job was to carefully separate pages that had fused together from decades of damp humidity. With a heated spatula and infinite patience, she pried open two pages near the very back. A small, pressed flower—a purple violet—slid out, brittle and dry as ash. Next to it, written in faded, scratchy ink, were the words: “I spent my whole life trying to be quiet so they would love me. Now, I am just invisible.” The words stripped away Maya's armor. She stared at the ghostly ink, her breath catching tight in her throat. Looking at her own hands, stained with archival glue and charcoal dust, she realized she had been hiding in this dim basement for the exact same reason. She was trying to be invisible too. That afternoon, the elderly owner came back to pick it up. He peered at the restored, perfectly flattened pages through his thick glasses. "You made it look brand new," he smiled, tapping the clean leather. "Like the damage never even happened." Maya looked at the book, then straight into the man's eyes, which were cloudy with age. She noticed the deep lines on his face—creases carved by years of laughing, crying, and just surviving. Yet, he wanted his book to be a flawless lie. The frustration she usually kept locked safely behind her professional smile suddenly broke open. "Why do you want it to look new?" Maya asked, her voice cracking just a bit in the quiet shop. The man blinked, taken aback. "Well... because it's clean now. The stains are gone." Maya slowly slid the book across the counter, her index finger resting right on the cover. "The stains are the only proof that someone actually lived through those pages," she said softly. "If we wash away every single scar, we aren't saving the story, sir. We're just committing polite forgery." The man stared at her, his mouth opening slightly as the weight of the words landed. The silence stretched out between them until the ticking of the workshop clock sounded like a heartbeat. He looked down at his own wrinkled hands, then back at the book. He didn't argue. He just took the diary, his thumb slowly tracing a corner she had intentionally left slightly frayed—a soft look of sudden understanding dawning in his eyes. That night, Maya didn't go back to her safe basement. She drove through the rain to the old house. The boxes were still sitting there on the curb, soaked through by the evening mist under the dim streetlights. She knelt right on the wet asphalt, letting her expensive coat ruin in the dirt, and pulled open the flaps of the first box. Inside were her mother's old recipe cards, written in a shaky cursive, heavily stained with grease, spilled coffee, and vanilla extract. These weren't pristine archives; they were the messy footprints of a life fully lived. Maya picked them up, not with disgust or the old anger, but with the reverence of a curator holding a masterpiece. The world outside was completely obsessed with perfection, with clean slates and empty, sterile rooms. But looking at the grease stains on the paper, Maya finally understood survival isn't about being flawless. It is about letting the world leave its mark on you. She rubbed the rough, weathered edge of the paper between her thumb and forefinger. For the very first time, the imperfections didn't feel like trash, or a painful reminder of what she had lost. It felt like a quiet, final peace. She packed the boxes carefully into her car. She wasn't trying to fix the past anymore. She was just ready to keep it.

Every year, I meet a stranger. She has my name, my memories, and my reflection in the mirror. Yet somehow, she is never quite the same person I was before. One of those strangers was thirteen years old. She believed love had to be earned. Not demanded. Not expected. Earned. She thought good grades would earn it. Obedience would earn it. Being polite, agreeable, and easy to manage would earn it. She believed that if she became everything others wanted her to be, she would finally be enough. So she learned to stay quiet. When she disagreed, she swallowed her words. When she wanted something different, she pushed the thought away. Being liked felt safer than being honest. Being accepted felt more important than being understood. For years, she carried an invisible scale. Every achievement added weight to one side. Every mistake added weight to the other. At the end of each day, she measured herself and wondered whether she had done enough to deserve appreciation. The strange thing about chasing approval is that there is never a finish line. No matter how much she achieved, there was always something more to prove. Then life did what life often does. It asked questions she could not answer with obedience. Questions about who she was, what she believed. Questions about whether a person without achievements was somehow worth less than everyone else. For the first time, she stopped searching for answers in other people and started searching for them within herself. The answers did not arrive all at once. They came slowly, through mistakes, through disappointment, through realizing that being loved by everyone is impossible and being understood by everyone is unnecessary. Most importantly, they came through one simple realization: A person's value is not something they earn. It is something they already possess. Today, when I look back at that thirteen-year-old girl, I do not judge her. I understand her. She was trying to find her place in the world using the only map she had. But I am no longer her. I speak when I have something to say. I allow myself to have opinions. I care less about fitting perfectly into other people's expectations and more about remaining true to my own values. The girl who once wanted her future written by the hands of others now wants to hold the pen herself. And perhaps that is why I love meeting strangers. Because every year, another version of me arrives. She questions things I once accepted. She sees possibilities I once ignored. She teaches me something the previous version could not understand. A year from now, I will meet another stranger. I do not know what she will believe. I do not know what fears she will leave behind. I do not know what lessons she will learn. But I hope she remembers what it took us years to discover: We were never meant to earn our right to matter. We always had it.

