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From One Heart to Another

Posted on by Posted in Book recommendation, Books, eBooks, New blog post, Purchase Books, Remember Me, Reviews, Sanela Ramic Jurich

 

Every once in a while, a message arrives that reminds you why you chose to share your story with the world. Today, my heart was touched by one of those messages about my novel Sjeti me se (Remember Me).

“Dear Sanela, yesterday I read your book, Remember Me, in one sitting. I cried more than ever before while reading a book. Especially during the scenes when Selma gave birth to her child and refused to let the baby go after everything she had survived. Warmest and heartfelt regards.”

As an author, there is no greater gift than knowing that something you wrote touched another person’s heart.

When I sat down to write Remember Me, I wanted to tell a story that would honor the experiences of those whose voices were lost in the noise of history. I wanted to write about loss, survival, love, grief, and the strength it takes to keep going when life asks the impossible of us.

The scene this reader mentioned was one of the hardest for me to write. Even now, years later, I can still remember the emotions that poured onto those pages. To know that those feelings reached someone else so deeply is both humbling and moving.

Writing is often a solitary journey. We spend countless hours alone with our thoughts, our memories, and our characters, never really knowing how our words will be received once they leave our hands.

Then a message like this arrives.

And suddenly, all those quiet hours feel worthwhile.

To the reader who took the time to write to me, thank you. Your words touched me just as much as my story touched you.

With gratitude,

Sanela

About the Author

Sanela Ramić Jurich is a survivor of the Yugoslav war and the 
author of several novels inspired by lived experience. 
She writes to remember, to honor, and to ensure that even 
the darkest chapters are never erased.

View Sanela's complete profile

 

 

Neither Here nor There

Posted on by Posted in Bosnia, New blog post, Sanela Ramic Jurich

“Who are you rooting for, Sanela?”

seems to be the question of the week.

Although I do not follow sports, soccer in particular, I cannot escape that question.

“America, of course!” is the first answer that comes to mind, and then, pain. A dull, heart-wrenching pain in the pit of my entire being.

Am I really rooting for America this coming Wednesday? Tomorrow, July 1st. Bosnia vs. America. Soccer.

I’ve lived in America for thirty-three years; more than double the years I lived in my birth country. I was fifteen when my life was turned upside down.

My former country, Yugoslavia, was torn to shreds. Bosnia wanted independence, and in 1992, it paid a horrible, unimaginably expensive price. Thousands of lives were lost. Thousands were displaced, among them myself, a frightened fifteen-year-old girl. Concentration camps and rape camps were opened. Homes were destroyed. Friendships shattered. Fingers were pointed and accusations made.

Hell. Absolute hell.

Refugee life was not much better.

I swore I would never return. America became a safe haven. My forever home.

So why do I feel this horrible pain in my heart when I say I’m rooting for America?

Honestly, most of the time, I feel like I don’t truly belong to either country.

Bosnia has changed. It’s not the country I left behind. When I visit, I feel like a stranger.

And America … It gave me freedom, education, and opportunity, I gave it two sons in return. I raised them to be proud Americans. To never let anyone tell them they are anything but Americans.

They are wonderful human beings. Good men. And yes, I take a little credit.

I raised them to be exemplary citizens of this country, and I am proud. Not just of them, but of myself, too. I am proud to call myself an American.

And still … there’s that pain.

When I think of those boys, those soccer players wearing the colors of Bosnia and Herzegovina, I think of the things they and their families had to endure to get where they are today. The price that was paid. The sacrifices made. The losses carried.

I understand them.

Perhaps that’s why this game hurts more than it should.

Because tomorrow isn’t really about soccer.

It’s about memory.

It’s about a little girl who lost her country.

It’s about a woman who found another one.

It’s about loving two homes and sometimes feeling fully claimed by neither.

So, America, forgive me.

Tomorrow, I can’t root for you.

Not because I love you less. Not because I am any less grateful for the life you’ve given me. But because a part of my heart will always belong to the country that broke it.

Tomorrow, my heart belongs to Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Tomorrow, I am rooting for the Zmajevi od Bosne.

About the Author

Sanela Ramić Jurich is a survivor of the Yugoslav war and the 
author of several novels inspired by lived experience. 
She writes to remember, to honor, and to ensure that even 
the darkest chapters are never erased.

View Sanela's complete profile

 

 

Where the Noise Ends

Posted on by Posted in Haunting from the Past, Holidays, Landscapes, New blog post, Purchase Books, Remember Me, Sanela Ramic Jurich

“Solitude in the garden is not the absence of life, but the presence of peace.”

