On Friday, June 21, 2019, I joined the traditional From Sunrise to Sunrise event on Šmarna Gora. We gathered at the top of Šmarna Gora at five in the morning, and from there, everyone walked up and down as many times as they could manage. Some once. Others twice. I had set myself a goal that seemed almost crazy - 10 ascents of Šmarna Gora in a single day. Until then, the most I had ever done was three ascents in a row. Ten was something completely different. I asked my best friend Simon, who I knew was physically fit enough for such a challenge, if he would join me. Without hesitation, he said: “I’m in.”

Our friend Bojan joined us for the first two ascents and brought plenty of laughter and positive energy right from the start. The first few ascents passed surprisingly quickly.

Then came the sixth. That was when I ran out of energy. That was when I ran out of energy. My legs started to feel heavy. My knees hurt. Every step became harder. Once again, I felt something I had already discovered during the In the Footsteps of the Bear hike. In challenges like these, sooner or later, your body reaches its limit. That’s when your mind takes over. That’s when you decide whether to give up or take one more step.

When we were struggling the most, our friends Anja and Nejc joined us for the seventh and eighth ascents. Even today, I believe they didn’t show up by chance. They came exactly when we needed them most. Suddenly, there was laughter again. Simon and I were barely talking anymore, so the two of them took over. They joked, made us laugh, and gave us new energy. Those two ascents passed much faster than they otherwise would have. That was when I realized once again just how much power the people around us can have. Sometimes they don’t help you with their hands. They help you with their energy.

Then there were just two ascents left. My left knee was already quite swollen. I could barely bend it. That was when a complete stranger, who is now a friend of mine, offered me his hiking poles and told me to use them for the rest of the challenge. At the top, they also wrapped my knee, and I grabbed the poles and kept going. Moments like these always remind me how many good people there are in the world. I believe they come into our lives exactly when we need them most. A stranger who helps you without a second thought. Friends who show up at exactly the right time.

For the final two ascents, I used my tried-and-tested strategy. A wireless speaker. Music turned all the way up. At that point, you stop thinking about the pain. You just keep walking. Step by step. Song by song. Don’t ask me where I found those last reserves of strength. I can’t explain it. I just know they were there.

At 1:30 in the morning, I completed my tenth ascent. Ten times up Šmarna Gora. Approximately 40 kilometers of walking. Around 3,300 meters of elevation gain. Almost 22 hours on the move.

Even today, people still ask me: “Why?” My answer has always been the same. Because. Just as someone else needs dancing, traveling, or evenings with friends, I needed challenges like these. For a long time, I believed that we overcome our greatest challenges on our own. Today I know we never do. We overcome them also because of the people who walk part of the way with us.

Thank you to the true friends who show up at exactly the right moment, give us strength when we need it most, and help us push beyond the limits we thought we had.

On September 22, 2019, I took on my fourth challenge, a three-day wilderness survival course with Brane T. Červek, the founder of S.S.F.N. - The School of Survival from Nature. Brane is an internationally certified wilderness survival instructor who has spent more than 30 years training special forces soldiers, pilots, rescue teams, and civilians. This wasn’t an adrenaline-filled adventure, but an intensive personal challenge where you learn the fundamentals of survival - how to live in the wilderness, navigate unfamiliar terrain, build a fire, find water, and work as part of a team. For three days, you are completely cut off from civilization. No comfort. No daily routines. No distractions to hide behind. It’s just you - and a confrontation with yourself. The moment I signed up, I knew this would be a serious challenge for me. I’m afraid of bears, and I’m extremely sensitive to mosquito bites and insect stings.

There were nine of us in the group. At 10:30 a.m., we set off. Our starting point wasn’t a well-marked parking lot or a mountain lodge. It was somewhere deep in the Cerknica forests. Far from people. Far from any signal. Just nature. Silence. Wildlife. And us. After only a few minutes of walking, we came to an abrupt stop. Right there, on the soft forest path, was a huge bear footprint.“Great, Barbara,” I thought to myself. “Exactly what you needed at the very beginning of the trip.” If I’d been pretending to stay completely calm until then, that bear track sent my heart racing. Fortunately, we had Brane Červek with us - a highly experienced man who knew those forests inside and out. He was calm, confident, and prepared for anything. His presence gave me the reassurance I needed to keep walking into the unknown despite my fear. Sometimes courage isn’t about not being afraid. Courage is being afraid and moving forward anyway.

Brane didn’t just teach us navigation and how to move through the wilderness. He also taught us the fundamentals of survival. He showed us which berries and plants were safe to eat and explained how important it is to truly understand the environment you’re in. He told us to collect anything we believed was edible. He was convinced we’d find plenty, but it quickly became obvious how little we actually knew about nature. Apart from a handful of wild strawberries, we found almost nothing. That was another lesson for me: we’re surrounded by nature every day, yet we hardly know it at all. Later, we turned the wild strawberries we’d collected into homemade jam.

