I think one of my favorite pictures regarding love and romance is this one:

“What is love?” “A neurochemical con job.”

Because this child can’t be more than eight, and they’ve hit the idea right on the nose. Love is something that we as humans have evolved into finding mutually beneficial, especially in this time of the necessity of two-income households. Our own human biology cons us into finding the way a person smiles and the weird half-laugh they do at dumb jokes on Twitter worthy of our affection and time. Humans are essentially useless when they’re born. As a way to compensate, evolution gave humans oxytocin, the hormone that makes us feel bonded with other people. It starts out when our mothers bond with us as babies, or as children.

And then we chase that feeling forever. Humans are social. We – generally – like being around other humans. At the very least, we all need some human contact. So our own biology goes “here, have some oxytocin” when we’re around people we like. And that makes us like them more. And then romance comes in. That fuzzy feeling? It’s just hormones.

But romance isn’t all dead.

There are also the benefits of being in a relationship in the modern world, like shared costs for the Netflix subscription. Or for budgeting for the future because you’re unsure about whether or not grad school will have enough return on investment to go. In an age of dating apps and OKCupid quizzes, it’s hard to find the romance sometimes. It isn’t all milkshakes and going steady. A lot of romance is having real conversations about the future.

Like:

“If you were never financially stable enough, would either of you be okay with not having children?”

“Do you even want children at all?”

“Do you have any debt, student or otherwise?”

In this new generation reaching adulthood, these questions are more like small talk on a first date rather than questions you ask after you’ve been together for five years and already own a dog.

But that hormone remains. Humans like and need other humans, and not just for their various accounts to watch TV. Companionship is a part of the human experience. Even when the questions we have to ask each other get harder, it isn’t impossible.

We can find love in a hopeless place.

If Rihanna says we can, I believe her.

Love continuously proves to be one of the most elusive concepts.

That is, for me anyways. How are we supposed to go about finding something that so few can even define? Yet, while I may not have experienced the kind of love that makes up fairy tales, some of the stories I have heard throughout my 21 years of life have given me hope. Hope that maybe the connections we make in this lifetime are worth more than a box of chocolates or a way to pass the time.

Some of the following recollections of love stories are from my friends and family. Others are random remembrances of conversations with kind strangers. Either way, from those I have encountered, I have found that it is love that makes life worth living.

My grandmother smiled warily as she recounted her love story for the last time, sitting with me on her bed.

The platinum beauty was standing overlooking the airplane tarmac with her father when he saw her. He was sitting in the café with a gaggle of stewardesses when he looked up and said, “That is the woman I am going to marry.” The young man got up, walked over and introduced himself to the woman and her father. As fate would have it, he worked for her father’s engineering company in Los Angeles. As the staff called for the boarding of their flight, the woman and her father took their seats in first class while the man went back to sit in economy. When the father got up to use the restroom, the man got up, sat in the father’s seat, drank the father’s martini and did his best to woo the young woman. When the father came back he politely asked if the young man would move, as he’d like to have lunch with his daughter. Phone numbers were exchanged, background checks were ran and a double date was set up between the young man and the beautiful blonde. Six months later they were married and proceeded to spend the next 50 years of their life together.

She chuckled while recalling the memory, sitting with me at an airport terminal in Dublin.

She was an English lady on holiday in Ireland with her friends. Her first marriage was not all that it was cracked up to be and she needed a break. Riding her moped down the winding Irish roads, he almost ran her off the road. It was meant to be. They got married and she moved to Ireland whilst her daughter moved to The States. She learned to love Guinness for him.

Her eyes smiled up at me over her glass of wine as we told her our well wishes, sitting on our hostel’s rooftop patio in Portugal.

They we’re both at a random Chicago Cubs game. He was from Texas; she was from Canada. They were seated next to each other and hit it off. He had just gotten into a relationship. They exchanged contact information and went their separate ways. A year and a half had gone by when she received a random call. It was him. He was out of his relationship and had been thinking about her after all this time. They began long-distance calling each other for months and eventually made plans to meet in Vegas to see if the spark was still there. She was leaving to fly to Vegas in the morning.

Watching as they joked for the umpteenth time about who is older/smarter/drunker I remember how much I adore my brother—and I couldn’t love her more as a sister if I tried.

They grew up at the lake together. He did a little more of the physical growing up then she did. It was the golden summer and feelings developed. Jokes were made and families looked on with barely-concealed amusement. There were many play fights to be had, lots of Bloody Mary’s to be made and countless childish jokes to be tossed out just to see who could toss it back first. She lived in LA; he lived in Atlanta. They carried on long-distance throughout the ups and downs over the years. They look forward to moving in together next year.

I could go on forever.

It’s true for many that love take time to grow. But for others, it arises and smacks you on the head like an out-of-control moped on an Irish holiday. To me, relationships that seem to be destined aren’t the ones you went searching for. They’re the kind that come out of nowhere. They are the kind that are messy, take work and surprise your common sense.

They’re the kind that I love to hear about.

I love to hear the stories about how people met, because they are never the same. They never happen the way you expect them to; and that’s one of the unsurpassed wonders and mysteries of life.  So to all those who have already found their love story, keep on spreading that joy. For those who haven’t, much like myself, there is nothing to worry about. Keep an open mind and heart and let fate do its’ thing. While it may not be popular opinion, I do believe that those who are meant to come and stay in your life—will. Life is long, but altogether too short to spend time with those who don’t fill your cup.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” ― Pablo Neruda

I never thought this can be a point of discussion until now. Few days back I read Virginia Woolf’s “A room of one’s own”. In this book she primarily focuses on the idea of women having a room of their own so that they can have freedom and luxury to write. I quote here- All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point. A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved.

