Stories

My name is Vlatko, and my story began when I was 18 years old. That was when I made one of the most important decisions of my life- to move from North Macedonia to Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria, to study at university.

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I came alone. My family, relatives, and friends stayed in North Macedonia. At first, it was not easy. I was in a new country, a new city, surrounded by people I didn’t know. I missed my loved ones, and naturally I looked for other students from North Macedonia because they gave me a sense of security and belonging. I lived in a student dormitory, and little by little I started building new friendships.

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During my second year at university, I joined the Work and Travel USA program. I worked there for four months to save money and improve my student life. Over the following years, I alternated my summers between Work and Travel in the United States and seasonal work on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast. These experiences taught me independence, discipline, and respect for different cultures.

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At university, I was fortunate to meet professors and classmates who supported me. Their encouragement helped me adapt much more easily and made me feel accepted. It was also there that I met my future wife, Dimana.

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After completing my Bachelor’s degree, I continued with a Master’s degree while starting my career in Bansko. That marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life. At one point, I went to the United States again with the intention of staying there permanently. However, after six months, I realized it was not where I wanted to build my future. I returned to Bulgaria because I wanted to start a family and create my life here.

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Later, Dimana completed her Master’s degree and moved to Bansko so we could live together. We both worked, enrolled in PhD programs, got married, and lived in a rented apartment. When we decided it was time to have a child, we bought our first home. That was the moment when I truly began to feel that Bansko- and Bulgaria- had become my home.

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Our daughter, Thea, was born and today she is six and a half years old. Not long afterwards, the COVID-19 pandemic changed everything. We both lost our jobs, and that forced us to start over once again- this time in Sofia.

The first years were not easy. I changed several jobs, but I never gave up. Through persistence, hard work, and a desire to keep growing, I eventually found a career that inspires me and gives me real satisfaction.

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Today, at the age of 40, I can honestly say that I feel like a full member of Bulgarian society. I feel accepted, respected, and appreciated. I have a family, friends, a fulfilling career, and a home. I achieved this not because the journey was easy. My journey has taught me that migration is much more than simply moving from one country to another. It is a process of adaptation, building trust, creating new relationships, and finding a place that, over time, you begin to call home.

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Today, I still feel deeply connected to North Macedonia—it is where my roots are. But Bulgaria is the country where I built my family, my career, and my future. For me, home is no longer just the place where you were born. Home is the place where you feel accepted, where you have the opportunity to grow, and where you share your life with the people you love.

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Migration is not only about changing the place where you live. It is a journey of learning, adaptation, courage, and perseverance. Along this journey, I met people who reached out to help me, gave me opportunities, and supported me as I built a family, a career, and a new home.

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Today, I still carry North Macedonia in my heart, but Bulgaria is the place where I built my life. That is why the name of this project, Light in the Path, has a special meaning for me. Throughout my journey, there have always been people who lit the way forward—my professors, friends, colleagues, my family, and especially my wife, Dimana. They helped me find my path and believe that no matter where you come from, if you are given support and opportunities, you can successfully integrate, feel that you belong, and make a meaningful contribution to society.

There was a time when I believed that ordinary moments were just that—ordinary.

 

A family dinner around the table. A spontaneous phone call from a friend asking, "Do you want to go to party?" Watching a movie at my favorite cinema. Ordering the same dish at my favorite restaurant. Walking through streets that carried years of memories. Hearing familiar voices. Celebrating birthdays with the people who had watched me grow up.

 

I never stopped to think how valuable those moments really were. I never realized how fortunate I was until I lost them.

 

For personal reasons, I made one of the biggest decisions of my life: I left my country and moved somewhere completely new. I was excited, hopeful and full of dreams.

 

However, my “ordinary” things were gone. Suddenly, I was surrounded by unfamiliar streets, different customs, different food, different humor, and people who didn't know my story.

 

Back home, I was someone's daughter, someone's friend, someone's colleague. I belonged somewhere.