When we reached the river, the first real surprise was waiting for us. Brane lined us up, told us to put our backpacks down, and ordered us to do push-ups right there on the small, sharp stones. The sharp little stones dug into our hands while he counted loudly like a true military instructor, urging us on. “Come on! Keep going!” The push-ups weren’t a punishment but a test of our physical condition, which, in his opinion, wasn’t exactly impressive - although that was perfectly understandable, considering we weren’t his soldiers. Apparently, he took a little pity on us because he spared us one of the next challenges: walking through the river carrying our backpacks. Then came an inspection of our backpack, and it didn’t take him long to realize we weren’t particularly well prepared. What bothered him most was that none of us had packed our belongings in waterproof bags. He explained that in the wilderness there is no room for carelessness, because a wet backpack means wet clothes, a wet sleeping bag, and wet food, making survival much more difficult. That was the moment I truly understood that, in the wild, success depends on the smallest details and on being well prepared.

Brane also showed us how to build an improvised stretcher using two wooden poles and a tarp. Of course, it didn’t end with the demonstration. One member of our group was chosen to play the “injured” person, and we had to carry him for about a kilometer across difficult terrain. Only then did we realize how physically demanding it really is to rescue someone in the wilderness. After just a few hundred meters, our arms were already aching, and by the time we reached our destination, all we wanted was to put the stretcher down.

Throughout the hike, Brane constantly observed his surroundings, collecting mushrooms, which we later used to cook a delicious mushroom soup over the campfire. When we finally reached the spot he had chosen for our campsite, he told us we would be spending the next 2 nights there. Our next challenge was to build a shelter. Using ropes and a tarp, we constructed our own makeshift tents. At first, we thought we had done a pretty good job, but that night quickly proved we were complete beginners. We had pitched our shelter too high off the ground, allowing cold air to flow underneath all night long. The cold crept into our sleeping bags, making the night far more uncomfortable than we had expected. Brane noticed our mistake immediately but didn’t say a word. He let us experience the consequences because he knew we would remember the lesson much better that way. The next morning, we rebuilt our shelter completely differently - lower to the ground and without any drafts - and our second night was much more comfortable. That was when I realized that, in the wilderness, your greatest teachers are your own mistakes.

We were divided into 2 teams - one with four people and the other with five. A friendly competition quickly developed between us. One of the challenges was to see which team could build a fire first. Our team won, while the losing team’s “punishment” was spending the first night without sleeping bags. Since the temperature dropped to around 10°C, it wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience. They were freezing because they had no sleeping bags, while we were cold because we had built our shelter rather carelessly, allowing chilly air to blow through it all night. The following morning, as we talked about the night we’d just survived, we realized that everyone had learned something - some of us learned how important it is to build a proper shelter, while the others discovered just how valuable an ordinary sleeping bag can be.

Once our shelters were finished, our next challenge was to start a fire. We first headed into the forest to gather tinder - dry grass and other fine materials that catch fire easily. Brane showed us several ways to start a fire without a lighter or matches. One method involved using gunpowder from a bullet cartridge together with a wooden spindle and fireboard to create friction until a spark ignited the tinder. We also tried sawing bamboo together, but that technique produced far more blisters than flames. We never managed to start a fire that way. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t remember how to use any of those techniques today. Back then, though, after a lot of effort, patience, and teamwork, we finally succeeded. And the feeling when that very first flame appeared after so many failed attempts was simply indescribable.

Out of nowhere, Brane stood up and said, “Let’s go.” Without another word, we followed him to an ice-cold river. Another surprise was waiting for us there. Fully dressed, boots and all, we had to step into the water until it reached almost to our necks. He told us how long we had to stay there and advised us to cross our arms under our armpits to help our bodies retain some warmth. I don’t remember the exact temperature of the water, only that it was below 10°C. I don’t even remember how long we stood there - I think it was about 5 minutes - but I do remember how it felt. It seemed endless. When we finally returned to camp, completely soaked, there was no warm fire waiting for us. On the contrary, we had to build one ourselves while our entire bodies were shaking from the cold and our fingers were so numb they barely worked. When we finally managed to get the fire going, it felt like a victory. We quickly changed into dry clothes and spread our wet clothes and boots around the fire, hoping they would dry by morning. But that became another lesson. Some people placed their hiking boots too close to the flames, and overnight the rubber soles began to melt. By morning, a few even had to cut off the front of their boots just so they could keep walking. By the end of the challenge, most of the footwear ended up in the trash. It was yet another reminder that, in the wilderness, your greatest lessons come from your own mistakes.