This book “A room of one’s own’ was first published in 1929 and even now decades later the issue persists. Can we put this on men and say they are bias toward women? No, if you see, a large fraction of readers consist of women.

When I did little research on this issue, I came across data which was based on Survey conducted by VIDA in 2010. An article published in “The Guardian” states this fact very clearly that there is a big gap between female authors and male authors being published. Is it because a large number of publications reject female writers work or men outnumber women just by the fact that fewer women try their hand in writing? 

Let me break it down for you-

1. VIDA FACTS

VIDA: Women in Literary Arts support women and their contribution to literature. VIDA conduct surveys every year to see how women are doing in literature and how much attention is being given to them by various publications.

According to survey conducted in 2016, there was some improvement from the year 2010.

a) There were 29 Women as compared to 49 men who got published in GRANTA (a magazine and publisher based in UK) in 2010 which went high in 2015 with 33 women as compared to 35 men.

b) For poetry the number increased from 165/246 in 2010 to 185/188 in 2015.

c) When it comes to how many female critics got their voice heard the numbers are really bad.

“London Review of Books” featured 527 male authors and critics compared with just 151 women in 2014. The New York Times book review featured an overall 909 male contributors to 792 women.

2. Male pseudonyms

Male pseudonyms were very common in 18^th and 19^th century. They were female writer’s card to the world of literature. They were proof that the author of this book is real genius and means business. Can women write? Yes, they can; in fact they are brilliant in what they do. Mary Ann Evans is an example of this who you know from her pen name “George Elliot”.  Yet even today name matters, why?

If you think these are only theories than you should read this . A tell all story by renowned author Catherine Nichols where she submits a manuscript under a male pseudonym. She received eight times the number of responses she had received under her own name.

3. Elements of Surprise 

Surveys like “Are women better writer than men?” demean the whole idea of being a writer in first place. The question should be how we can promote diversity in literature? There must be writers out there who don’t want to be methodical but different. The difference is because of the prevailing idea in our society that men are intellectually more superior to women. It’s like getting surprised and showering praise for a man who comes in support of women rights. Ignoring all the efforts millions of women are making every day for their own rights. I bet you, if a male writer wants to publish on a sensitive subject such as feminism, there will be a queue of publisher standing right outside his door.

Is there any solution to this? Will there ever be? How long will it take our society to understand that we all are human beings irrespective of our gender, status or race? Our minds are unique. Each one of us has a right to have a say in different matters irrespective of who we are.

We have come a long way where women no longer have to hide behind a pseudonym. They can walk the walk and talk the talk as freely as men do. Female authors have published a wide genre of books which are getting the reception they deserve, “Wild- Cheryl Strayed”, “The lowland- Jhumpa Lahiri”, “The hunger games- Suzanne Collins” and “Gone Girl- Gillian Flynn” to name a few.

There are so many female authors I haven’t read myself. The conclusion I draw from these facts is – We should give female authored book a chance to inspire our lives.

How much do you think there is gender bias in literature and how it affects you as a reader?

If I’m being honest, I’ve carried around a secret dream with me for the past few years. It’s the kind of dream that I don’t think I’ll ever actually act on, but a really great dream nonetheless. The truth is, I’ve always wanted to be a writer for shows like Parks and Rec and The Office. I just think it would be so much fun to create beautiful, real, silly relationships out of everyday scenarios. It’s my ‘maybe someday’ dream.

There are more pressing, urgent dreams I have that I need to fulfill – like working in education reform, and mandating sexual health education in all 50 states, and ending mental health stigmas once and for all and even running for office, and and and !!! –  there’s so many things I want to do!

But writing for a comedy show? And if I’m being even more honest, ACTING for the show I’m writing for TOO?! That thought makes me feel selfishly giddy.

In truth, comedic acting terrifies me.

I pushed myself to audition for a comedy troupe Freshman year of college, and I got in. Yet, even after two years, I still feel utterly out of my comfort zone, and like I will never be as good as others who seem to have a natural knack for timing and improv.

Yet, I want so badly to be good at it. I want to be as powerful and unashamed as my personal heros are.

When I watch Carrie Brownstein star alongside Fred Armisen as a total equal in Portlandia, and when I watch her scream about ‘Ayo River’ and a stupid, freaking camping video, I feel like I want to scream with her. More importantly, I feel like I maybe COULD scream like her, and be as funny.

When I read Jessi Klein’s book, I felt utterly empowered and thought to myself… ‘wow, maybe I can tackle the rawness of the female experience in the same way’.

And when I watch a girl I go to school with do improv, I am left speechless. She is not there to be ‘beautiful’ or ‘feminine’ – she is there to be absolutely, incomparably hilarious. I can’t even tell you what it means to me to watch her, a female just like me, absolutely OWN the stage.

And I’ve written and spoken a lot about the influence that Leslie Knope and Amy Poehler have had on me, but I will do it again:

Seeing a female that looks like me so passionate, so hard-working, so brimming with relenting optimism, eagerness, and so resilient has changed my life.

God, I feel alive just thinking about how unbelievable these people are.

These are a few powerhouse females that have made me want to be more. So many women in comedy have made an impact on me so large I feel that my heart growing just thinking about it.

So, maybe someday I’ll contribute to creating something that leaves others inspired, stunned, and in total and utter awe.

Maybe someday.

I’m a big fan of Instagram, so check me out! 🙂

If you liked this article, consider checking out the book I wrote on media, gender, body image, and more!