At fifteen, I was a girl who had not yet been touched by the weight of the world. My life was simple, soft, and full of dreams that felt endless. I believed the future would naturally unfold into something beautiful. Like many girls my age, I dreamed of becoming a stewardess or a model one day. People often praised my appearance, and I thought that was enough to define my future. At that time, I had never truly thought about law, justice, or human rights. Those ideas felt distant, belonging to a world far away from mine. My attention was focused on school, friends, and social media. Like many teenagers, I created an Instagram account and began sharing pictures of myself. At first, it felt harmless—almost exciting—to be seen and noticed. But slowly, something began to shift. What started as simple attention turned into discomfort. Strangers—mostly adult men—began leaving comments on my posts. Some messages were inappropriate, others made me feel uneasy and exposed in a way I could not fully understand at the time. I tried to ignore it, convincing myself it was normal online behavior, but deep inside I felt something was wrong. Outside of social media, I began noticing the same pattern in real life. On buses, in public spaces, and in everyday situations, I saw how often girls and women experienced unwanted attention or discomfort. It was subtle, but constant. And for the first time, I began questioning what I had previously accepted without thought. During this uncertain time, I met someone who changed the way I saw the world. She was a woman in her mid-thirties. At first, she seemed like an ordinary person in my life, but over time she became someone I deeply trusted. One day, she shared her story with me. She spoke about her youth—how she had once been just like me: full of dreams, trust, and innocence. But her life had taken a painful turn when she was only sixteen. She had been deceived and nearly became a victim of exploitation. Her voice carried both strength and pain as she described fear, confusion, and the struggle to escape. Listening to her, something inside me broke open and rebuilt itself at the same time. For the first time, I understood how fragile safety could be for young girls. It was no longer just her story—it felt like a reflection of countless unseen stories. I realized that what I had considered “normal” was often something that should never be accepted. That realization did not leave me. I began to reflect on my own experiences—the messages I ignored, the discomfort I dismissed, the silence I kept. Slowly, everything started to connect. I understood that awareness itself is a form of protection. From that moment, I began to change. I started reading about laws, rights, and justice. I became curious about how societies protect people and how systems are built to prevent harm. What once felt distant suddenly became meaningful. Law was no longer just a subject—it became a direction. My dreams changed quietly but completely. The idea of becoming a model or stewardess no longer defined me. Instead, I felt drawn toward something deeper: understanding justice and protecting others. I wanted to be someone who stands for those who are unheard. Someone who believes that dignity and safety should never depend on chance. Law became not just an interest, but a responsibility I felt within myself. Today, I am still at the beginning of this journey. I am still learning, growing, and discovering what it truly means to stand for justice. But I carry one truth with me: even a single story, a single conversation, or a single moment of awareness can change the entire direction of a life. And mine changed at fifteen. What once was a quiet, simple life turned into a path of awareness, empathy, and purpose. I no longer see the world as something distant and perfect. I see it as something real—something that needs understanding, courage, and protection. And I am ready to be part of that change.