There’s something magical about being home on a random Tuesday. It feels as though your life slows down while everyone else’s moves at the speed of light. People rush around like busy bees, chasing schedules, responsibilities, and places they need to be.

Just yesterday was Memorial Day, a long holiday weekend filled with barbecues, loud music, laughter, and conversations spilling out into the streets late into the evening. The neighborhood felt alive, crowded with noise and movement. But today, it feels as though I’m the only person left here. Everyone has gone back to work or wherever it is people disappear to on weekdays. The only sounds now are the occasional cars passing by on the street.

My morning started simply enough. I went outside to water the freshly seeded grass in our front yard. While standing there, I began noticing little things I had somehow missed before: new flowers beginning to bloom, plants stretching taller overnight, fresh shades of green appearing everywhere I looked. One small task led to another. I decided to sweep and clean the entryway, which somehow turned into cleaning out the garage.

When I finally finished, I thought I was done for the day. I grabbed my laptop and headed out to the patio to write. But the world around me refused to let me focus for very long. Bees hovered happily around my freshly planted flowers. Butterflies drifted through the air near the mulberry bush. Birds landed one after another at the bird feeder. Even the plants themselves seemed to be calling out to me: Look at me. Look at me.

My peonies had bloomed overnight, as if by magic. Tiny apples had already begun forming where blossoms once were only days ago. 

 

And near the side of the house, a stubborn patch of stinging nettle stood taller and thicker than ever, proudly claiming its little corner of the yard.

It’s the European kind of stinging nettle, the kind that truly stings when it brushes against your skin. Growing up in Europe, I saw it everywhere and learned quickly to stay away from it. Now, I welcome it. I dry the leaves and make tea from them, just like my grandfather taught me to do a few years before he passed away.

Every time I see those nettles growing wild beside the house, I think of him.

Kopriva

 

Home. There is nothing quite like being home and truly feeling at home.

But home wasn’t always this peaceful.

In May of 1992, my whole life changed in the blink of an eye. The world around me exploded, destroying everything I held dear. The place I once called home shattered into pieces. The country I called home was torn apart into smaller countries. People turned on one another: torture camps, rape camps, robbing, killing. Humanity itself seemed to disappear overnight.

Somehow, I survived.

Perhaps it was so I could bear witness. So I could write about the home I lost and the country that no longer exists.

And maybe that is why days like this mean so much to me now. Quiet Tuesdays. Blooming peonies. Bees hovering over flowers. Tiny apples growing where blossoms used to be. The smell of freshly watered grass. The comfort of familiar walls and open windows.

 

 

When you lose home once, you never again take ordinary days for granted.

Maybe that is why I notice everything now.

Because after chaos, peace becomes sacred.

And after losing a home, finding one again feels nothing short of miraculous.

About the Author

Sanela Ramic Jurich is a survivor of the Yugoslav war and the 
author of several novels inspired by lived experience. 
She writes to remember, to honor, and to ensure that even 
the darkest chapters are never erased.

View Sanela's complete profile

 

 

When Spring Remembers

Posted on by Posted in Audio Books, Book recommendation, Books, Bosnia, eBooks, Haunting from the Past, Holidays, New blog post, Prijedor, Purchase Books, Remember Me, Sanela Ramic Jurich

Some springs arrive in silence. Others arrive in fire.

 

March 1st. The first day of a new month, bringing us closer to spring—renewal, hope, life. But for Bosnia and Herzegovina, March 1st marks something far more profound. On this day in 1992, my homeland declared independence from Yugoslavia… and that’s when all hell broke loose. What followed was hell on earth, a darkness that shaped my past and found its way into my stories.

It shaped the child I was, the woman I became, and the writer I had to be.

📚 Remember Me (Sjeti me se), Haunting from the Past are more than books—they are my truth, my memories, my way of ensuring that what happened is never forgotten.

But even after the harshest winter, spring always comes. And so, we remember, we honor, and we move forward. 🌿✨

 

About the Author

Sanela Ramic Jurich is a survivor of the Yugoslav war and the 
author of several novels inspired by lived experience. 
She writes to remember, to honor, and to ensure that even 
the darkest chapters are never erased.

View Sanela's complete profile

 

A Valentine for the Soul

Posted on by Posted in Between the Worlds, New blog post, Sanela Ramic Jurich, Short stories

In between the known and unknown, I find my soul, forever grown.

