She was one of those “bad girls” or whatever they call them

because she chose the blue jeans and not the pink dress.

Because her skirt was too short.

Because she spoke too loudly and insisted on taking a lot of space.

Because her opinions were too many.

Because she didn`t fit perfectly into the box the society had picked out for her.

But people forgot that

even “bad girls” have hearts to take care of.


written by me & photo from here  



“You`re going to create a blog and you can decide what you`re going to name it.”

I was 17 and still in high-school. It was time for International English, which was a course I was doing during my last year of high-school. For one of our assignments, we were asked to start a blog. We were supposed to blog once a week, which was pretty much nothing to me. I was little when I started enjoying the gift God had given to me – the ability to write and create whatever I wanted to, through words.

“You can blog about pretty much anything you want to.

I had no idea what to name my blog. Nothing seemed good enough, because I wanted everything and nothing in the name. It had to reflect me, reflect what my blog was going to be about.

“But once a month your post should be about a specific topic we will discuss in class.”

Easy peasy. I just needed to find a proper blog name and get started.

“Do you need any help?”

I told the teacher I`m only struggling with finding a good enough name, but otherwise I was doing good. After a lot of thinking, I typed “namingmyvoice.wordpress.com”.

Less than two months later, I started writing personal posts. Some of them were full of feelings and reflections. I was exhuasted. I had enough.

“I`ll proove you all wrong. One day.”

I had just written a post about my situation at school. Once again I was feeling too much. Maybe I should of have expressed myself differently, but it was what it was.

“I have read this blog entry several times and I still do not know what to say…”

My teacher didn`t know what to say. Maybe that was a good thing.

I liked the attention. At least someone heard me. At least someone said nice things about me.

I kept writing posts about things that meant something to me. Elections, the beauty pressure in the society, bullying, loneliness – the blog quickly became a space where I could write down what I wanted to. It was my space. It was a world I could paint blue, pink or black and the decision was entirely mine. I could be creative and create a space on the internet which was mine.

While at school? I wasn`t heard, nor was I really noticed. People kept talking, I missed actions. A message to the principle didn`t take me that far.

You could say the pen became my weapon.

I sent the message I had sent to the principle to the newspaper. For the first time I was that much noticed. Likes, shares, comments. People said nice things about me. I was brave, I was fantastic, I was something. Reading the comments made me so happy.

I had always had a voice, but perhaps that was the first time I was actually able to name it.


When I made this blog, I was 17. I can`t remember what exactly I had in mind when I picked the name for this blog, but now it means more to me than it did then.

I guess I`ve always wanted to have a voice. My own voice. I`ve always wanted to create something and be heard through that. For many years I felt like nobody could actually hear me.

My voice was a voice only I could hear.

Bullying made me feel lonely, being lonely made me feel lonely and having to go through these things made it hard for me. Many times I felt like my voice didn`t matter, because some people around me made it seem like that was the case. If I explained how I felt or thought about something, I was sometimes told I was wrong. It didn`t really matter. I wanted to be heard, to be noticed and to be understood.

I wanted people to see me, not only look at me.

I feel like I`ve sort of achieved that with my blog. There`s a reason I decided to keep it, even after the assignment was over and we were told we didn`t really have to blog anymore. I wanted to, because I enjoyed it. I enjoyed writing and I liked having a voice. I liked having the opportunity to have my own space and share what I want to.

So here I am now, more than two years later. I`m 20, still growing up and getting to know life every single day. I`ve written a lot since I started this blog, which I`m proud about. I`m proud that I`ve kept writing, despite some comments I`ve received here and there. I`m glad I`ve kept naming my voice, because you know what?

Without a voice no one can hear you and I`ve realised how much impact my voice can have, but it`s even more important that you find your own voice so you can get to know how beautiful it can be. The only thing nobody else has, is you, after all.



She looks at me and I already know what`s coming next

“so how have you been? What have you been doing?”

I could tell her so many things.

I`ve been studying, I`ve been visiting new places, I`ve been learning about new cultures and socities. I`ve been wondering if loneliness and over-thinking actually can kill people on the inside. I`ve been missing my grandmother, I know that`s perhaps nothing new, but it still matters. A lot. I`ve been thinking of things I`m going to do, quotes I`m going to save for 5 years older me. I`ve been missing people, thinking they probably don`t even miss me. I`ve been having nice conversations with people I love. I`ve been feeling lonely. I`ve been confused about life. I could go on and on like that.

Like so many other times, all that comes out of my mouth is:

“Nothing much, I`ve been doing okay. What about you?”

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//Photo: source


I was a little girl when I realised I wasn`t going to live forever. I`m going to die one day, lie in a grave somewhere and be gone. My feet won`t carry my body anymore, and nobody will be able to find me on this earth. There`ll be no blood running inside my body, and I will no longer be able to make the world a better place.

That is, if I leave no pieces of me, no words written by me or no footsteps for the world to see.

I`ve always wanted to write a book. A book about feelings and lived lives. A book which makes people shake their head, which makes them laugh, which makes their stomach ache because they can feel everything so purely. I want people to feel like they`ve gained everything and nothing, when they finish the last page. I want to make people cry, I want people to feel the sadness so much, that the sadness itself makes them want to cry. I want to inspire, I want to touch, I want to leave something. I need to know the day I die, that I? I`ve left something for people to read and to feel. I need to know I`ve been honest with not only myself, but other people, in order to help someone who might believe they`re the only ones encountering something. Who`re in a situation they believe no one else can understand.