Brane wasn’t about to serve us lunch on a plate. Instead, he hid freshly caught fish in the river, and our first task was to find them. Once we did, we cleaned them and cooked them over an open fire. Nothing went to waste - we even used the fish bones to make a rich fish broth. We also baked our own bread over the fire. We were given nothing but flour and salt, from which we made a simple unleavened bread. Some people baked their bread on hot stones, while I braided the dough around a wooden stick and baked it over the glowing embers. It was one of the best loaves of bread I’ve ever eaten - not because of the taste, but because we had made it entirely ourselves, from the simplest ingredients, right in the middle of nature. We also learned how to make simple survival weapons. Using wood, we carved spears for catching fish and larger ones designed for hunting game. Although I hope I’ll never need those skills, it was fascinating to see how people once created the tools they relied on for survival using nothing more than the natural materials around them.

On the second night, we were convinced we would finally get a good night’s sleep. After the lesson we had learned the first night, we pitched our shelter properly - low to the ground and free from drafts - so this time we weren’t cold. We happily crawled into our sleeping bags, certain that a peaceful night awaited us. Then, in the middle of the night, Brane’s voice suddenly echoed through the camp: “Come on, let’s go!” We could barely open our eyes. Exhausted, and still half asleep, we got dressed within minutes and stood outside our shelters, ready for whatever came next. A nighttime hike with torches was waiting for us. Even though we had made the torches ourselves earlier that day, it had never crossed our minds that we’d be using them the very same night. I have to admit, it was one of the scariest moments of the entire challenge. Walking through a dark forest where you hear every sound and can only see as far as the flame in your hand reaches is nothing like hiking during the day. I don’t remember how long we walked - perhaps only 15 minutes - but it felt much longer. It wasn’t until later that I understood why Brane had pulled us out of our sleeping bags at around 2 o’clock in the morning. He wanted us to experience what it feels like to react immediately, get ready without hesitation, and assess your surroundings in the middle of the night. Out in the wilderness, danger doesn’t wait until morning. More than anything else, I remember how incredibly small and vulnerable a person feels in complete darkness.

Every night, 2 members of the group had to take turns keeping watch over the fire. That meant there wasn’t a single moment when all of us were asleep at the same time. Out in the wilderness, you simply can’t afford that. We slept in our makeshift shelters, while Brane slept out in the open beside the fire, wrapped only in his sleeping bag. Within arm’s reach, he kept a well-sharpened spear for protection against wildlife and a handgun. Just having him there made us feel safe, even though we were deep in the forest, far from civilization. On the second night, it was my turn to stand watch. My partner and I sat by the fire, making sure it didn’t go out. Suddenly, we heard a loud rustling in the darkness. It sounded as if it was coming from just outside our camp. We were almost certain a bear was nearby. Terrified, we woke Brane. In an instant, he was on his feet. He grabbed the gear he always kept beside him while sleeping and disappeared into the darkness to investigate. Those few minutes felt endless. When he finally returned, he calmly said, “Everything’s fine.” Then he climbed back into his sleeping bag and was asleep again within seconds. The two of us, however, spent quite a while listening to every tiny sound the forest made.

This experience was about so much more than learning wilderness survival skills. Above all, it was a journey beyond my comfort zone and a confrontation with my own fears. For 3 days, I was challenged both physically and mentally, and that’s exactly why I gained so much from it. I realized how little a person truly needs to live - and how much more we’re capable of than we usually believe. It was a complete escape from everyday life: no phone, no rushing, no constant notifications, and none of the distractions that fill our days. Just nature, a great team, and new challenges to overcome every single day. It was exhausting. It was uncomfortable. There were many moments when I was afraid. But it was also one of the most incredible experiences of my life. I came home with more than just new survival skills. I came home with a greater belief in myself. And that is worth far more than knowing how to build a fire or put up a shelter.

What makes this recipe special?

❌ Gluten-free
❌ Wheat-free
❌ Corn-free
❌ Lactose-free
❌ Egg yolk-free
❌ No added sugar
❌ No artificial sweeteners
❌ No added fats
✅ Gentle on digestion
✅ Easy to prepare

When I started changing the way I ate, I quickly realized that I didn’t have to give up desserts. I simply had to find a different way to make them. This Hokkaido pumpkin pie is one of the recipes that came from that discovery. Its sweetness comes entirely from ingredients that are naturally sweet - roasted pumpkin and homemade fruit purée. I most often use apple purée, but sometimes I make a mixture of apples, plums, and apricots. No added sugar. No artificial sweeteners.

The crust is soft and thin, while the filling is creamy, moist, and delicately flavored with vanilla and cinnamon.