What if when we leave this life, we don’t go to heaven…
but to a place in between lives.

A place where we rest.
Where we reunite with the souls we’ve loved.
Where we laugh, travel, eat, and exist freely.

Not as angels.
But as humans—still imperfect, still longing, still loving.

Have you ever met someone for the first time and felt like you’ve known them forever?
Against all odds, you know deep inside that you know them.
They feel familiar. Comforting.
You are drawn to them… but you’ve only just met.

How can that be?
Is it a karmic connection?
Soulmates?
A trick of the mind… or something science has yet to explain?
Is it fate—or simply love refusing to forget?

Here is a short story I wrote, inspired by a pair of eyes whose shade of blue is out of this world.
I hope it finds your heart this Valentine’s Day. ❤️

Happy Valentine’s Day! 

 

Author Sanela Ramic Jurich

View Sanela's complete profile

 

A Ditch, A Mother, And The Weight Of Memory

Posted on by Posted in New blog post, Remember Me, Sanela Ramic Jurich

This morning, I saw a young man in a ditch.

“Snow was falling, so much like stars filling the dark trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being was nothing more than prettiness.” ― Mary Oliver

Every mother’s worst nightmare—her child stranded somewhere, helpless and alone.

It was a horrible January morning. The ground was being swallowed by wet, heavy snow that quickly turned to ice. Wind and snow blurred the road, and traffic stretched for miles, barely moving. At some point, I assumed there must have been a serious accident ahead.

Eventually, I reached a cluster of police cars. Rolling my eyes, thinking, of course they’re the ones causing the traffic, I glanced to my right.

That’s when I saw him.

A young man stood beside his car, stuck in a ditch. He clutched his phone and turned his face away from the road, embarrassed. Nothing appeared broken—except maybe his pride.

“Oh,” I thought, my irritation dissolving instantly. Every mother’s worst nightmare.

I smiled as I thought of my own sons. Every time they’re out and don’t reply to my texts right away, my mind races. I always say the same thing to them:

Oh my God, what took you so long to reply? I imagined the worst. In my mind, I saw you stranded in a ditch somewhere.

And then—just like that—another thought followed.

It took me back to Bosnia. To the early 1990s. To a woman named Hatidža.

Hatidža and her husband had two sons. On July 11, 1995, Bosnian Serb forces led by Ratko Mladić took over their town. Hatidža and her family were among the thousands affected.

As her husband and sons joined the long line of people fleeing through woods and mountains toward the nearest safe area in Tuzla, Hatidža was separated from them.

Recalling that moment, she spoke of her youngest son clinging to her, begging her to let him go.

“Mother, please let me go with Dad and Azmir. I beg of you.”

His hands wrapped around her—an image that has haunted her ever since.

Hatidža decided to go to the area that was supposedly protected by the UN, in a neighboring town.

Nearly a year after the war ended, in 1996, she received a phone call. Her youngest son, Almir, had been found in a mass grave. His remains were mostly complete—the only ones that were.

In 1998, she learned the fate of her husband and her other son.

Her husband’s remains consisted of only a few bones.

Azmir’s—just two leg bones.

Because bodies had been moved from primary to secondary and tertiary mass graves using heavy machinery, their remains were scattered across kilometers, often found in different locations, incomplete.

Hatidža waited nearly twelve years, hoping more would be found.

In 2010, she laid her husband and both sons to rest at the Potočari Memorial Complex.

The Bosnian Serb army had not only taken her husband and sons, but also her brothers, their sons, her cousins, and their children.

The suffering was immeasurable.

And yet—she returned.

In 2003, Hatidža went back to her town, fighting to reclaim her home from a Serb family who had claimed it as “spoils of war.” For her, it wasn’t just a house. It was where her children had walked. Where her life had been built.

In her yard, three trees still stand—trees her youngest son planted when he was small. He was little then, she would think. The trees are big now…

And that, my friend, is how my mind works. One ordinary moment can open the door to memory.

Sitting in traffic this morning, I couldn’t help but cry—for Hatidža, and for her sons. What a nightmare. Pure hell.

Then my thoughts drifted to today’s wars. To Ukrainian mothers and their sons. To Palestinian mothers. Iranian mothers. Mothers everywhere, holding their breath, imagining the worst.

I had to snap myself out of it. Out of memory. Out of grief.

I remembered music.

Music has a way of pulling me back, of calming the chaos. After I texted both of my sons and received their replies, I finally relaxed. I put my music in my ears and turned it up, drowning out the noise—the bad men, the wars, the cruelty.