The Day I Discovered My Strength Story About Myself My name is Muhsina, and this is the story of the day I discovered my real strength—not the strength of the body, but the strength of the mind and heart. There was a time in my life when I often felt unsure of myself. I would look at others and think they were better, smarter, or more confident than me. I believed that success was something only special people could achieve, not someone like me. Because of this thinking, I sometimes felt small, silent, and invisible in my own life. One day, something happened that changed the way I saw myself. It was not a big event, but it became very important for my heart. In school, we were given a task to speak in English in front of the class. When I heard about it, my heart started beating fast. I felt nervous and scared because I was afraid of making mistakes. When my turn came, I stood up slowly. My hands were shaking, and my voice was not strong. At first, I forgot some words and made mistakes. I felt embarrassed and wanted to sit down immediately. But something inside me told me to continue, even if I was not perfect. So I continued speaking. My voice was not perfect, but I did not stop. I tried to complete my sentences, even with mistakes. When I finished, I felt a strange feeling inside me. It was not shame—it was pride. I had done something difficult, something I thought I could not do. After the lesson, my teacher smiled and said, “You did well. The important thing is that you tried.” Those simple words stayed in my mind for a long time. That moment taught me something very important: courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision to continue even when you are afraid. From that day, I started to change the way I think about myself. I realized that mistakes are not failures. They are part of learning. Every person who is confident today was once a beginner who made mistakes. Slowly, I began to challenge myself more. I started practicing English more often, speaking even when I felt nervous, and trying new things without fear of failure. It was not easy, but I saw progress little by little. I also learned not to compare myself with others. Everyone has a different journey. Some people learn fast, some take time. What matters is not speed, but direction. As long as I am improving, I am moving forward. During this journey, I discovered that small steps can create big changes. Every new word I learned, every time I tried to speak, and every mistake I corrected helped me become stronger. I understood that personal growth does not happen in one day. It is a process that requires patience, hope, and belief in yourself. Sometimes I still face difficult moments. There are days when I feel tired or uncertain about my abilities. However, I remember the girl who once stood in front of the class with fear but still continued. That memory reminds me that I have already overcome challenges before. I started to see challenges not as problems, but as opportunities to learn. Each challenge gives me a chance to discover something new about myself. I learned that a person's biggest enemy is often their own fear, and the best way to defeat fear is to take action. My family, teachers, and people around me also helped me believe in myself. Their support showed me that kind words can have a powerful effect on someone's life. Sometimes one encouraging sentence can give a person the motivation to keep going. Now I understand that strength is not about being perfect. It is about not giving up when things are difficult. It is about trying again after failure and believing in yourself even when no one else does. This experience also changed my attitude toward the future. Before that day, I used to worry too much about what would happen if I failed. Now I understand that every attempt is a chance to learn and become better. I do not need to be perfect from the beginning. I only need to have the courage to start. I believe that every person has hidden abilities inside them. Sometimes we discover them only when we face a difficult situation. My challenge in front of the class helped me find a stronger version of myself. It showed me that confidence is something we build step by step, through effort and patience. Today, I continue to work on myself. I know that every small improvement matters. The journey of becoming stronger never truly ends, but I am happy because I am no longer afraid of taking the first step. I still have a long way to go in my journey. I still make mistakes, I still feel nervous sometimes, and I still have doubts. But now I do not let those feelings stop me. Instead, I use them as motivation to grow. Looking back, I can see that the girl who was once afraid to speak is slowly becoming someone stronger and more confident. Not because she is perfect, but because she never stopped trying

Public transport in rural areas is rarely a comfortable experience. On most evenings, village buses are packed to the absolute brim, swaying heavily as they navigate sharp turns and poorly maintained roads. The air inside is usually thick with exhaustion, filled with workers and students eager to get home after a tiring day. On one such evening, a college girl managed to secure a window seat. Her legs were aching from standing in college labs all day, and she was incredibly grateful for the rare comfort of a seat for her long journey home. A few stops later, the bus ground to a halt, and a young pregnant woman climbed aboard. The bus immediately jolted forward, forcing the woman to grip the overhead handrail tightly just to stay upright. It was obvious she was struggling with the erratic movement of the vehicle. Seeing this, the college girl did not hesitate. She stood up, caught the woman's attention, and offered her seat with a reassuring smile. The pregnant lady sat down, her eyes reflecting deep relief and silent gratitude. The girl stepped back into the suffocating, standing crowd. Her legs were heavy, but her mind felt remarkably at peace. As the commute dragged on, the bus became even more congested. The constant influx of new passengers slowly pushed the standing girl further down the aisle, separating her entirely from the row she had given up. After a grueling half-hour of balancing against the rocky movements of the bus, it stopped at a major junction. A large group of people suddenly moved toward the exit. In that chaotic shuffle, an elderly man sitting on a side bench stood up to leave. Because of how the crowd had shifted, the girl was standing directly in front of him. Before anyone else could react, she stepped right into the vacant spot. Giving up her seat earlier was an act of pure empathy, but finding a new one in a completely jammed bus felt like a beautiful twist of fate. It shows that our actions travel in a circle. When we willingly give up our own comfort to help someone else, that goodwill echoes through our environment and finds a way back to us exactly when we need it most. Moral: Kindness is never a zero-sum game; the empathy we extend to others creates a ripple effect that ultimately returns to comfort us in our own times of need.