It’s easy to prepare, and the result is a dessert that makes me feel like I’m not missing out on anything at all. Even though I used to be a real sugar addict, I quickly realized that I didn’t actually miss traditional sweets. I started creating my own desserts - without added sugar or artificial sweeteners, using ingredients that I choose myself and that work for me. And the best part? I don’t have to wait until Sunday or for a special occasion. I can enjoy something sweet every single day - without feeling that I’ve had to give anything up.

Changing the way you eat doesn’t have to mean giving up everything you love. Sometimes it simply means finding a new way to enjoy it.

The full recipe, including exact quantities, preparation instructions, and baking time, is available to paid subscribers.

Read more

On 25 June 2019, I completed my third challenge - a tandem paragliding flight from Orlove glave (Eagle’s Head) on Mount Vogel. It was one of the most unforgettable adrenaline-filled experiences of my life. Orlove glave sits at approximately 1,680 metres above sea level, overlooking Lake Bohinj. After just a few steps down the slope, the ground disappears beneath your feet, revealing breathtaking views of Lake Bohinj, the Julian Alps and Triglav National Park. Why Vogel? Because I was absolutely terrified of heights. I love hiking in the mountains, but looking down into the valley had always been my greatest fear. Just standing at the edge was enough to make my whole body tremble. Literally. In moments like that, I would completely freeze. It was as if my body was telling me, “Don’t take another step.” When I decided to overcome that fear, I did something that was very typical of me. Instead of choosing a lower hill for my first flight, I researched which tandem paragliding take-off point in Slovenia was the highest. Of course, I chose Vogel. Looking back, that decision summed me up perfectly. Whenever I took on a challenge, I chose the harder path. Why start with the easier option when I could go straight for the biggest challenge? If I had already decided to face my fear, I wanted to face it in the biggest way possible.

I went on the flight together with my friend Jasmina. We met the Kumulus Paragliding team in Ukanc, and from there we took the cable car followed by the chairlift up to Orlove glave. There I met my pilot, who earned my complete trust within just a few minutes. Before take-off, he calmly said: “When I say now, just run. And keep running until I tell you to stop.”

I still remember standing at the edge of Orlove glave. In front of me there was nothing but the drop. Just a few more steps and there would be no ground beneath my feet. To be honest, I was terrified. My whole body was shaking. I didn’t know whether I would be able to take that first step. And then I did. That moment, just before take-off, was by far the hardest. The instant we lifted off the ground, the adrenaline slowly began to fade. My body relaxed. Fear was replaced by an incredible feeling of freedom. A little to the left. A little to the right. Lake Bohinj below me. The Julian Alps. Peace. For the first few minutes, I held onto the handles so tightly that taking photos never even crossed my mind. Then I finally relaxed. I let go. I took a deep breath. I pulled out my phone and even managed to take a few photos and videos of the breathtaking scenery from a bird’s-eye view. That was the moment I truly understood what an incredible feeling it is to fly.

The flight lasted about 25 minutes, and the landing was much gentler than I had imagined. After landing, I was overwhelmed with excitement. The adrenaline slowly faded, but the feeling of freedom remained. Jasmina landed shortly after me. She had never been afraid of heights - she came on the flight mainly to support me and give me the courage I needed.

We sat down on the grass overlooking Lake Bohinj and simply enjoyed the view. Just then, professional paragliders began their training session. We watched them perform incredible aerial acrobatics. It was truly spectacular. Then, within a matter of seconds, everything changed. One of the professional paragliders apparently wasn’t able to perform the manoeuvre her coach was instructing her to do over the radio. Instead of making the expected turn, she rapidly lost altitude and crashed into Lake Bohinj. Within moments, a rescue operation was underway. A rescue boat raced towards her, and shortly afterwards a rescue helicopter arrived. We stood there in silence, watching everything unfold. Later, I heard that she had survived, but I never found out how seriously she had been injured. Just a few minutes earlier, I had been thinking about bringing both of my sons to experience tandem paragliding one day. After witnessing that accident, I changed my mind. Had I seen that scene before my own flight, I am almost certain I would never have found the courage to take off.

That day, I once again realised something that still helps me in life today: our greatest fears almost always exist only until we take the very first step. Once we do, we often discover that reality is nowhere near as frightening as our imagination made it seem. I went home incredibly happy because I had overcome one of my greatest fears, yet at the same time deeply saddened by an event that reminded me how quickly everything can change.

My second challenge was Jamatlon, on 1 December 2018. It is a unique team adventure race that takes place in real underground mining tunnels between Trbovlje and Hrastnik, Slovenia. The 5.5-kilometre course runs approximately 200 metres below ground, from the Barbara mine entrance in Hrastnik to the Ajnzer exit in Trbovlje. Wearing a miner’s helmet and headlamp, participants tackle a variety of mining-inspired obstacles - pushing a hunt (a mining cart), crawling through narrow passages, carrying heavy loads, crossing water obstacles, and making their way through muddy, slippery tunnels. It is not only a physical challenge, but also a chance to confront your own fears.