Thank God for this country. For freedom.

Thank God that young man in the ditch this morning was unharmed and safe. Nothing was broken except his ego. He’ll learn. One day, this will be a funny memory he tells the people he loves.

I hope everyone is safe today.

All the mothers of the world—and their children.

With all my love,

Sanela

My story, Remember Me, is available in Audio. 

 

“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

 

About Me

Author Sanela Ramic Jurich

View my complete profile

 

 

When A Story Refuses To Stay Silent

Posted on by Posted in Books, New blog post, New Year, Sanela Ramic Jurich

I woke up this morning with an irresistible need to write.

 

The kind of urge that won’t let you focus on anything else. And you know me—once the urge strikes, I have no choice but to obey. There is no way around it. Even though it can feel a little imprisoning, it is also like nothing else. It is pure love. Pure life. I don’t think there are words big enough to fully describe that feeling.

All it took was a message from a faithful reader to stir me up and set my imagination in motion.

 

 

The story they’re referring to is a short love story I wrote many years ago for Valentine’s Day. I shared it on my blog back then, and since it didn’t receive many comments, I quietly placed it on the back burner—where so many things we care about end up waiting.

But stories, like love, don’t always stay where you put them.

This particular story—like all the stories I write—was inspired by real people. A real couple. Unfortunately, their real-life story never received a happy ending, so I wrote one for them. Sometimes, that’s the only way I know how to cope: by giving love the ending it deserved.

So, for the reader who reminded me… and for the story that refused to stay silent—

Here it is. Continue reading →

When the Smile Feels Heavy

Posted on by Posted in Audio Books, Book recommendation, Books, Haunting from the Past, Purchase Books, Remember Me, Sanela Ramic Jurich, Short stories

“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

I’ve spent a lifetime learning how to survive. No one told me surviving could hurt this much.

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

 

 

Three Lives in One

Posted on by Posted in New blog post, Sanela Ramic Jurich, Short stories

I’ve often felt like I’ve lived three lives in this one.

Today what would have been my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary brings back memories

At times, I feel three hundred years old — tired, so, so tired — from all the ups and downs, the endless lessons this life keeps teaching me.

My first life seems so long ago. I was born on another continent, in a country that no longer exists. As an only child, I was spoiled by my parents and grandparents. I had everything a child could wish for.

I loved going to school, spending time with friends, and dreaming big. Still, I often felt lonely — I wished for a sibling, someone to share secrets with. To fill the quiet, I’d create imaginary worlds in my head, inventing stories and writing them down.

Then, when I was fourteen / fifteen, my country exploded — quite literally. What had once been a single nation suddenly fractured. Former states wanted to be independent countries, free from the communist regime. And just like that, all hell broke loose.

I won’t depress you with the details of that time — if you want to know more, you can read or listen to my book Remember Me.

Life Two: The Love That Built — and Broke — Me

My second life began twenty-five years ago today, October 7th of 2000. I was twenty-three, getting married to the love of my life. I was happy — truly happy — even though nightmares from my first life still visited me every night.

We met a year before. I was rushing out of work one day when I heard a quiet voice behind me:
“Are you from Europe?”

I was wearing a black coat, my hair cut in a long black bob — I was in my goth era. I was in a hurry to go home and finish homework. I had just started a credit program at Truman College after several years of ESL. Between school and a full-time job, there wasn’t much time for romance.

“Yes, why?” I asked, slightly irritated.

He hesitated. “Uh, you look English.”

“But I’m not,” I mumbled. “Europe is not just England, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? So where are you from?”

“You wouldn’t know even if I told you,” I said, rolling my eyes. He had no accent — just a Chicago boy with blond hair, blue eyes, and an easy grin.

“Try me,” he said.

“Yugoslavia,” I answered, quietly, certain he’d have no clue where that was.

“Huh!” he exclaimed. “Me too!”

“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes again and headed for the door.

“No, really,” he said, jumping in front of me, pointing to his name tag.
“Jurich,” it read.

“Yurich,” I whispered, pronouncing it in perfect Croatian.

“See? Told you we’re from the same country,” he said, grinning ear to ear.

The next time I saw him, I greeted him with a cheerful “Dobar dan.”
He looked puzzled — had no idea what it meant. And in that moment, I knew he wasn’t really “from my country.”

Later, he explained his ancestors — on his father’s side — had come to America in 1902. Each generation had one son, so the last name lived on. He was born and raised in Chicago, proudly calling himself “a mutt.”