For more information on my work, check out my website!

Sharing a story is sometimes hard. Sharing a story about yourself is even harder. You never know where to begin, what to say or how people may react. However, throughout my recovery I found that sharing my story was one way to keep my own two feet on the ground. The school that I was asked to speak at, asked for me to give a title for the talk, which became the hardest part to do. As I began to write, I realized it was hard to find just one heading for the talk. I had to pack my six-year battle into one heading, which was entirely impossible.

Feeling like I wasn’t good enough for everyone was always one problem of mine. Whether it being grades, athletics, or with my family I always felt a little bit behind. I struggled academically, which made me different than all my straight A friends. And being an athlete was a big part of my life, so I always tried to be my best on and off the field. This all changed for the worse, one afternoon when I found out my best friend had committed suicide. I never truly began to realize the impact my friend had on my life until the day I realized I was never going to see him again. There would never be walks up and down the hallway while we were skipping our “academically enhanced” class or swimming and jumping off trees during the summer.

Everything was gone in the matter of seconds and the worst part was, I never got to say bye.

I woke up one morning wanting to be better. To get out of this rut and finally get back to being happy cause I always thought, that’s what my friend would have wanted. First, I couldn’t control my academics because no matter how hard I tried I was always the B-C student. Secondly, I couldn’t control my coach’s thoughts of what boat to put me in, no matter how hard I tried at practice. Finally, I couldn’t control the fact that my friend had died and I would never get to say anything to him again. One thing I could control was my weight.  Somehow in my mind I thought losing weight could get me in the A boat as well as fix my grades and in some messed up way, get my friend to come back, which trust me, didn’t work.

Fast forward a year, my mom came running up the steps to find me laying on the bathroom floor. No child ever wants to see the look I saw on her face that day.  I knew I needed help. Somehow I couldn’t control anything anymore. I got help and slowly began to recover. I gained control over this issue until the day things slipped again.

Fast forward two years, I was sitting in the Renfrew Treatment center, they told me that I would develop heart palpitations or my mom would find me dead on the bathroom floor if I didn’t get control over this.  I was supposed to be graduating high school in four months and they had wanted me to stop everything and go into an inpatient hospital to fix my issue and then move on with my life.

By this time, I was actually getting worse at rowing and my grades slowly began to fall, and of course, my friend never came back. This was also the time I was hearing back from colleges and all I could think about was having to stay back a year to finish high school. My mom gave me the ultimatum of getting help and gaining enough weight to go to college and maintaining it so I could stay at school. My mom never understood what I was going on and her way of fixing it was telling me to “just stop”.

Telling your child to “just stop” is the worst thing you can say. It’s like telling them, mentally they aren’t fine but physically if you stop all your problems go away.

That’s not real life though. If you physically stop, your mental block will be harder and harder to control and ultimately you’ll fail even harder than you did before. My mom had good intentions, she just didn’t understand and I don’t blame her for that. Outsiders looking in thought I was crazy. In some ways I was. Crazy in the sense I was trying so hard to be someone I wasn’t.

Two weeks into my freshman year at college I was rushed to the hospital and was diagnosed with heart palpitations because of this illness. By this point I was still at a healthy weight and I was doing better but my body was tearing apart because of the years of abuse I had given it.

The cycle of relapse and recovery went on for a while. Until recently I woke up and decided enough was enough. All in all, if you’re going through something like this, I can’t tell you how to fix yourself, I can tell you, if you want saving, you need to save yourself.

One day, I opened my bloodshot eyes from getting two hours of sleep the night before and just started crying. Crying because I just wanted this pain over with. Six years of battling and I felt as sad as I did day one. In rehab they tell you “you’ll always have this problem, but learning to deal with it will get easier”. I always thought it was crap because it’s like setting you up to fail, but I decided to say hey let me try it out for sometime and see how much failing I can do.

Trust me, I failed, probably more than the average person. But every time I failed I realized something new about this horrible disease. First I realized that I was hurting my body to try to be good enough for this world.  I tried pleasing everyone so people would like me. I went out of my way to help people before helping myself. Some call it selfish and trust me I thought it was.

Being selfish was what I needed, I spent way too much time trying to please everyone and that needed to stop.

My second fail led me to understand that people are mean. They will judge you, hurt you, and try to tear you down. In the end we are all trying to save ourselves from everyone else. My most recent fail led me to obtaining control back into my life.  I always gave my control away. Giving it away to others to let them control me was the problem. I ultimately needed to control my control and worship it to be something precious. Trying to be alone is hard when you’re dealing with these issues. If you are alone, you usually have 100% control and for someone like me, that is a hard pill to swallow.

I learned that by being alone you figure out a lot more about yourself. I found that I love coloring, taking walks and dancing in my room alone. I realized, when I was the girl in control, I began begging my friends to go out and dance our butts off for no apparent reason. I started to laugh with my friends till my stomach hurt and say stupid things that made no sense. I learned control is empowering. It feeds my spirit and my personality.

My story with this awful disease isn’t over. I wake up everyday telling myself to smile and keep walking. Smile, because if someone else is having a bad day, maybe there is a slight chance they will be impacted by the smile I bring. I say keep walking because no one should stop their story from growing. Each day we have the power to build upon our stories, make them great and fill them will amazing memories. Stress, work, money and many other things will always be an issue in our lives. Surround yourself with the good people, move on from the bad. Make time for yourself and understand that no one is perfect. We all have stories. Stories that all make us who we are.