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.

Up until I turned 25, I was the ‘let everything take care of itself' type. I believed in the ‘suffering and neglect builds resilience' rhetoric. While that's true in a sense and in a variety of situations, the universal truth is this: What is well taken care of will ALWAYS be more productive than whatever is neglected. The world cares about results, not battle scars. That's why neglected kids may grow up with tougher skins, but they almost never become as accomplished as their well-groomed counterparts. Plants in the wild will cope better with diseases and adverse conditions, but will never bear more fruit than a backyard counterpart tended to regularly by its steward. Similarly, a car that is properly maintained will always last far longer than a neglected one. I've tried to run away from this reality for years but, it's simply nature. While it's true that taking excessive care for anything has a net-negative return on investment, the same can be said about absolute neglect. Overindulged kids grow up to be entitled, arrogant, repulsive people. Overwatered and overfertilized plants produce less or produce poor quality fruits-some even die. And over-maintained cars will get accustomed to a certain kind of treatment and easily break down when there's a slight negative deviation from the normal fuel, service routine, or whatever excessive treatment it was given. These are just three examples. The applications of this universal law are endless. Some years back, I planted pineapples behind my workplace. I religiously took care of them. I inspected them daily, weeded them as soon as I spotted encroachment, and fertilized them with green manure and egg shells. The result? I harvested mostly massive fruits. However, there was a problem. Towards the harvest, I overwatered them. Pineapples don't need a lot of water. And every agriculturist knows that too much moisture breeds diseases. So, yes, I harvested massive fruits, but most of them weren't marketable because they came down with mealy bugs. Still enjoyed them though. My point is, whatever you decide to have or do, take care of it just enough to give you maximum returns-not too much to make it fragile and not too little to make it barren. How does this all apply in areas that matter most? Your health? Take good care of it. You only have one life. But that doesn't mean you become obsessive about hygiene and drugs. Your relationships? Nurture them. Relationships are the foundation of humanity. It is from them that the doors of privileged opportunity open. Check up on your people regularly- Not just family, but friends and acquaintances too. Your business? I know there's a thing called ‘systematization'. But I'll tell you the truth: No system can truly replace you. Your presence in your business matters as much as parents of a child. I'm not asking you to become an employee in your business, I'm asking you to check on it regularly enough to know what it needs before any manager comes to you with unreadable quarterly reports. Take care of anything you're involved in. It is the new golden rule.