I loved him. I loved everything about him.

Within a year, we were married.

Two kids and twenty years later, we divorced.

My entire adult life had been spent with this man. He filled every empty space in my heart — the sibling I never had, my best friend, my confidant, my therapist. He held me through the nightmares. For twenty years, he was my world. Together, we built our little empire.

While he started his own business, I got laid off and became a stay-at-home mom. I was happy — with my two beautiful boys and a husband I adored. I thanked God every day for that little world we built.

But life has a way of shifting beneath your feet.
He developed an addiction — a disease he couldn’t shake. We tried. I tried. But I couldn’t save him, and he didn’t want to be saved.

Addiction took everything. Every possession, every piece of peace.

When life was done chewing me up, it spit me out — broken, alone, with two young boys depending on me to save them.

They were my reason to break free.

The divorce dragged on for over a year, and by the time it was final, I was left standing in the ruins of what once was us. — and $25,000 in debt from legal fees.

Starting from scratch, I found a job close to home so I could be there for my kids. The first offer that came, I took it. Minimum wage. I thought I’d move up quickly, but finding a better job means taking time off to interview — time I couldn’t afford. Two years later, I was still making that same amount of money, so I got myself second job. Working two jobs, never being home with my sons.

Life, it seemed, had it out for me.

Life Three: The Now

And that brings me to life number three — the now.

I feel three hundred years old, and yet, the world still rests on my shoulders. I am exhausted.

I’m still learning to live without him. Still learning how to let my sons go. Still learning how to trust life again.

But I’m here. I’m still standing. And I’m still learning.

Today what would have been my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary brings back memories — the good ones, the kind that hurt a little more than the bad ones do. Because when something was once beautiful, its absence aches in a special way.

The other day, a friend who’s contemplating divorce asked if I had any advice.

“No,” I said. “I have no right to give advice to anyone. The only person I have a right to advise is my younger self.”

And if I could go back, I would still marry the same man. Because that marriage gave me the two greatest gifts of my life — my sons.

The only difference?
I probably wouldn’t get married legally. I’d just live in sin.
(But don’t tell my parents I said that, haha.)

Because then, maybe, I wouldn’t have ended up $25,000 in debt.

What Hurt the Most

Of all the pain life has thrown my way — the war, the years as a refugee, the loneliness of starting over in a foreign country, being bullied for my accent until I learned to stay quiet — nothing, nothing cut as deep as the betrayal of my husband. No pain comes close. And believe me, I know pain. His betrayal shattered me in a way that no bomb, no border, no cruel word ever could. Because this wasn’t a war outside of me — it was a war inside my home, inside my heart.

But here’s the part I want you to remember: even after all that, I’m still here. I still laugh. I still love. I still believe that life, despite all its heartbreak, can be beautiful again. Every scar I carry reminds me that I survived. Every tear I’ve shed watered something inside me that now blooms quietly — strength, compassion, peace.

So if you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your own storm, please know this: one day, you’ll breathe again. You’ll laugh again. You’ll wake up and realize that the pain that once threatened to destroy you has become the very reason you stand taller.

Because even after three lives and three hundred years of lessons, I’m still learning that the heart — no matter how many times it breaks — never stops trying to love again.

With all my love,
Sanela

About Me

Author Sanela Ramic Jurich

View my complete profile

 

 

“Remember Me” Wins an International Book Award!

Posted on by Posted in Book recommendation, Books, New blog post, Remember Me, Reviews, Sanela Ramic Jurich

“She wrote her pain into pages, and the world called it beautiful.”
— Unknown

Today, I received news that left me speechless. Remember Me, a book that holds so much of my heart, has been honored with an award from the International Impact Book Awards.

To say I’m grateful would be an understatement. Along with a beautiful certificate and a digital sticker, they’ve invited me to attend their awards gala this November in Phoenix, Arizona. There, I would have the unique opportunity to step onto the stage and receive a trophy engraved with my name.

Whether or not I’m able to attend in person, just knowing that my story touched others enough to be recognized like this means the world to me. Writing Remember Me was one of the most emotional journeys I’ve ever taken. It was a story I needed to tell—about memory, loss, survival, and love. To see it now honored on an international stage… I’m still letting it sink in.

Thank you to everyone who believed in my words, who read my book, shared it, and felt something because of it. And thank you to the judges who saw something meaningful in my work.

For once, I’m letting myself soak it all in—and it feels incredible.

 

 

 

With gratitude,
Sanela

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Available in Audio