Sometimes, the things that shape our future begin quietly.
No dramatic announcement. No clear sign. Just a summer, a suitcase, and a heart that didn’t know it was about to be cracked wide open.
In 2016, I was 20 years old, studying at university and spending my summer volunteering in Cluj, Romania. I’d been involved in charity work since I was 14—it was something I loved and was passionate about. But this time was different. This mission was different. It wasn’t just about helping. It was about feeling.
The care home I volunteered in wasn’t what you might imagine. It wasn’t cold or institutional as it’s often portrayed in the media. It was an environment intentionally built to feel like a family home. Ten children been ages of 0-10 years old lived there at a time, looked after by a small, consistent team of carers. Everything about the space was designed to give these kids a sense of love, safety, and normality.
On the outside, they looked like any other happy kids.
They laughed. They played. They fought over toys and splashed water during bath time. The place was full of life. I came during the summer, so the energy was high and the days felt like a never-ending playdate as they didn’t have any homework to do, or school to go to.
But underneath all of that joy, there were stories.
And one afternoon, sitting in the coordinator’s office, I heard them.
She gently told me about each child—how they’d arrived, what they’d endured, why they were there. And though I’d heard heartbreaking stories before, nothing could have prepared me for hearing those truths about the children I’d just spent weeks laughing with.
One story shattered me.
There was a little boy who was also the youngest in the group—only about three at the time. He had completely stolen my heart. He was always reaching for my hand, asking me to carry him, and sneaking into my lap during storytime. I felt such a strong connection to him.
He had been found in a bin bag at just two months old.
I still struggle to say that sentence. It made me physically sick. Even writing it now, all these years later, makes my chest ache.
And in that moment, everything shifted for me.
The last weeks of my trip became deeply intentional. I wanted every child there to feel seen. To feel special. To feel wanted. I knew I couldn’t erase their pain, but I could pour love into every moment I had left.
When it was time to leave, I sat on the bus back to my childhood home with a lump in my throat and a clear sense of purpose in my heart.
I want to build something like that home.
Not just a house, but a place. A place that feels like warmth, safety, and family. A space for children who need to know, without a doubt, that they matter.
It’s been nine years. I’m not building that home just yet.
But this blog? It’s the beginning.
Every word I write here, every story I share, is part of that dream. And if you’ve found yourself here—maybe between laundry loads or snack-time cleanups—thank you. Truly. You’re part of this journey now too.
Because I believe that together, we can raise children who feel deeply loved—and maybe, just maybe, change the story for the ones who weren’t given that love from the start.
I still have a long road ahead, but I just wanted to share with you my dream of something I really want to achieve in my lifetime. Thank you for being here❤️