 

In my new country, I was simply another stranger walking through the city. From being an engineer, for the country I did not even have an elementary school certificate.

 

It felt as a part of me had been left behind.

 

There were days when I felt excited about discovering something new. Other days, loneliness, as I was missing my family and friends.

 

Little by little, I began rebuilding my life. I discovered new restaurants. I found new places that slowly started to feel familiar. I met people who eventually became friends. I found a job for helping others. I created new routines.

 

Even so, sadness still visited me from time to time. I wondered why I could be grateful for my new opportunities while still feeling such deep sadness.

 

Then one day, I discovered something that completely changed my perspective: Migration grief. For the first time, I realized that what I was experiencing had a name.

It wasn't weakness. It wasn't failure. It wasn't ingratitude…It was grief. The grief of leaving behind people, places, traditions, routines, identity and an entire life.

 

Understanding migration grief has helped me in different ways especially in the construction of my daily path.

 

Today, I can honestly say that migration has given me opportunities I never imagined possible. It has taught me resilience, courage, independence, etc. Would I have become the same person if I had stayed in my hometown?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

 

But I know that every challenge I have faced has shaped me into someone stronger and more determined than I was before.

 

Currently, I am still building my path.

Some days are wonderful.

Some days are difficult.

Some days I still miss home with an intensity that surprises me.

And that is okay.

 

Healing is not about forgetting where you came from. It is about learning to carry your past while creating space for your future.

 

If you are reading this while feeling lost in a new country, I want you to know something: YOU HAVE NOT LOST EVERYTHING. You may have left your home, friends, language, traditions, routines and places that made you feel safe. But you still carry the most valuable thing you have ever owned:

Yourself.

Your experiences.

Your dreams.

Your courage.

Your ability to begin again.

You are stronger than you think.

You are more resilient than you realize.

No language barrier can erase your worth.

No lonely day can define your future.

 

And one day, without even noticing, the streets that once felt foreign will begin to feel familiar. The language that frightened you will become natural. The city that made you feel invisible will slowly become part of your story.

 

Your path may not be easy. But it is worth it and there is light on it.

Keep believing in yourself. Keep taking one small step after another. Keep building your new path. Keep going and glowing.

 

And remember:

Sometimes life doesn't ask us to choose between our old home and our new one.

Sometimes it invites us to carry both in our hearts.

Your story is not ending…It is only beginning.

 People often think migration is simply packing a suitcase and starting a new life in another country. In reality, it is much more complicated. Behind every move, there are months of planning, paperwork, uncertainty and difficult decisions.

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         My story reflects these challenges. In a few weeks, my boyfriend and I will move to the Netherlands. While I am an EU citizen, he comes from outside the European Union, which made the process much more difficult. We had to learn about different immigration rules, collect documents, meet legal requirements, and wait for decisions that were beyond our control.The biggest challenge was not the distance itself, but the uncertainty. We never knew how long the process would take or whether everything would go as planned. It required patience, careful planning and the ability to adapt when things did not happen as quickly as we expected.

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       After months of preparation, we finally reached our goal. Soon we will begin a new chapter in a new country. This experience taught us that migration is not only about changing where you live. It is about overcoming obstacles, adapting to new circumstances and continuing to move forward even when the path is difficult, because there is always a light awaiting for us.Our journey showed us that behind every person who migrates, there is a story of determination, hope and the courage to build a better future.

The first was that there were very few employment opportunities in my community. In fact, ten years ago, whenever we ran into old friends in the street, people would joke, “Asturias or work?” Many young people migrated in their twenties in search of employment opportunities, hoping to develop professionally and become independent.

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It was sad to be in Asturias and see mostly older people, knowing that groups of young people were gone across the major cities of Spain and Europe. There was hardly anyone left, and the feeling of suffocation was becoming increasingly overwhelming.