That’s why my story doesn’t have a title and why I learned that sometimes not having a title is just where I belong.  I continue to write my story for my friend and for everyone else willing to listen just in the hopes my story will help someone else write theirs.  

The very first week of my freshman year at university, I joined a sorority. My mother was in a sorority, all her friends were in sororities. For me, this felt like the pinnacle, the first and most important choice of my college career. These were the girls I was picking to be my best friends, my closest confidants, my “future bridesmaids.” I bought the Tory Burch sandals. I monogrammed my whole life. I drank the Kool-Aid.

My first year in my sorority was everything I could have wanted. I made those close friendships. I took all the perfect pictures to make my life look like a Insta-dream. I partied hard and threw moral reasoning to the wind. Everything was good.

Then sophomore year came around and I started to feel that tug. You know, that sickly feeling in the pit of your stomach telling you things aren’t right? It didn’t happen immediately, but it crept in slowly and it was undeniable. The girls I was living with, the girls who I called my “sisters” had completely different views about life than I did. And the more my views developed and pulled away from the views they had, the more they began to ridicule me. My beliefs about politics, human rights, religion, sex, everything…felt like a target on my back. My freshman year I had been consumed with a desire to fit in, to be well liked. And I had achieved it!

But at what cost?

By the start of this year, my junior year of college, a time when most people’s relationships with the people around them have solidified and grown deeply rooted in mutual love and respect, I felt like an island. Here I was, 20 years old, stranded in a sea of people who seemed to know exactly who they were and what they were about, totally isolated. I didn’t feel proud of my beliefs because they weren’t what my peers found praiseworthy. I wished all the time I could continue living like the girls I wanted so desperately to embrace me. But I knew I couldn’t change the values that were so integral to who I was as a person. The only thing I could do if I wanted to find those true friendships was to make a change.

So I struck out on my own in search of acceptance, fearing rejection. I don’t believe there are many things more lonely than putting yourself out there, trying to find friends when you feel like you have no one by your side. I felt like everyone around me had already found their place, like everyone knew where they fit and I was the spare part that wasn’t needed by anyone.

The secret to getting through those moments of utter loneliness is to understand that the way that you are feeling is a lie.

No 20-year-old has it all figured out. Everyone can use more friends. If they think they don’t, they’re lying to themselves even more than you are. And you are not, not, NOT a spare part. You are a vital part of the world around you. Your beliefs, your thoughts have the potential to make your school, your workplace, your sorority a more diverse and understanding environment. You are unique, you are special. You are someone’s child, someone’s student, someone’s neighbor, someone’s friend. You can be someone’s parent, someone’s spouse, someone’s teacher or coach or boss. You have the power to speak life into the existence of someone who feels dead inside, to be an example of what it looks like to be brave and step out in favor of your beliefs, to look at rejection and say “you can’t keep me down forever.”

I found an organization who’s description spoke to my heart about what I was looking for. And then I found another, and another. I invested time in these places, and I planted seeds of friendships. I dug deep holes for my seeds and buried them far below the surface. I nurtured them with care; I helped them grow over coffee and long conversations. I delighted when they sprouted little blossoms of laughter, and I rejoiced when what started out as small buds among thorns of tears and shared sadness bloomed into the most beautiful flowers of trust and companionship.

This year, I learned that it’s okay to feel lonely sometimes, but you don’t have to stay there long. You are not a rock. If you feel repressed or unappreciated, you don’t have to hunker down and tough it out. You can move, you can grow, you can start all over whenever you want. I promise there are people out there who can’t wait to know someone as amazing as you.

Broken goggles, snapped caps, power racks, 5:30 am morning practices, lifting, underwater, 5+ hours a day, the tears during practice; all these things have been my life the last 17 years, especially the last 4; until last week.

College swimming is no joke. The alarm clock going off at 5 am never got easier as my time as a swimmer. I always had to set 2-3 to finally get up and drag myself to practice. The worst part about my morning? Jumping into the cold pool. You can ask any swimmer what they dread the most in the morning and I guarantee you it will be getting into the pool. I was always one of the last ones in the water (which seemed to have ticked my coaches off as time went on, oops).

2 hours pass of staring at the black line and I feel accomplished knowing most college students are still in bed. That is just the start of my day.

Classes on classes follow practice and before I know it, I’m back at the pool again for practice #2 of the day. After barely surviving most afternoon practices and feeling like I am drowning, my day is finally over. I then would hit the books for the rest of the night and repeat it all again tomorrow. This was my life every single day during my time as a Division 1 swimmer at Auburn University. I never had the regular college life as a majority of students do. However, I wouldn’t trade my life for anything.

Swimming was my biggest blessing in disguise. During high school, I lost many close friends and different school events for my sport. I always used the excuse “I have swimming”. But it was true. I was always at the pool. Whether I realized it or not, it kept me out of trouble.  Swimming has given me the opportunity to meet the most amazing people from all across the world. Perhaps one of the biggest lessons I have learned as a swimmer is that you will always have a hard working attitude out of the pool. Balancing sport and academics is one of the most challenging things as a student athlete. Thankfully, I was able to divide my attention for swimming and school. It has also taught me about myself- who I was and what I stood for. Once I became part of a team at Auburn, I learned that it wasn’t about myself.

I wasn’t doing what I was doing for myself. I put in the work for my teammates; to make them better and inspire them. I found myself putting myself second and my teammates first.

