The Story
For as long as memory stretches its golden thread backward, I have been drawn to the quiet miracle of creation—in every form it chose to reveal itself. I learned the magic of story in my grandmother’s arms. At night, we would nestle into bed—my small head resting on her shoulder, one arm cradling me close, the other holding hardcover storybooks that had served the generation before me. As she read aloud, her voice became a bridge to distant worlds. With each turn of the page, faraway lands unfolded in my mind—lush jungles, candlelit castles, wind-swept deserts, and exotic markets heavy with the scent of spice and the shimmer of silk. We would laugh together at the funny parts, our joy spilling into the quiet night, and when the stories turned sorrowful, I would try to hide my tears, stealing glances to see if she was tearing up too. Even then, my heart felt porous—easily pierced by beauty, by loss, by the ache of imagined lives.
The words came alive behind my closed eyes, blooming into scenes that danced in full color and sound. I didn’t just hear stories. I saw them. I felt them. And long before I understood it, I was already dreaming in images.
Later, as I grew older, those dreams found a new canvas: the spell of cinema—those flickering portals that appeared through the narrow crack of Soviet television. Some I was allowed to watch, others I only glimpsed—stolen moments that felt like treasure, seared into memory by their rarity.
I grew up immersed in the haunting beauty of Post–New Wave French cinema from the ‘70s and ‘80s. I was equally captivated by the tender irreverence of commedia all’italiana—films that breathed in silence and color, that lived in melancholy and rebellion, where humor danced hand in hand with heartbreak. They were deeply personal, unapologetically bold, stylistically unique. Their emotional honesty lodged itself in my heart and stayed there.
And then there were the Soviet-era comedies—with their clever wit, well-timed gags, and intricate, often layered plots. They became another source of joy. Wholesome, yes, but far from simple. They reflected the rigidity of ideology, yet carried beneath their surface a quiet satire—a defiant creativity that managed to blossom despite it.
Yet the lens widened further.
Bollywood swept through my childhood like a monsoon—vibrant, thunderous, and full of emotion. I drank in its passion, its aching, its joy. On summer nights, the dramatic sound effects and music—ranging from ecstatic to melancholic—would drift from the open-air cinema nearby, keeping me awake and imprinting themselves into my dreams. Those echoes—half lullaby, half storm—folded into the fabric of my sleep, blurring the line between waking and wonder.
And then there were those films which lived in the hush of night, airing well past my bedtime. But I was not so easily deterred. I would slip quietly from my blankets, crouch behind the door or catch forbidden glimpses of these distant worlds from the reflection of the lacquered surface of a dresser. They shimmered like visions—haunting and beautiful. Perhaps it was that towering lizard creature that wreaked havoc across the screen, or the clear waters and exotic island of The Blue Lagoon—the story of survival unfolding in sunlight and silence. These were images so foreign to my young eyes, yet already etched in the folds of imagination.
At eight years old, language became my first magic trick. Already fluent in two tongues, I began translating children’s books from Russian to Georgian—not out of duty, but out of joy. The joy of shaping something familiar into something newly alive.
I found joy in teaching—spinning stories and sharing my small but growing wisdom. My stuffed toys became my students, lined up in obedient rows like wide-eyed disciples, beneath the gaze of a strict little teacher—me, pointer in hand, conducting lessons with great seriousness and theatrical flair. They watched me reenact dramatic scenes in the mirror, one hand clutched to my chest, the other raised to the heavens, as I delivered tearful monologues and imagined applause.
What began as make-believe soon revealed something real: I didn’t just love stories—I loved sharing them. There was magic in the way a tale could ripple outward, stir a laugh, or open a window into understanding. Even then, I was beginning to find my voice—not just as a listener, but as a storyteller.
Later came poetry—verses wild and tender, about love, about friendship, about spring flowers blooming and autumn leaves falling. Then came stories, and with them, characters who, much like me, were searching for their way through the world. I was fascinated by their becoming, their evolution.
I kept journals, filling pages each day with thoughts and wonderings. On sheets of graph paper, I drew the house of my future—complete with winding staircases and hidden doors. I let my imagination spill freely into fantasy, giving it space to soar. Even then, I was building something—staging scenes, shaping lives, drawing blueprints toward the unseen.
Years passed, and slowly, the threads between my origin, my mission, and my vision began to weave together. That first journey back to my homeland, after a decade of absence and the distance of immigration, became a quiet catalyst—a turning point where the scattered fragments of my childhood began to align. With each step on familiar soil, something within me quietly unfolded, as though the story of my life was at last being written with clarity. No longer random, but essential. And in that stillness, I remembered something I had always known: I had always been a storyteller—I had simply returned home to it.
Not just a teller of tales, but someone who could illuminate the quiet strength of the human spirit. One who could bring to life the untold stories of resilience, of healing, of becoming. Stories not shouted, but whispered—woven not in grandeur, but in grace.
I envisioned a series—living, breathing narratives rooted in wellness and vitality. Stories of real people, real bodies, real beauty. Not lofty ideals, but grounded truths. Stories that don’t just inspire, but teach. That reaches into the marrow of what it means to find balance. That shows how one might thrive amidst the swirling chaos of life.
I longed to create something deeper than entertainment—not to distract, but to illuminate. To offer a lantern, and walk alongside others on this celestial sphere we call home, sharing what I continue to learn:
That thriving is not a miracle,
but a daily choice—
an act of presence
lived with reverence, curiosity, and courage.