When I first heard about Jamatlon, my immediate reaction was: “I want to try this.” To be honest, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into. When I started looking for people to join me, almost everyone asked, “So... what exactly is it?” The truth was, I couldn’t really answer that myself. All I knew was that we were going into a mine. Into complete darkness. That was enough for me to know this would be a real challenge.

I convinced a few of my colleagues to join me, and together we headed into the unknown. Entering the mine requires mandatory protective equipment - a miner’s helmet, a headlamp and suitable footwear. Without a headlamp, you cannot even see where you are stepping. Surprisingly, the temperature inside the mine is around 15°C, so a long-sleeved shirt and a light jacket are more than enough. Gloves are also recommended, although they are not essential.

At the starting line we were completely relaxed, smiling, and above all incredibly curious about what lay ahead. For safety reasons, the organisers sent each team into the mine a few minutes apart, and everything was exceptionally well organised. Roughly every 500 metres, one of the organisers was waiting to explain how to get through the next obstacle. Even though many of them looked impossible at first glance, we eventually managed every single one.

Each obstacle represented a part of a miner’s everyday work in the past. We pushed mining carts along the tracks, crawled through narrow pipes, walked through muddy and slippery tunnels, crossed water obstacles and carried heavy loads. The obstacle that scared me the most, however, was crawling through a narrow pipe. It was the only challenge that made me genuinely doubt myself for a moment.

Of course, the mine also has its own tradition. It is home to Perkmandeljc, the legendary mining dwarf, who traditionally gives every first-time visitor a symbolic tap on the backside with a wooden stick. It is an old miners’ custom that always brings plenty of laughter. Believe it or not, I received my own “initiation” too. Today, it remains one of my funniest memories from Jamatlon.

Just the thought of being deep underground in such an enclosed space frightened me. Even though I was afraid, I went anyway. And it turned out to be an unforgettable experience. Every obstacle, every metre underground and every uncomfortable moment reminded me that courage does not mean being fearless. Courage means taking the next step even when you are afraid.

When I finally stepped back into the daylight, I was soaked, muddy and exhausted. But I didn’t come home with just a medal. I came home with unforgettable memories, countless laughs and yet another reminder that the biggest obstacles are often the ones we create in our own minds. Once you find the courage to take that first step, you realise you are capable of far more than you ever imagined.

One of the first major challenges on my journey was the 64 kilometers “In the Bear’s Footsteps” endurance hike, which I completed on April 21, 2018. It is one of the most demanding endurance hikes in Slovenia. The route stretches for 64 kilometers and includes approximately 2,300 meters of elevation gain. The route takes you through the untouched forests of Kočevje, past abandoned villages, across Mount Rog, along the edge of the Rajhenav Primeval Forest, past Prelesnikova koliševka, and many other remarkable natural landmarks.

This is far more than just a hike. It is a test of endurance, patience, and, above all, of yourself. It is for those who dare to go beyond their limits. Every kilometer forces you into a conversation with your own mind, while the bear paw trail markers guide you all the way to the finish.

Along the route, we reached 6 checkpoints, including the start and the finish. At each one, we stopped for a few minutes to catch our breath, have a snack, refill our water bottles, and, most importantly, gather enough energy for the next section of the trail. At every checkpoint, our control card was stamped as proof that we had completed that part of the route. Around the halfway point, at Žaga Rog, a hot meal was waiting for us. After more than 30 kilometers of walking, that warm meal felt like a well-earned reward and gave us the motivation to keep going. Those short breaks were invaluable. We changed into dry socks because wet feet quickly lead to painful blisters. On a hike like this, you quickly realize that the breaks are just as important as the walking itself. In just a few minutes, you need to drink enough water to stay hydrated, eat something, change into dry socks, and give your body a brief rest. But you cannot stop for too long. Your body cools down quickly, your legs become heavy, and getting back on the trail becomes much harder.

I took on this challenge together with my friends Karin, Tjaša, Mateja, Petra, Gregor and Janko. The evening before the event, we stayed at the cozy Hostel Bearlog in Kočevje. We prepared our gear, checked one last time that we had everything we needed, and then tried to get some sleep. The next morning, 64 kilometers awaited us.

The hike began at 5:00 a.m., in complete darkness. We put on our headlamps and took our first steps. None of us truly knew what lay ahead. At first, we laughed and chatted. Sometimes we walked together, sometimes each of us drifted into our own thoughts.

The trail also led us past the Rajhenavska jelka, the queen of Kočevski Rog and one of the tallest fir trees in Slovenia. Standing 51.5 meters tall, with a circumference of 5 meters, it is estimated to be around 500 years old. It is so magnificent that it is almost impossible to capture the entire tree in a single photograph. Of course, we took the opportunity to stand beneath it for a picture. It felt as though the queen of Rog shared a little of her strength with us.