This sport was all I ever knew. Often I found myself getting caught up in the swimming world and forgetting everything else. The biggest lesson that swimming didn’t teach me is that LIFE GOES ON. I didn’t think there would be life once I was done with swimming to be honest. Nobody prepared me for when I would be done. All I knew was swimming, swimming, and swimming. That was my life. Now a senior and a week into the “retirement life”, I quickly realized that there is more to life than my sport and that life actually does go on. From the missed intervals during practice, to the 5 second add in a 200 during a meet, I have learned that those things will not be remembered a year from now. What I will remember is my teammates and the memories I made with them. I now have free time that I never had before. Is it fun? No. Do I wish I could swim forever? Probably. But I have learned that I am more than my sport. I am the wanna-be soccer player, the music listener. I am the ex-student athlete who is finding out who I am.

I will forever be thankful for never quitting on the sport and continuing the passion for my sport. Swimming will always be a love-hate relationship to me but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I am thankful for my time as a swimmer my whole life, especially at Auburn University. Here’s to surviving week 1 of my retirement life!

Growing up, I evaluated from a kid who played mass at home and preached to the family congregation in a non-understandable language, to a lapsed Catholic who pretended to sleep on Sundays. It worked from time to time, but my parents got me on this.

Sure, I was baptized, received Holy Communion and was confirmed, and I was learning about the Catholic faith in School, at home and even at mass through the priests preaching. But, becoming a teenager made me drift away from Catholicism, not in the way of leaving Church or not attending mass. I was just not interested in this topic, nor did I realized at that time, that God is a friend of mine, someone who strives for a relationship.

I grew up in a traditional Catholic family.

As a family we attended mass every Sunday, we prayed the rosary and faith was kinda important for my parents. I remember days, when my mother would come up to me and my brother, telling: “It would be nice if we would pray the rosary together.”

We knew that this kind of prayer wouldn’t be short, what means, when we accepted the invitation it would be more like: Hm, we would rather continue playing PlayStation or watching television instead of sitting down twenty and more minutes for the rosary.

My parents were good people, and all they tried was to live their faith and share it with us. We knew the commandments, the sacraments and some prayers, but I must admit that my relationship with God was similar to a machine you mostly find on train stations. I would put in as many prayers as I could, mostly before exams and after them, praying for a good mark or something else. Imagine putting in prayers like coins, pushing the button and waiting for something good to come out.

My prayers were rather one-sided, if you compare it to a relationship with a friend. How else should it be, because I never heard that the big mysterious invisible guy sitting in the clouds could be a friend, someone who strives for a relationship with every individual.

I never thought of God as a friend.

I never enjoyed school, mostly because of mathematics and physics, but after finishing it finally, I found the freedom to pursue my goal of being a graphic designer. And I did it. And I worked for a while as a designer in Frankfurt, the major financial center of Europe.

At this time I went to mass in a Croatian community near Frankfurt, mainly because I would meet there a friend of mine. But, one Sunday morning at mass, while standing in line for Communion, the choir sang Adoro te devote from Thomas Aquinas.

The words hooked me immediately and did something to me I can’t explain. After this experience, I attended mass every Sunday, no matter if my friend was there or not.

Reason? I had met an old friend again: Jesus.

But, I started to feel like I was in a wrong place at work.

I felt a kind of restlessness in my heart. Like the priest-theologian Michael J. Himes writes in his book Doing the Truth in Love, restlessness is the path to joy, which keeps you hungry. It is a gift of the Holy Spirit, which drives us to always want more, to give more and to seek God.

This restlessness brought me to the enormous desire of working and serving in the Church, but not as a priest. I came to the conclusion that I should study theology, but I had to go back to school and get my A level, the general qualification for university.

In this period, I drifted deeper into the Croatian Catholic community by working on their new website. I even started to write for some religious websites, and found out that writing, journalism and media can make an enormous impact on people. I loved to communicate this way.

Well, through the time I met new friends in Church, attended mass on a regular basis even throughout the week and started to read the readings at mass. Years before I was probably the most shy person on earth, and I couldn’t imagine to stand there in front of five hundred and more people.

My brother always asks:
“What has happened to you? You are like a new person, not the old one, the shy boy who couldn’t even look at people.”
Indeed I changed radically, but the upcoming months and years were full of up and downs, tears and failures, situations and moments with no hope. Without faith, I wouldn’t come through. Failing the exams, being lost and not seeing your goal anymore felt like darkness. St. Thérèse of Lisieux, the French Carmelite nun, experienced also moments of darkness. “If you only knew what darkness I am plunged into!” she once said to the sisters in her convent.

But, faith strengthened me, and after all these up and downs, I finally got my matura, which opened the door for university and my desire: theology.

Throughout these years I learned that God wants to be in a relationship with us. He communicates with us in many different ways: through emotions, feelings, memories, desires and prayers, but also through people and happenings in our daily life. Not to forget, relationships are also a way of communication God uses.

Through my girlfriend, I learned that prayer is not always a quiet moment in your room, but living your life and being aware of his presence. Through her, God showed me that prayer also means to be and to live, to enjoy time together, to laugh and live his love through our lives. It means being aware of his presence and love. “Imagine God looking upon you and smiling”, the Jesuit Anthony de Mello once said.

With an open heart, you can find God in All Things.

You probably know some of these desires: becoming a better person, loving more and so on. It’s not about having visions or experiencing tremendous miracles, it’s about having an open heart which let you find God in All Things.

This is the real miracle that happens every day.

When you walk to the train station, to school, to work or wherever else, try to experience his presence. The wind rushing through the leaves in autumn, the snowflakes in winter, or the wonderful sunshine in summer.

Knowing that God is your friend, walking with you, makes live much more interesting, for you have so much to discover. Here ends my piece, but not my way, not my life and not my searching.