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On the other hand, two years before I decided to migrate, my father passed away after a long illness…

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When I migrated, I decided to move to a place where I had always dreamed of living. I decided to go back and resume my anthropology studies, and I decided to move with a boy I was in love with. Nothing could go wrong. It was the perfect plan: love, personal development and my dream city.

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When I arrived in Granada, I fell into a deep depression that lasted almost two years. It was impossible to combine my university studies with the precarious jobs I could find. My boyfriend's attitude towards me changed completely. I had no friends, I didn't know anyone, I felt like a failure. I felt that it didn't matter where I went; I would never find peace. I was in so much pain that I eventually developed an addiction. My life was a mess. I was alone and didn't know how to get back on my feet. It was the deepest crisis I had ever experienced…

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In the midst of all these experiences, life happens. I have literally accompanied mothers who gave birth alone in our country; I have prayed with them in a foreign language, and they have told me how they survived eight days crossing the ocean without food or water. I have also had to deliver bad news, such as when a young man thought he was going to die after receiving his HIV diagnosis. Fortunately, healthcare in Spain is universal and free, so today he is a happy, genuinely charismatic, and funny man.

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I have experienced some of the wildest and funniest moments of my life with Moroccan boys who crossed the sea alone as minors. They are like flowers growing through concrete, blossoming despite barriers, rejection, and racism.

 

I have learned to smile more wholeheartedly because some Palestinian girls taught me that hope survives even among the ruins.

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I treasure thousands of stories and memories, as many as the people I have accompanied over the years. I look towards the future with excitement, wondering who is on their way and what stories they will bring with them.

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I think about how we can build a more welcoming society for them. That is why I participate in citizen initiatives to ensure that our migrant companions have all their rights protected, so that no one is left without legal status. I like to contribute my small part to making our society worthy of the humanity that makes it what it is.

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I believe this project contributes to that goal, and that is why I am happy to have been part of it and to be able to share my story with you.

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Many small people, doing small things, can change the world.

My name is Bohdana Machohan. I’m Ukrainian and have been living in Portugal for many years. I came to Portugal because a job opportunity came up at a restaurant, and since I had a baby daughter and needed to support us, I decided to accept the offer and embrace the change.

Coming to Portugal alone and so young wasn’t easy. Dealing with the change, without family and friends nearby to support me, was difficult—but that wasn’t the hardest part. Not speaking Portuguese made the process of moving and adapting even harder. When I arrived in Portugal, I stayed in a house where I shared a room with three other people. These three people, whom I initially thought might help me, only made my life more complicated. They took my passport, forced me to pay their share of the rent, and also forced me to work the shifts of the woman who worked with me at the restaurant. Those were very difficult times, but with no money, no documents, and unable to speak Portuguese, I didn’t see any way out of that situation; all I had left was my job, which I enjoyed and was good at.

One day, my roommates threw a party at the house; someone filed a complaint, and they blamed me for the party, so I was kicked out. However, the abuse didn’t end there, because they had my passport. They beat me, took all the money I had, and told me that to get my passport back, I’d have to give them 100€. It was my employers at the time who helped me get out of this situation because when I went to work, my boss noticed the bruises on my neck and started laughing, thinking they were hickies. I, not understanding what he meant and unable to explain myself, started laughing too at first, but then I broke down in uncontrollable tears. My boss was very concerned and called over a female employee who was also Ukrainian to help with the translation. When my employers found out what had happened, they fired the person who worked at the restaurant, helped me find another place to stay, and helped me get my passport back.

Just when I thought things were finally going well, my mother called me, worried about my daughter, because she hadn’t spoken for two or three years. She took her to the hospital, where they discovered she had throat cancer. Over the course of five years, she underwent five surgeries, and since the treatments and medications were very expensive, I had no choice but to keep working and support my daughter from afar. My daughter beat cancer; I fell in love, had another daughter, and stayed in Portugal, now with a more stable life.