So? One day I`ll tell about the 8-year-old girl who didn`t want to sleep and cried at nights because she was too scared to die. I`ll tell about little me, who met her way too old step-grandfather and wondered if his body was going to fall apart if she dared to touch him once. I`ll tell about a little girl in the kindergarten who played with an African little boy most of the time and once put all of her mum`s make-up on her face. I`ll tell about all the times she jumped on the trampoline in her garden and felt like nobody could ever harm her. About the 12-year-old me who came home, furious and sad, because she was tired of being bullied. I`ll tell about a girl at 14 who was told to go and kill herself, by people she considered to be her friends. I`ll tell about a girl at 19, who saw her grandmother dead. I`ll tell about a little girl who found her relatives laughing, when they when asked what she wants to do when she grows up and received “I want to be a author” as an answer.

I`ll tell about the pain and joy behind this smile.

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I wish I was in Amsterdam today, because it`s Anne Frank`s birthday. She would`ve been 88 years old.

You left a diary, which made you world-famous. You expressed your thoughts, feelings and dreams to your friend “Kitty”. Despite the circumstances, you dreamed about a future. You wanted to travel to Paris and London and study history. You loved history. You wanted to be a journalist and/or a writer. Let`s face it – you knew you could die, but you also knew you could survive and live on. Unfortunately you died, but Miep saved your diary and gave it to your lovely dad, whom chose to publish it, despite the criticism he received. So many years later, people still find your diary inspirational and motivational. I found out about you in sixth grade and you`ve been there ever since then.

Thank you for everything you`ve done for me and everyone else. You died too young, but you left your voice, you left a melody that`s still played all over the world. To me, you symbolize love, hope, courage and dreams. Thanks for never giving up and for refusing to die. Happy Birthday, Anne.

Your birthday has always been special to me, but this year it`s a little more special. I can`t wait to see your hiding place and be a little nearer you. 



Today I caught myself thinking “maybe I`ve spent too much time on this earth”.

I`m aware I`ve often been in different moods whenever I`ve blogged. And I`m also aware me thinking that maybe doesn`t make any sense to you if you`ve followed me for a while, considering that I`ve written about my fear of death.

Today`s not been the best day. I mean, it`s been an okay today, but I just can`t help, but wonder about human beings. Human beings can be the nicest, yet the scariest species. I don`t know how many I`ve trusted and given a part of me to people, when they didn`t care as much as I did. I don`t consider myself a victim, but I just find it sad. It`s sad how many of those we love the most, hurt us the most. It`s sad how sometimes, those who tell us they love us so much, abandon us. It`s tragic how we trust someone so much that we hardly can imagine our lives without them, and they find so many reasons to leave us. I`m sure I have my mistakes and flaws too – who doesn`t? But I try my very best to keep my promises and I`ve always been more worried about other people`s happiness. I try my best to keep others happy and even if I end up hurting someone, I feel so bad about it. It could be the tiniest thing and I wouldn`t be able to sleep at night. Really annoying, but in a way that`s good. I criticize myself for the smallest things – but of course I keep that criticism to myself, as most wouldn`t understand anyways.

I feel like I give so much to people – or at least I try, and get way too little in return. Just lately I realised that it might be because of the small things – little things matter to me. You don`t need to do much to make me happy – just the “same old”. Be there for me, care about me, accept me as I am, give me peptalks now and then and listen to me. Beside that, you don`t need to do much at all to make me happy. Give me a book and I`ll be excited. Especially a book about Anne Frank or a history book – I`ll love you a little more than I love everyone else. Give me a smile, a hug or a fountain pen. (Yep, that`s where you`ve got me). That reminds me – I remember something that happened in ninth grade. This girl gave me a hug and I started crying. And she asked me why I was crying and I wasn`t able to say anything. I was sad at that time, but I appreciated that hug so much, that I got sentimental.

I wonder why so many haven`t been wanting to be with me and I also wonder how people can be so mean. Sometimes it doesn`t work out, but it gets more brutal when the other person leaves you in the darkness and you don`t really know what you`ve done. It makes me sick that humans can do that to someone. It leaves me “amused” and speechless how some can act so reckless. But I try to comfort myself by thinking that maybe it hurts them as much as it hurts me. Maybe they have sleepless nights too. Who knows?

I`m afraid to have too little time on earth, so me thinking that I might have been here for too long, is odd, but I do feel like an old soul who`ve met way too many weird and mean people. Most of today these thoughts occupied my mind, but usually I tell myself that no matter what humans do, they`re good deep down. It might feel like I`ve been here for too long, but the truth is: I`m an old soul. Many people, and then especially grown-ups, believe young people like me barely has any life-experience. Sorry to say it, but I`m almost 20 and young people like me experience a lot and of course there`s a lot more to come.

I know I love humans, but I just have my days where I don`t really like humans and I need to think about certain things all alone. I get so shocked and upset about certain people`s behaviour, because I`m not able to wrap my head around it. At those days, I shake off my worries and thoughts through writing. No matter what, I`ll always find something very true. “Paper is more patient than man”. I don`t think I need to tell you who said that, but it really is true. Paper will always listen, but there`s no guarantee humans will do the same. Maybe that`s the problem. On this journey called life, I`ve met many, found many and lost many, and all along paper was more patient. I remember there was this guy in my class, who said “diaries don`t talk”. Oh, you don`t say, Sherlock. Yeah, paper doesn`t reply, but sometimes all you need is to let it out. You need to pour your heart out. Humans might not be there to listen, but paper always will. And no matter how many years go by, I`ll always return to paper and pen. tumblr_o2g8kmmXTL1v5doako1_500.jpg