How about you? Are you already on the way?

Mario Trifunovic is a student of Catholic theology in Frankfurt/Main. He is writing on English and Croatian on his website called, “Think outside the box”.

No matter what day it was, as soon as dusk struck, I always called up Kumar, “Hey, come out!”. He would hang up the phone quickly and meet me outside. Then we would start on our blissful journey into the neighborhood which lasted until the sounds of chirping birds fainted and the appearance of the moon changed from dull white to shiny yellow- a brisk walk.

The walks started during the autumn of 2012, when I first saw a girl from my terrace; she had fair skin that glowed in the dim rays of sun under the red sky, blonde hair that tempted me to run my fingers through it and just the right amount of innocence on her face that drew me to get to know her. She was in her school dress walking down the street with a green guitar key ring suspended at the bottom of her bag. I froze.

Did she live in my neighborhood? Did she move here recently? Why had I not seen her before?
So I called up my friend Kumar and said, “Hey come out!  We have to go for a walk”.

We started walking to discover where exactly this pretty girl lived in the neighborhood. After following her for a few minutes we discovered she lived right next to the shop where I usually bought my groceries. After she walked inside her house, Kumar and I walked around hoping if she would come out to get some biscuits or brownies. She did not come out that day. There was this strange feeling of ‘premature love’, often stated as ‘butterflies in stomach’ warming my heart. I wanted to keep walk around.

The next day I called him again, and we walked around hoping I could get a glance of her. The third day and the following days we walked around the same place, hoping she would come out. As we walked, I talked to Kumar about how I wanted to be friends with her. We plotted a few plans–one day while she would be returning from school I would approach her and ask her for her annual school magazine. I believed asking for her name would be a bad way to start a conversation as it would lead nowhere. I wanted to know her. I wanted to talk to her. So I approached her, “Hey I actually love reading poems and stories. Can I borrow your annual school magazine? She replied saying she does not have one. That was a disappointment. Kumar and I kept walking around her place. Some days she would come out with her sister to take short walks and seeing her around would make my evenings.

In a cold autumn evening, clenching my thin jacket, I enjoyed the tinges of happiness and excitement arising in my heart whenever she came out. We never talked but only smiled at each other.  I never knew this quest to get to know her would lead us to a routine of everyday walks, which themselves led to conversations, friendships and discoveries.

Something was awaiting for me and Kumar- an experience that would open new paths for us in life.

It was not until I started walking I noticed the beautiful elements Sanepa (the place where I lived) was adorned with.  It was full of trees, small houses and smiling faces. The parrots had built a nest on a tree right next to my house, and we heard them chirp with other little birds. A few men in the local store chatted while staring up at the bulky white clouds under the blue sky. The streets smelled of leaves. If one concentrated, they could hear the faint sound of motor bikes and cars humming amidst the sharp and sweet sounds of birds. An old woman from her terrace smiled at us and said, “Here comes the two brothers again”.

A walk after a tiring day in school was all I needed to complete my day. I dropped my bags, ate a snack and called Kumar. No matter how many historic events I had to remember for a test the next day or how tired my legs were from soccer practice, I always managed to squeeze in some time for a walk- a walk that never went in vain. Once I had fever, and I had to lie to my mom saying I would stay inside Kumar’s home but going for a walk. Without my notice, these walks were gradually helping me form strong bonds with Kumar and myself.

When I walked, I felt like I gained something. Kumar and I spoke about everything that happened throughout the day. We talked about everything that was happening in our lives. For three days we talked about the football tournament that was held in his school. He and his team had a good start on the game the first day. The second day they had tough opponents, but Kumar scored two goals in the final minute as a heavy rain of luck showered them. They disappointingly lost on the third day. We debated on what tactics and strengths should have been applied for them to win the match. Later, when medals were awarded, it turned out that he was the highest goal scorer of the tournament. We rejoiced at the news and as I looked up to the clear sky, saw smiling faces everywhere, and smelled the leaves my feet softly crunched, I felt happy. It was the kind of happiness that aroused from the energy drained during walks.

It was during these walks I learned about Kumar. Through the conversations we had I discovered the soft sides in him. “I once got a chocolate in school but I did not eat it. I brought it home and shared it with my brothers and sisters. My grandparents got impressed and they gave me another chocolate”, Kumar told me. The stories that are not brought up while joking around with people in school were a part of our conversations. While the conversations led to enormous laughs, they also led to debates and arguments that intensified to verbal fights. I recall an argument about the conveniences of iPad and iPhone that lasted for three days. In a loud, sharp voice Kumar would try to bring up everything he knew about each of these devices struggling to put his points in a coherent way. (Critical thinking and debate was never his thing.) He raised his hand, moved his wrists, and curled his fingers in a naïve way as he tried to explain his points. “I learned this technique from my grandfather, it adds intensity to what I say”, he had once told me.

The men, the old women and the passersby would smile at us, as if they were assured that we were not arguing but sharing ‘knowledge’. I too argued with much zest trying to overcome the ‘intensity’ with which he spoke. We argued freely without having anybody to judge our opinions. Words, false facts, self-righteousness, anger, and failed attempts to suppress each other flooded our arguments but they never went in vain.

Our bond was as dependent on our fights as on our common sense of humor and honesty.

We were birds set free every time we stepped out for walks. The streets beneath and the sky above formed for us an enormous space where we let out our emotions, thoughts, and jokes. His freedom to speak led him to share how much he hated the dramatic fights and quarrels in his family. I speculated on the norms and ethics of his family, compare it how I was brought up and try to find reasons for why the fights happened. This also in turn helped me realize how much freedom I had in my family.