Soon afterward, we entered Rajhenavski pragozd, one of Slovenia's few remaining untouched primeval forests. Here, humans are not in charge. Nature decides which trees will survive and which will fall. Old trees die, and from their decaying wood, new life emerges. Walking through a forest like this makes you realize how small we are compared to nature - and at the same time, how incredibly resilient nature is, constantly renewing itself.

After the 40-kilometers, the real challenge begins. Bloody blisters appear. Your back aches. Your legs become unbearably heavy. Every downhill step punishes your knees, and your body keeps telling you to stop. At that point, you are no longer walking with your legs. You are walking with your mind. One step at a time. That was when I realized something I have never forgotten. The greatest battle is never in your legs. It is always in your mind.

Each of us has our own way of getting through moments like these. Mine was always the same. Whenever things became unbearable, I stepped away from the group, put on my headphones, and listened to songs that reminded me of beautiful moments in my life. It was as if, for a little while, I drifted somewhere far away. Amazingly, the pain would begin to fade, and my steps would become lighter again. Even today, I believe that everyone has something that gives them strength in their hardest moments. The only challenge is discovering what that is.

We were the last group to reach the finish. In the dark. We started in the dark, and we finished in the dark. So what? We reached the finish line. And that was all that truly mattered.

A year later, on April 20, 2019, I returned to the hike. This time, we knew exactly what awaited us. We were better prepared, and several new frends joined our team. Most importantly, we understood how crucial proper footwear really is. The year before, we had earned ourselves painful blisters that forced us to wear sandals for almost the entire following week. This time, there were far fewer of them. We completed the hike about an hour and a half faster than the previous year, finishing the entire course in 16 hours. But if I’m honest, the greatest victory wasn’t the better time. On a hike like this, time isn’t what matters. Victory is refusing to give up. Victory is reaching the finish line.

Back then, I thought this would be one of the hardest challenges I would ever overcome. I had no idea that far greater challenges were still waiting for me 🦋.

There was a time when I believed I had to conquer every fear. Today I know that I don’t. In 2018, I entered a period of my life in which I constantly set new challenges for myself. It lasted until the moment life brought me to a complete stop. I consciously decided to step outside my comfort zone and face the things that frightened me. I’ve always considered myself a rather cautious person, especially when it came to adrenaline-filled activities. Perhaps that is exactly why I decided it was time to challenge myself.

I wanted to overcome my fears. More than anything, I wanted to prove to myself that I was capable. Looking back today, I often wonder why I felt such a strong need to keep pushing my limits. I no longer search for the answer. What I do know is this.

Every challenge taught me something. Every challenge gave me …

🦋 courage,
🦋 perseverance,
🦋 self-confidence,
🦋 strength.

At the time, I had no idea that I was collecting something far more valuable than medals, photographs, or unforgettable experiences. I was collecting strength. Strength that, years later, I would desperately need in the greatest battle of my life.

The countless climbs up Šmarna Gora taught me that the greatest changes never happen overnight. They happen one step at a time. Perhaps that is why I kept searching for new challenges - ones that pushed me beyond my comfort zone and taught me perseverance, courage, and trust in myself.

Back then, I had no idea that every one of those challenges would become another piece of the mosaic of my life. Each of them gave me something I would need years later more than anything else: the belief that I could make it.

If someone had asked me a few years ago where the discipline and perseverance that carried me through the hardest moments of my illness came from, I would have simply answered, “That’s just the way I am.” Today, I know it wasn’t that simple. Every experience in my life had quietly prepared me for a battle I never knew I would one day have to fight.

One of those stories begins on Šmarna Gora. For many years, it was my second home. Almost every morning, before work, I woke up at five o’clock and climbed to the top to watch the sunrise. It became my ritual. Looking back, I can honestly admit that I wasn’t simply passionate about Šmarna Gora - I was addicted to it. It wasn’t an addiction that harmed me like alcohol or drugs would, but it was still an addiction. The moment something starts dictating your decisions, it is no longer freedom.

I recorded every climb and shared the number on my Instagram Story. Whenever a friend invited me to hike somewhere else, my answer was always the same: “Let’s go to Šmarna Gora instead.” Why? Because I counted only my climbs there. Every hike somewhere else meant one fewer climb and one lower number at the end of the year. When I look back today, I often ask myself: How could I have been so obsessed with numbers? As strange as it may sound, those numbers motivated me. Every new number gave me another reason to get up and climb again the next morning. At the same time, without realizing it, I was motivating others. Even today, friends tell me they started hiking Šmarna Gora because of my early morning Instagram Stories. I’m also sure I got on some people’s nerves - and that’s okay. We will never be liked by everyone. There will always be people cheering for you, and there will always be people who find something to criticize. I’ve learned that their reactions are not my responsibility. That’s their story, not mine.

