I Was Born Fighting: Why I Still Believe in Giving, Even When It Hurts

From premature birth to poverty, this is a story about resilience, memory, and the radical power of kindness.

Let me tell you a story.

About a little girl born in September - two months too early, fighting for her life from the very first breath. She didn’t cry when she was born. Her mother, just 21, was told: “Prepare for the worst.”

The baby spent a long time in hospitals - too small, too fragile, with a risk of disability.

But she held on.

Despite heart and lung complications, she clung to life.

And she made it.

That baby grew into a quiet child.

One of those deeply calm ones. She didn’t have many children to play with, but she had a torn stuffed bear, passed down from her mother’s childhood.

She took it everywhere - even to kindergarten. The other kids often mocked her for wearing worn-out clothes, but she never said a word. She just hugged her little bear.

One day, a little girl at school stained her pants. And our small hero offered her own pajama bottoms. That day, she came home with one less piece of clothing - and never asked for it back.

Before she could even say “daddy,” her father had disappeared from her life.

Her family was poor. Her grandparents cared for her while her mother worked. Still, she poured all her love into that little teddy bear, calling it her “best friend.” The closest thing she had.

Sometimes dinner was just bread and compote, but her laughter still echoed through the house. Her grandfather would lift her onto his shoulders and tell her stories from Bulgaria’s revival era. And the little girl dreamed of becoming a writer one day.

She was the happiest child - even without fancy toys or clothes like the ones in the ads.

Years passed.

And one Christmas, she had no money to buy gifts for her grandparents. So she wrapped a pen from her pencil case in paper, and stuck a note on top that read: “Gift.” She gave it to her grandfather that Christmas - and he cried a lot.

That little girl is now a 26-year-old woman.

She fulfilled her dream - she became a writer.

But her grandparents are no longer here to see it.

And she still searches for them in her sleep.

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When I started writing on Substack, I made myself a promise: Not just to become a paid writer one day, but to use my words - and whatever resources I have to help others.

Not just emotionally. But financially, too, if I can.

Don’t get me wrong — my financial situation over the years has been a wave of highs and lows. I believe it’s like that for many of us. I don’t have thousands in my bank account.

There were times I ate yogurt for ten days straight just to pay my electricity bill. And yet, even then, I never stopped wanting to help those in need.

That’s why, starting now, 10% of all paid subscriptions to my blog will go directly to people in crisis.

Update: My first donation was for women fighting breast cancer.

Some time ago, I stopped buying coffee out - unless it’s a special occasion. I realized that the same $3 could go somewhere it truly matters.

Because I can survive without my “Sex and the City” style morning coffee. But somewhere out there, a child is praying for that same amount - just to eat.

It’s not about the money. It’s about the mindset. About remembering where you came from. About choosing kindness.

I’ve lived through years of financial struggle. And I can honestly say - I’ve felt happiest when I could still give something, even if it was small. I’ve also seen people with plenty of money who were deeply unhappy.

I don’t know when we stopped realizing how little it takes to feel joy. When we stopped reminding ourselves that kindness is what connects us.

If you have two shirts - why not give one to someone who needs it?

You don’t need Donald Trump’s bank account to do that.

You just need to be human.

We often forget how big the simple things really are.

Having dinner tonight. Being warm in winter. A lightbulb that works. Hot water to wash your dishes.

Ordinary things, at first glance. But for someone out there, they’re the whole world. A world we often forget has a darker side.

You say, “I hope it never happens to me.” You think, “Thank God it’s not me.” And that’s where the story ends.

But how do you say that to a mother who can’t feed her child? How do you look a hungry child in the eyes and say, “I’m just glad it’s not me”?

This is a global problem. It doesn’t end with me, or you, or a child in Gaza. It’s vast. And it’s something we all need to think about.

I wish there were no more hungry children.

No more mothers forced into sex work just to feed their kids.

No more families torn apart because someone had to leave the country to earn money.

No more children begging in the streets.

No more young girls trapped in human trafficking.

I wish we lived in a world where eating wasn’t a luxury - but the most normal thing in the world.

Because tonight, you and I have dinner.

But they don’t.

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If you wanna support me, you can always grab me a cup of coffee:

💡What’s your childhood memory?

❤️If you wanna know more of my writing:

I Thought I Was Safe at Home: The Truth About Trauma and Silence

Violence Has No Gender: Why We Must Stop Silencing Male Victims

I’m Not Ashamed: Breaking Free from Shame, Stereotypes, and Silence

I Lost My Children Before I Ever Met Them — And I’m Still Learning to Live

No matter what you’ve been through, you have the courage to ask for help. I’d be honored to support anyone who’s walked through pain and despair - because together, we are stronger.