His family came from Rajasthan, India. Thus, he always had to live in a culture where he could not enjoy the freedom to do things the way he wished. His daily routine was scheduled according to the ease of his family. A ‘No’ from his grandfather meant a ‘No’- there was no question of trying to convince him thereafter. He had restrictions to what he was supposed to eat and drink. A pure vegan had his first sip of Chicken Noodles on the streets of Sanepa. He lit his first cigarette there. He spoke with his heart out, without any fear of anybody criticizing him for what he spoke. As days passed in this fashion, we were gradually learning about our lives, our family’s lives and everything that we shared and did not share.

I was growing up. When I had a bad day or felt stressed out, I would turn up for a walk. Since, Kumar was in 10th grade now and could not come as he had extra-classes during evenings, I went for walks alone. When I walked those heavenly streets I was accompanied by an interminable chain of thoughts. Words, poems and dialogues formed in my head as I gleamed at the red evening sky, smelling a mix of dust and flowers while a dog barked and birds chirped. I tapped into my deepest concerns about life and tried to meditate on where my passions and interest lied.

It was difficult to be in an environment where every parent wanted their child to succeed and not know what I wanted in life.

During sole walks, I would try to find what my dreams were. I was flooded with many answers when I pulled out a thread- a neat thread where the answers to my questions about life were lined up. Thoughts like racism, poverty, love, religion, and life hit me. I swam in these thoughts as I was discovering the realities of life around me. This was a phase when I was struggling to know myself better. An uncle once asked me what I would want to become. (A general question every stranger asks you the first time you are introduced to them). With a certain amount of hesitation and the compulsion to utter out a profession, I said “Engineer”. Why I said engineer I never knew- but likely because my dad was one and engineering was revered by the locals around me.

With questions and answers swarming in my head, walking helped me discover myself. The simple act of taking steps forward and exercising your leg muscles led to an enormous transformation in my soul and mind. The perspectives on life I carry today were shaped as I dug on religion, life and love during walks. Every time I needed an answer I went out for a walk. My passions and desires were revealed to me because of the conversations I had with Kumar.  I got an idea of the kind of person I would want to be. I wished to be as happy in my life as I would be on the streets of Sanepa. I dreamed about doing something with music, philosophy and writing.

It was through the talks I had with Kumar that I learned about my inner desires. The walks shaped the perception I have had about life. The walks would give me time to think, and time to talk. It was through thinking and talking I would be able to raise questions and try to answer them. “Why are there unfortunate people in this world?” “Maybe they are not as unfortunate as you think of them to be.” Kumar replied. I could think only when I moved and the walks helped me best. I can recall the days I walked down the same streets twice a day, because I needed ideas to write my application essay for college. They helped me write down everything from the introduction to the concluding paragraph. I had developed a certain kind of love for everything that was around me when I walked.

Not until today I had realized that while I was walking down the streets I was falling in love with everything I observed around me- the birds, the sun setting, the cold breeze, the smiling old woman, and Kumar.  Just a simple act of walking led to me to open myself, and talk about my fears and my passions. It helped me connect with the environment, people and with myself. I became more positive and found joy when I was surrounded by sounds and smell of nature. Through these walks I developed the idea of ‘home’.

A month has passed now in Paris, and I can honestly say that I’ve barely went out for a walk. After four years of being together, Kumar left for India to continue his education and after a month of his departure I left for France. During the month that he left, I found myself stuck in between phases where my body demanded the physical act of walking every evening but my heart somehow resisted the urge to go out. Some days, when the resisting force of my heart overcame my desire to go out, I usually sat on my terrace – there was no way I could stay away from clouds, trees, breezes and sounds of nature. I could not understand the urge of my heart and was not brave enough to question the force of nature- change.

My days were changing.  Something was preparing me for the days coming ahead. I would never walk again, or to be more precise I would never walk the same way again.

During the last two weeks in my hometown, I stepped out to walk, and the old woman from her terrace said, “Thirteen days remaining now and you will leave too.” I could not comprehend how much our walks had had impacts on us and the people around us. For four years, Zappy, my dog, made sharp cries of annoyance and desire to go out with me when he heard the sharp creaky sound of the main gate opening. I wonder how the old woman, watching us from the terrace must have felt as she watched over us for four years. I can barely tell if it helped her reminisce of her golden days of youth, where she too must have played in the fields or have had friendships that were now long lost due to death or distance. Nevertheless, I am assured that when she watched over us, she too felt the strength of our friendships, the happiness of our laughter, and the proximity between two who used to fall in an unrequired argument one day and meet the next day again, only to argue with more reasons and intensity. She misses us, I know.

I took my last stroll on 28th August 2016 (alone), and left for Paris, France.

Today as I wake up to the sound of alarm clocks beeping continuously, I rush to make my breakfast, I hurry up in the bathroom, check my bag for all the important books and folders and walk to the metro station, with no sunlight warming my body. Throughout the day I work to complete my assignments and as soon as I reach home I am burdened with the weights of cooking, washing dishes and cleaning my room. I barely find time for a walk. When I am walking to my school I see around and felt empty. I see people in rush– a suited up man skating his way through the busy footpaths while adjusting the strap of his laptop bag on his shoulders. I hear the hum of a foreign language that keeps reminding me that I am away from home.

A few days ago when I tried to go out for a walk in a park I missed home more than I ever did. No matter where I turned my head, all I could see were foreign faces, children screaming, old sculptures and a replica of an alligator with it’s mouth open- I could not walk. It did not feel natural.  With every step I took I forced myself to walk for a few more minutes hoping I would get the tinge of feelings I got in Sanepa. Nothing felt like the way they used to be. I stopped and I sat down.