For three years, an empty chair sat at the end of the dinner table. Nobody moved it. Nobody sat in it. Nobody spoke about it. Yet everyone knew why it was there. Each holiday, Leila's father placed a plate beside that chair before remembering she would not come home. Then he quietly removed it. Her mother still folded an extra blanket whenever she did laundry. Her younger brother still saved funny videos on his phone, telling himself he would send them to her someday. Three years had passed since Leila disappeared. The police had stopped searching. Neighbors had stopped asking. Friends had moved on. But families never stop searching for someone they love. Not really. Every night, Leila's mother stood by the window and whispered the same prayer: “Wherever she is, let her be safe.” She no longer prayed for her daughter to return. She only prayed for her daughter to be happy. Leila never knew this. Living in a small coastal village far away, she believed her family hated her. She believed choosing her own path had cost her everything. Three years earlier, Leila had left Morocco to study environmental engineering in the United States. She was the first in her family to study abroad, and her parents were proud of her. Then, during the summer after her third year, she met Noah. He was a graduate student researching marine ecosystems. At first, they were friends. Friendship became long conversations. Long conversations became trust. Trust became love. Noah came from a different culture, a different background, and a different faith. Leila knew her family would struggle to understand. For months, she tried to ignore her heart. She tried to convince herself love could be switched off like a light. It could not. When she finally told her parents, the conversation ended in tears. Nobody wanted to hurt anyone. Her parents feared losing their daughter. Leila feared losing herself. Words were spoken that nobody truly meant. Pride replaced understanding. Fear replaced trust. And one day, overwhelmed by heartbreak, Leila walked away. Not because she stopped loving her family, but because she loved them too much to keep fighting. The first year was the hardest. Every holiday reminded her of home. Every success felt incomplete because she had no one to share it with. Back home, her father carried her childhood photograph in his wallet. Her mother kept Leila's bedroom exactly the same. The books stayed on the shelf. The photographs stayed on the wall. The bed stayed neatly made. Changing the room would have felt like giving up hope. Years passed. The anger faded. The love never did. One autumn afternoon, Noah arrived in the village where Leila lived. He had spent years searching, quietly and faithfully, never letting go of hope. When he saw her working in a garden near the sea, he almost did not recognize her. She looked older, stronger, wiser. But her smile was the same. Leila looked up and froze. The watering can slipped from her hands. For a moment, neither moved. Then Noah whispered her name. And Leila began to cry. “I looked everywhere,” he said. “I never stopped hoping.” “Why?” she asked through tears. Noah smiled softly. “Because some people are worth searching for.” Months later, Noah convinced her to contact her family. Leila was terrified. What if nothing had changed? What if they still rejected her? But love, even wounded love, sometimes asks for courage. When Leila arrived at her childhood home, she stood outside the door unable to move. Then the door opened. Her father stepped outside. For years, he had imagined this moment. He had rehearsed apologies, explanations, and promises. But when he saw his daughter standing there, all the words disappeared. His hair was grayer. His shoulders were slightly bent. Yet his eyes were the same. Neither spoke. Then her father opened his arms. That was all it took. Leila ran to him, and they both began to cry. Her mother rushed outside and held them both. Her younger brother, now taller than she remembered, wiped tears from his face. Nobody cared who had been right. Nobody cared who had been wrong. They only cared that she was home. That evening, for the first time in three years, the family sat down for dinner. And for the first time in three years, someone sat in the empty chair. Years later, when people asked Leila what brought her family back together, she always gave the same answer. It was love. Quiet, stubborn, patient love. The kind that survives misunderstanding. The kind that waits. The kind that never truly leaves. Because no matter how far life carries us, love always leaves a path home. And sometimes, all it takes is the courage to follow it.

Though it doesn't always feel like it, today is a fresh day. The world might feel weighty at times. People quarrel, the news is noisy, and issues appear to go on forever. It is simple to feel insignificant and helpless in situations like these, as if our actions are meaningless. However, I've discovered something straightforward and significant: even the little deeds can have significance. I saw an old man straining to cross the street with his goods one morning. Without slowing down, cars raced past him. I paused for a second. I had my own plans and was rather occupied. However, an inside voice told me to "stop." So I did. I approached him, said hello, and assisted him in carrying his baggage. It wasn't a major issue. It was just a few minutes. However, his grin and his humble "thank you" stuck with me. My day was altered by that event. It served as a reminder that kindness can be strong without being ostentatious. We frequently believe that in order to make a difference, we must address significant issues, yet sometimes all it takes is observing someone, paying attention, or providing a modest amount of assistance. These little deeds are like light in a world that seems divided and overpowering. They are important, but they don't solve every problem. They bring us together. They serve as a reminder that we are not alone. I've made an effort to pay more attention to my surroundings ever since. I make an effort to look at individuals rather than just walk past them. And every time I make the decision to be kind, even in a tiny way, I experience an internal victory. Perhaps we can't alter the entire globe at once. However, we can make a quick alteration. And sometimes that's sufficient.

