I often find myself looking at the little 7-year old girl that I used to be and wonder: would she like the woman she will one day become? I can only hope that the answer to this question is yes. This little girl, who has witnessed one of the bloodiest falls of communism in European history, is a shy 7-year old who likes to read and write stories, and poems about kittens, butterflies, and stars. She has experienced and witnessed some terrible things, yet she has almost always thrived. I can still feel her breathing and daydreaming inside of me (…) Through words and travel, she can transcend the limitations her genetics and country of birth have imposed on her; she can let her voice run wild and free and, in doing so, build bridges to inner worlds other than her own, and to the bigger world out there, to the many countries and forests of the world. Her voice is her biggest strength. It feeds on the oppressed voices of her ancestors and everything she experiences in her travels around the world. This little girl, from a time before things started visibly collapsing, is and will always be my inner compass. I owe her my life.