When the war in Ukraine began, it was very worrying; watching the news on TV and not knowing if our loved ones are okay is very distressing. However, I’ve kept in touch with my parents and my daughter; they don’t live near the war zone, but it’s always a mystery—we don’t know when it will reach them. Now that the war has been going on for so long, I feel more at ease because my family isn’t worried, and if they’re okay, I’m okay too.

When I reflect on my experience with migration, I know it wasn’t easy—I went through many difficult situations I’d rather not have faced—but when I look back, all I can see is how lucky I’ve been. Lucky to have such a wonderful daughter—the distance hasn’t affected our relationship; lucky to have had such wonderful parents who supported me and took care of my daughter; lucky to have had a great job with good employers who helped me as much as they could and to the best of their ability; and lucky to have found a man who treats me well and loves me. Despite everything, I’m very lucky, and I wouldn’t trade my life in Portugal for anything.

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Dana

Hello, I’m Mina. I’m 62 years old, I’m Portuguese, and I emigrated to Switzerland when I was still very young. I lived there for 20 years…

I moved to another country because my parents were from a very poor, underprivileged area of the Alentejo (Portugal). We first moved to Sintra in search of better living conditions. A few years later, my father emigrated, and soon after, the whole family followed.

When I emigrated, I faced major challenges. First of all, the language.

In Zurich, they speak German.

Since it was hard for me to learn, I started speaking Italian so I could get by in my day-to-day life…

I met an Italian girl my age, and we were always together; we became friends, and that’s how I learned to speak Italian, which later proved very useful…

When I left my country, I felt very sad. I was in that pre-teen phase—crushes, the dances in the countryside, and my friends, especially my cousins—and I missed books in Portuguese (I love to read), TV shows, and, in short, Portuguese culture, which is so rich and varied, and the sea…

When I went there, I left behind a part of my roots, my lack of education, and my social life in general.

I missed everything immensely—I missed the freedom that Portugal had won on April 25, 1974, and playing in the street until late, without any danger or worries…

When I arrived in Switzerland, the best thing that could have happened to help me adjust was meeting a Portuguese man who would become my husband. We started a family, and I have two wonderful children, who—along with my grandchildren—are my rock today, because I lost my husband a few years ago…

I adapted to the German school system and got my driver’s license before I even turned 18…

I got a job at a university hospital in Zurich; I started as a cleaning lady, and before long I was already a surgical assistant in a neurosurgery operating room, where I completed various training programs and courses in surgical instrument handling—in other words, I handed instruments during surgeries performed by Professor Dr. Yasargil, a highly renowned physician considered the father of microsurgery… He invented the microscope for highly specialized surgeries such as those involving aneurysms, tumors, and cerebral hemorrhages. There, in addition to gaining essential knowledge for saving lives, I gained a new family; I never lost touch with the doctor and followed his entire career until his passing last year.

Now, in his honor, there is the Yasargil Foundation to carry on his legacy in the field of education, training new surgeons according to his theories—a foundation of which I have the honor of being a part…

By emigrating, I gained a wealth of life experience, both professional and personal.

I traveled extensively, experienced various cultures, learned several languages, and made lifelong friends…

But when I returned to Portugal, it was more complicated; I had a lot of trouble fitting in…

I felt very sad at the time; it was very difficult—in my own country, I felt like an immigrant…

I was treated poorly when I went to social security, and they dismissed all the work and career I’d built over 20 years in Switzerland… saying I wouldn’t have the opportunity to get my qualifications recognized for employment…

I had to start from scratch. Since I only had a 4th-grade education at the time, I had to turn things around and went back to school until I finished 12th grade—which wasn’t easy at all. I was already a mother; my children were young and were also in school at the same time.

It was a difficult time until I was able to return to work, and I’ve been working at this school for 25 years now—I love what I do; working with children gives me so much inspiration.

To wrap up, if I had to describe my experience in Switzerland in a single word, it would be GRATITUDE.

Because without it, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

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Firmina Acácio