“All it takes is a beautiful fake smile to hide an injured soul and they will never notice how broken you really are.” —Robin Williams
Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m fading behind my own smile. The older I get, the harder it is to keep pretending I’m okay. I show up at work, answer emails, make small talk, and laugh when I’m supposed to — but inside, I feel like I’m running on empty.
At this stage in my life, I thought I’d have more peace by now. More understanding of who I am, more calm in my mind. Instead, anxiety and depression have settled in like old ghosts that refuse to leave. They sit quietly in my chest while I talk to people, whispering that I’m not doing enough, not being enough, not keeping it together well enough.
Most days, I wake up already tired. Not from lack of sleep, but from the effort it takes to be fine. I get dressed, put on makeup, and tell myself, you can do this, even when all I want is to hide somewhere no one can find me. There are moments at work when the tears come out of nowhere — that deep, heavy sadness that doesn’t ask permission. And I have to swallow it down, breathe through it, and keep smiling. Because that’s what functioning adults do, right?
But pretending takes its toll. I’ve learned that smiling for the world doesn’t mean I’m happy. It just means I’m trying — trying to survive another day, to hold on to some kind of normal.
I can’t afford therapy. There’s no professional help waiting around the corner for me. So, I try to help myself the best I can. I go for walks. I eat healthy when I can. I remind myself to breathe. Sometimes, I just sit outside and let the sun touch my face, hoping it burns through the fog, even just for a minute.
And then, there are my sons. They are my reason. When I’m with them, I remember that there’s still love and laughter in this world — that there are people who need me, even when I feel useless. They remind me that I still have a place here, even when my thoughts try to convince me otherwise.
Still, some days it feels like too much. I pray for peace, for relief, for just one morning where I wake up and don’t feel this heavy. I pray for strength to keep going, to keep showing up for the people I love, and for myself — even when I don’t believe I deserve it.
Maybe part of this weight comes from where I came from. I grew up in the former Yugoslavia — a country that no longer exists, destroyed by war. I survived things no one should have to survive. The fear. The loss. The silence that followed. I became a refugee, and even after finding safety, the memories never really left. They live under my skin, quiet but constant.
That’s what my books Remember Me and Haunting from the Past are about — not just the ghosts of war, but the ghosts we carry inside us. Writing them was my way of letting the pain speak, of giving it a shape and a voice. Every page is a piece of the healing I never found in therapy, a way to understand how trauma reshapes us, how it lingers long after the world has moved on.
Life kept throwing obstacle after obstacle my way — each one heavier than the last — and somehow, I kept jumping, climbing, crawling my way through. But the truth is, even when you survive everything, survival itself can be exhausting. Sometimes, I think that’s what my depression really is — the echo of a life spent fighting to stay alive.
I don’t have advice or answers. I don’t have a way out of this fog. I just know that for now, I’m still here — and maybe, for now, that has to be enough.
“Readers will discover that Jurich writes with the credibility and authenticity of a person who witnessed and experienced what took place in the Balkan countries during the 1990s.” –Gregory S. Lamb, Author of The People in Between
The day I left my home country forever was August 26, 1992 — my sixteenth birthday. As I stood on the street, waiting for a bus to take me away to an unknown hell, I was feeling ashamed of my own thoughts. I was brooding over my birthday. I was being a typical sixteen-year-old; a teenager. I wanted a birthday party. I wanted my friends and family to fuss over me. I wanted the sweet in the “sweet-sixteenth.” Why couldn’t I have all that?! Why was I being robbed of that?! For whom?! Instead of getting a birthday party, I was being forced out of my home. Being forced to watch as evil men killed my family, friends, neighbors. Being forced out of my freedom! Had to stay quiet as they called me names and tried to touch me inappropriately — had to let them do it! Had to keep quiet as they stole every single possession my parents and I owned. Why?! For whom?! For what?! CONTINUE