Every night at exactly 9:47,the old man entered the store. Not 9:45.Not 9:50.Always 9:47.At first,I thought it was coincidence.Then it became impossible to ignore.The automatic doors would open just before the wall clock ticked forward,as if time itself made space for him. I worked evening shifts at a small grocery store on the edge of town.The kind of place people only visited when they had no better option.The lights were too white,the air smelled faintly of disinfectant,and silence always felt temporary. He wore the same gray coat every day.Rain or sun,winter or summer—it didn't matter.He moved slowly,not weakly,but deliberately,as if rushing might break something invisible. He always bought the same things. Bread. Soup. One orange. Always the same brands.Always the cheapest options.And always the brightest orange he could find,like he was choosing a small piece of sunlight. People noticed him,but not kindly. “Come on…” someone would sigh when he counted coins too slowly. “Why does he take so long every time?” a teenager once muttered. Even my manager called him “the slow-motion man.” At first,I didn't think much of it either.He was just part of the shift,like restocking shelves or mopping floors. Until the storm night. The rain started hard,pressing against the windows like it wanted inside.By 9:40,the lights flickered.By 9:42,half the street lost power.And by 9:47,the store dimmed into emergency red light. Most customers left immediately,complaining under their breath. But he stayed. He stood in line as if nothing had changed. When he reached the counter,I said awkwardly,“Sorry about the power.” He looked at me for a moment.“Power is not important tonight,” he said. Then he placed his items down carefully:bread,soup,orange. Instead of paying immediately,he glanced around the dim store like he was remembering it rather than using it. “Have you ever peeled an orange in the dark?” he asked. I hesitated.“No.” “You should try it,” he said softly.“You realize how much you depend on sight…and how little you actually need it.” There was nothing dramatic in his voice.Just certainty,like someone describing something they had learned too late in life. When the register came back on,I bagged his items.He didn't leave right away.He stood near the exit,listening to the rain hit the glass. Then he said quietly,“This place stays open too late for people who are already alone.” That sentence stayed with me longer than I expected. After that night,I started noticing more. He came every day at 9:47.Sometimes with wet shoes.Sometimes with trembling hands.Sometimes with a calm that felt heavier than sadness. Slowly,I started talking to him. At first it was simple. “Cold outside?” “Yes.” “Same items?” “Yes.” But silence between us began to change shape. One evening I asked,“Do you live nearby?” He paused.“I used to live everywhere my wife was.” I didn't fully understand,but I didn't ask him to explain. Over time,he spoke more. His wife used to meet him every night at exactly ten o'clock.Their routine was always the same:shared soup,torn bread,and an orange split between them.It wasn't about food.It was about ending the day together. “She said oranges taste like patience,” he once told me,almost smiling. After she passed away,he kept the routine.Alone. “I thought repetition might keep her from disappearing completely,” he said. He wasn't asking for sympathy.He was just stating it like fact. One night I noticed his hands shaking more than usual. “You okay?” I asked. He nodded too quickly.“Just older than I remember.” Then,after a pause,he added,“People think loneliness is loud.But it isn't.It's quiet.That's why no one notices it.” I didn't know what to say to that. A month later,he didn't come at 9:47. At first,I thought he was late. Then I thought he was sick. Then I told myself I wasn't thinking anything at all. But I still looked at the door every night at 9:47. On the eighth day,a woman entered holding a folded paper. She walked straight to the counter. “You were kind to my father,” she said. My chest tightened before I understood. I opened the paper. His handwriting was uneven,smaller than I expected. “Thank you for treating me like I still belonged somewhere.” That was all. No explanation.No goodbye. Just that. After she left,I stood there while the store carried on—receipts printing,doors opening,people buying things they would forget. After my shift,I walked outside into cold air. At a small corner stand,I bought one orange. That night,I turned off all the lights in my apartment. I peeled it slowly in the dark. And for the first time,I understood what he meant. It wasn't about oranges. It was about being seen before you quietly disappear.