I even became obsessed with how quickly I could reach the top, always trying to beat my previous time. Today, that feels almost unimaginable. When someone asks me now, “Barbi, how long does it take you to get to the top?” I simply answer, “I have no idea.” And I truly don’t. I don’t care anymore. Today, I walk at my own pace. I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter how quickly you reach the top. What matters is being in nature and enjoying every step along the way. There was one phrase that constantly ran through my mind: “I have to.” I have to go to Šmarna Gora. I have to go to bed early. I have to wake up at five. I have to complete another climb. Back then, I had no idea how often I used those words. Today, I know that “I have to“ is one of the heaviest phrases we can place upon ourselves. Little by little, it stops feeling like freedom and starts feeling like an obligation. The truth is, I don’t really have to do anything. I can wish. I can choose. I can go. But my wishes don’t have to become obligations. The moment you start doing something because you believe you have to, you slowly lose the joy that made you start in the first place. It took me a long time to understand that, but it’s never too late to choose differently. Today, I much prefer saying, “I’d like to go to Šmarna Gora.”

Before my illness, every time I reached the top of Šmarna Gora, it looked almost exactly the same. I reached the top, took a photo of the view, posted an Instagram Story, and immediately headed back down. I never truly stopped. I never sat on a bench. I never simply admired the view. I never took a deep breath. I didn’t know how to be present. Today, everything is different. I no longer set an alarm just so I can be on Šmarna Gora at five in the morning to catch the sunrise. I wake up when my body has had enough sleep. If it’s still early enough, I go. If it isn’t, I simply don’t. When I reach the top, I sit down on a bench. I listen to a short morning meditation. I breathe. I enjoy the moment. I take a photo of the view. After that, I make my way back down. It’s amazing how little had to change - and how completely different it feels. Today, I prefer asking myself what I want, rather than what I have to do. And in that small difference, I found freedom. For years, I believed Šmarna Gora was teaching me perseverance. Today, I know it was teaching me something far more important. It was teaching me how to live - not by the words “I have to,” but by the words “I want to.”

When I found out on December 19, 2024, that something was wrong with my health, I had no idea what lay ahead. But I knew one thing: something had to change. That’s when I decided to make a change. In January 2025, I started eating healthier.

First, I have to admit something. I’ve always eaten a lot, but my biggest problem was my addiction to sweets. So I made a rule for myself. From Monday to Saturday, I didn’t eat a single gram of sugar, except for the natural sugar found in fruit. On Sundays, however, I gave myself complete freedom. That was my day to eat sweets from morning until night. Looking back now, I estimate that I consumed around 10,000 calories on those Sundays. I had those “cheat Sundays“ for more than ten years.

On top of that, for the last three years I had also been doing a 24-hour fast every Monday. I drank nothing but water all day. Looking back today, I often wonder whether those extremes were really a good idea. I don’t know whether they had any impact on my health, but I do know that I would never put my body through those kinds of shocks again. I would never recommend that anyone live in such extremes. Today, I believe that what our bodies need most is balance. Unfortunately, I only learned that lesson through serious illness.

I was a person of extremes. Whenever I committed to something, I went all the way. Only today do I truly understand that real strength lies in balance. A little bit of everything. But... 😊 There’s always a “but.” I decided there would be no more cheat Sundays and no more 24-hour fasts. I started eating six smaller meals a day. That part went quite well, but my biggest challenge - and still is today - is eating small portions. I’ve always been used to eating big portions, so even now I still find myself serving a meal that’s about twice the size it should be. I know that’s not what’s best for my body, so I’m working on it and truly believe that, with time, I’ll replace that oversized meal with a normal-sized one.

In January 2025, I switched to a gluten-free diet and replaced dairy products with plant-based alternatives. After my surgery on May 28, 2025, my way of eating changed even more dramatically. I removed fat, sugar, acidic foods, red meat, seafood, eggs, raw fruit and vegetables, and many other foods from my diet.

But today, I don’t want to focus on what I can’t eat. I’d rather talk about what I can. My plate almost always includes chicken, turkey, or white fish. Alongside them are tofu, zucchini, carrots, pumpkin, spinach, Swiss chard, sweet potatoes, buckwheat groats, quinoa, rice noodles, buckwheat pasta, quinoa pasta, and many other wholesome ingredients. For breakfast, I most often prepare oatmeal, millet porridge, amaranth, tapioca pearls, rice porridge, or chia pudding. And you know what? I genuinely love being in this kitchen.

