My name is Maja, and I was born in the Balkans, in a time when the world I knew still felt intact. I was a lively, curious child — always talking, always moving — the kind of child affectionately called “Maja the Bee.” I was happiest when I was outside, surrounded by friends, making up stories and believing life was safe and full of possibility.

Then the war came.

At thirteen, I wrote a letter to my family about what it meant to become a refugee.

I didn’t know it then, but that letter changed everything. People cried when they read it. And something inside me, something soft and young, began to believe that words had power, the kind that could move people, the kind that could hurt, too.

So I stopped writing from the heart. I chose safety. I chose to silence my voice.

For over two decades, I worked as a communicator for international organisations and peacekeeping missions — telling stories that fit the structure and served the system. I became very good at it. But somewhere in the midst of all the deadlines, decks, and reports, I lost touch with the part of me that used to write to feel.

This year, after years of “working on myself”, I started journaling again — quietly, almost secretly.

Then one day, while walking through the city, I gave money to an elderly woman. It was a simple moment. But as I walked away, I heard something—not out loud, but unmistakable:

You need to tell her story.

It stopped me. Because I understood exactly what it meant. I needed to tell that kind of story — the quiet, human ones that often go untold.

The stories of loneliness, anger, ageing, rejection, and resilience. The stories we carry in our bodies and hearts that don’t show up in Instagram captions. The ones that reveal the deeper truth of who we are.

I remembered something else, too — a joke my girlfriends and I used to make in our 20s. We were working as translators, in a newly post-war region. We were learning how to become independent women, rebuilding our lives from the ruins of conflict. And we used to say, “We should be on Oprah. She should hear our story.”

We laughed, but I meant it. I’ve always wanted our stories to be seen, acknowledged, and celebrated for the quiet strength they carry. So I created this instead. This is for you girls — the ones who carried so much and kept going.

It’s a space to tell the truth — the unpolished, unfinished kind. It’s a place for people like me, and maybe like you, who are tired of hiding behind perfect narratives and want to remember what it means to speak from the inside out.

More than ever, now that I’ve reconnected with this part of myself, I want to help others tell their stories too, whether they’re shaping a campaign, writing a personal essay, or simply trying to find their voice again.