2020. Covid spread around the world. I returned from Tashkent. Ancient Bukhara. What a beautiful city - but now a cage. Living with grandma. She is alone. It could be cruel to leave her in such a situation alone. But I missed my mother; her voice was weird last time. I feel worried, should visit her. But how? We are locked in our own homes. *** I came, ma! Father did not allow me to enter the home. Why? Strange. I insist. Mother came, did not go out of the home, just said at the door, “Bye", without greeting. She is ill. I swear she is ill, but she did not admit it. Father says, " She is just tired, but I am sure she is ill. 100%. I am sure. Father says, “Go, your grandma alone, just go”. *** The taxi is waiting. I went, couldn't get into the car, and I looked back. Dad says, “Go, bye”. I looked back, looked at ma, she is pale, looks exhausted. I looked at the car, looked back at ma, could not get into the car, ran back, hugged her, she hugged back. I felt like she waited for this hug so long, father got angry: “Why did u hug?” shouted. I felt comfort. If that is the case, let's die together! *** When my mother got pregnant with me, she was not in good health, everyone was against my birth, and she had doubts too, but could not abort, took a risk, and now we are alive in 2020 with Covid. My whole body, each inch, is aching. I feel like I am dying today. 2026. We are both alive. We survived, like before when she gave birth in 2001, like in Covid 2020 after a little hug, and now in 2026. I am relieved we are even. We went through all these together, like in the past, like in Covid, like now.

I used to think growing up meant becoming louder. More certain. More articulate. More present in every room I entered. But I did not grow up that way. I grew up collecting unfinished sentences. There were things I wanted to say at school but didn't. Questions I wanted to ask but swallowed before they reached my tongue. Not because I was afraid of people, but because I slowly learned that certainty belonged to others—and hesitation belonged to me. So I adapted. I became good at editing myself in real time. I would think a sentence, shape it, refine it—then erase it before it ever became sound. Over time, I stopped noticing where my thoughts ended and where silence began. The boundary disappeared. So did I, in small ways no one could see. It felt normal. Until it didn't. One afternoon in class, everything looked ordinary. The teacher asked a simple question—something I knew instantly. The answer formed clearly in my mind before the sentence even finished. I raised my hand slightly. For a second, I believed I would finally speak without hesitation. But when my name wasn't called immediately, my hand slowly lowered back to the desk. And when the teacher repeated the question, choosing someone else, I stayed silent—not because I didn't know the answer, but because something inside me had already stepped back. No one noticed. The lesson continued. The room moved on as if nothing had happened. But inside me, something shifted. It was not dramatic. It was not loud. It was the quiet realization that I had become someone who stops herself before the world ever has to. That night, I sat in front of a blank page and tried to write what I had been thinking all day. It should have been easy. My mind had been full for hours. But thoughts do not always arrive as sentences. That night, they arrived as fragments—half-formed ideas, emotions without language, truths that refused to settle into structure. I realized something uncomfortable: Silence is not always peace. Sometimes it is self-erasure disguised as comfort. After that, I began to observe my own absence more carefully. Not dramatic silences. Not life-changing secrets. Small moments: “I don't agree.” “I don't understand this.” “I want to try differently.” Simple sentences that somehow felt heavier than they should have. I understood then that I was not silent because I had nothing to say. I was silent because I had learned to make myself smaller inside conversation. Unlearning that was not immediate. It was awkward, slow, almost humiliating at times. The first time I spoke without rehearsing my voice in my head, it trembled. The second time, less so. The third time, I realized something unexpected: Nothing collapsed. No one rejected me. No one punished my existence. People simply listened. And I understood how much of my fear had been built from silence itself—not from reality. Months passed without a single defining moment. No dramatic turning point. No sudden transformation. Only repetition. Speaking. Staying. Trying again. And gradually, I stopped living entirely inside my own thoughts. I became someone who existed outwardly as well. Not loudly. Not perfectly. Just honestly. And maybe that was what I had been missing all along—not confidence, not certainty, not control. Just permission. To exist without rehearsing my existence first.