The journey that started with the quest to get to know the beautiful girl in the neighborhood had ultimately ended falling in love with nature and forming bonds with Kumar, myself and home. When a person asks me what I miss the most, the glimpses of streets are the first to flash before my eyes- the streets of love and freedom.

I was nervous. I straightened my tie I was walking down a road I had been down many different times but not in quite the same fashion. I walked into the church and my throat was dry my hands were sweaty. In the same breath I was among honored friends and family.

I never truly understood funerals and death. I got the honoring the dead like the Vikings and the place in Valhalla where warriors reside and revel in the victories of their life and death in the afterlife. Do not add meaning to the reference instead just get this is the honor we give to the dead and those who had an impact on our lives.

For me death never struck me like others. I did not cry I did not sob nor weep. I simply was present to the remembrance of those who had passed on before me. This time was somehow different. I knew I was in a different space as I could feel something more just on the edges of my consciousness. My grandfather had died and I wasn’t prepared to really see that aspect of my life as I began to look at my own mortality in that moment.

The Church was packed there were people from all over in Missouri, Alabama, Arkansas, Texas, Illinois, and Pennsylvania to name a few states. It still was not registering it was so surreal and in that moment I just was in shock. My grandfather had over 20 legitimate children.

As the funeral began I was listening to the pastor at the podium. It was super intense and it was directly powerful. The words he used resonated about my grandfather. The words fit and I began to feel a weariness inside my soul. I knew this was a different thing. My Aunt went up to the podium and began speaking. In the initial stages it was about my grandfather and somehow it turned to a monument about her. Her first words were “I am the oldest and …” It all went blank and began to be a blah, blah, blah session about her and what she did and did not like. I struggled to stay present to her words. She said

“My daddy really loved his children he took care of.” There was something missing in the statement and I did not really get what all that was about.

When she sat down I felt my heart sinking as my grandfather was gone. I also felt my heart rise as I could be thankful for the time I spent with him and what it meant to me. I was compelled to go to the front of the church and speak. There was easily two hundred people within the church and I was not nervous at all.

“To start off I want to say I was my grandfather’s favorite grandchild. I have no Idea why and why really does not matter. Now to most people that may sound presumptuous or even arrogant. I want you to put that to the side for a moment and really get present to what I have to say. My grandfather would let me ride in the front cab of the truck while everyone else had to ride in the back. My grandfather would work on the farm all day and come home well after 10 pm when everyone else was sleep. I suffer from insomnia and my mind always runs and works. My grandfather would play checkers with me for a s long as it took for me to get tired and he would never ever let me win. I always had to earn the victor and he explained strategies of the game as well as strategies in life. I was really close with my grandfather. We would talk all the time and it was him listening and giving advice when he felt it would help never forcing it on me.

I found out something new about my grandfather today. If you look in the obituary I found out my grandfather was a Korean War hero. He had medals and things I never saw or knew anything about. My grandfather did not seek glory or to be glorified. He simply defended what he felt was right and as an African American back in those days must have been tough. My grandfather helped found a town which feeds into the town we are in right now with over 30,000 people in it. My grandfather again did not seek recognition so I want everyone to really get who this man was and the honor in who he was. I still have my grandmother and she is over there right now looking at me and I see her and all I can think of is what they mean to me.”

(By this time, I am not even aware that I have tears rolling and racing down my face furiously. The nervousness is gone and there is a bit of sadness. More importantly I am filled with the joy of having this great man as a grandparent.)

“I had a nickname that always bothered me as a child. My grandparents called me Frog or Froggy. I despised that nickname and how I got it was I used to hop around on all fours before I could walk. They never called me my name. Even this morning I went into my grandmother’s room to kiss her and she hugged me and was so excited that she called me frog. Now I am refined with master’s degrees and I am a nerd. And for today for her Frog is what is right and what fits. I love you, grandma.” And I walked to my seat I sat down. I felt a hand on my shoulder and it was familiar without even looking I got who it was and he leaned over and whispered in my ear “watch this and pay attention son.”

This man strode to the podium and there was an aura of respect from every single person in the room. The man began to speak. “That eloquent young man who you all just heard from Is my son. He is accomplished and I am so very proud of who he has become and who he still has yet to become. That being said I am the oldest of all my daddy’s children and after I speak no one else will be speaking here today.” There was a firmness in my dad’s voice that I did not get just yet, and it would be made clear as to the why all too soon.

My dad went on to say “My daddy loved all his children equally. When I say all I mean all. My daddy had three children we just discovered were our brothers and sisters.

My daddy revealed them to me and I know he loved them as much as he loved the rest of us. We stand here not to build monuments to ourselves we are here to honor my father. We honor him by being a family in unity and handling any changes that come our way as such, as a family. My son spoke so that we all knew the kind of man we are here to honor. Take that memory with you out into the world and maintain his honor. Thank you!”

I have always been proud of my father and the life he gave to me. In that moment I could not be more proud of him and how he handled that situation. No one else spoke and they all respected my father’s words. I lost a grandfather and gained 3 aunts and an uncle and all the family attached to that.

Sometimes the most spectacular things can be gained in the blink of an eye and all from something that may or may not be what others may deem right. Leave right and wrong behind and be present to all that is in front of you. Be thankful for it challenges and triumphs alike for it is in these moments that we inspire others and ourselves. My grandfather was the First Giant I Knew!!