Of course, the first three months weren’t easy. They were emotionally difficult as well. I didn’t even know 20% of these healthy ingredients, let alone how to turn them into delicious meals. My friend Karin, who has eaten healthy her entire life, helped me tremendously. I also spent countless hours researching, browsing the internet, and learning on my own. Very quickly, I discovered another challenge. The internet is full of healthy recipes, but very few are suitable for people with as many dietary restrictions as mine.

That’s when I set myself a new challenge: every week, I would create at least one new recipe. I cooked. I baked. I tweaked recipes. I tried again. And I have to admit - it became a real joy. Today, I have around one hundred healthy recipes. Some still need improvement because I’m not completely satisfied with them yet, but quite a few are recipes I’m genuinely proud of. Who would have thought that healthy food could be this delicious? I certainly didn’t. Every new recipe is another reminder that limitations don’t have to limit creativity.

At first, I was frightened. It felt like I had so many dietary restrictions that there would hardly be anything left for me to eat. But little by little, I realized something very important. Even within those limitations, something beautiful can be created. Sometimes, something even more beautiful. That’s why I started writing down my recipes, hoping they might help others who find themselves in a similar situation. There are very few recipes online for people living with such strict dietary restrictions. While creating these recipes, I also came up with the name for my kitchen: A Kitchen with Limits, Without Boundaries. I cook with limitations, but I create with heart - without boundaries. For everyone whose body sets limits, but whose heart still seeks flavor. Simple recipes. Personal stories. Gentle food for sensitive bodies.

Perhaps my illness took many things away from me. But at the same time, it opened the door to a world I never knew existed. It gave me a new passion: A Kitchen with Limits, Without Boundaries. And the belief that even the greatest limitations can become the beginning of something beautiful. As my journey continues, I’ll also be creating and sharing the recipes that have become part of my everyday life. I hope they’ll bring inspiration, comfort, and a little more joy to those facing similar challenges.

Before my surgery, my friends each gave me a small symbol of good luck. They entrusted me, for a little while, with something that was precious to them. Some of them even asked me to return it after my surgery. It wasn’t because those objects meant more to them than I did. Quite the opposite. It was their beautiful way of telling me that they believed in me. That they believed I would make it through the surgery, recover, and one day return their treasured memory. Others gave me their little gift forever - as a reminder that I am never alone in life. Every one of these small gifts carries its own story. Together, they represent something far greater to me: the love, support, faith, and hope of the people who stood by my side during the most difficult moments of my life ❤️.

Looking at all these meaningful little gifts made me realize, even more deeply, how many different forms friendship can take. Many people say that you only discover who your true friends are when you become seriously ill. I wouldn’t put it that way, because even before I got sick, I already knew who the people were that I loved and who loved me in return. What my illness did reveal, however, was how differently people respond when someone they deeply care about becomes ill. During my illness, I found myself dividing friendship into three different groups.

The first group is made up of those who are simply there for you. They text. They call. They visit. They don’t search for the perfect words - they are simply present. These are true friends, in both the good times and the bad. To every one of you: thank you ❤️. I will never forget how much strength you gave me during the hardest moments of my life.

Unfortunately, I couldn't include every one of you in this article, but I carry each of you in my heart ❤️. Thank you to everyone who stood by my side during the most difficult moments of my life ❤️.

I gave the second group my own name: “Friends of Convenience.” They stay by your side as long as life is easy and carefree. But when difficult times come, they quietly disappear. I won’t mention any names because there aren’t many of them, but they do exist. And that’s okay. Every person comes into our lives for a reason. Some stay forever, while others are only meant to be part of one chapter. I have no hard feelings toward them. I simply understand that they are no longer part of my story.

Then there is the third group. I call them the quiet, sincere friends. These are the people who genuinely love you but simply don’t know how to approach you. They don’t call. They don’t send a message. Not because they don’t care, but because they’re afraid they’ll say the wrong thing. If you recognize yourself in this group, I want to tell you just one thing. Don’t wait for the perfect words. Don’t overthink what to write. Just send a simple message: “I’m thinking of you.” Call. Even if there are a few moments of silence. Sometimes silence says more than words ever could. I learned this myself. I have a friend whom I love dearly, and I know she loves me too. During my illness, she didn’t call me for almost four months. I often thought about her. I felt sad and kept wondering why she hadn’t reached out. I spoke about it with my psychotherapist, who told me something I’ll never forget: “Don’t wait. Tell her how you feel.” So I called her. I told her I missed her. I told her it had hurt me. I told her I had wished to hear her voice. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t upset with her. I simply shared how I felt. That day, I learned something very important. If someone truly matters to us, we shouldn’t let our ego stand between us. Let’s speak. Let’s call. Let’s hug. Let’s not wait until it’s too late. Friendship isn’t about perfection. Friendship is having the courage to be present. Even when you don’t know what to say.

On the day of my surgery, May 28, 2025, Radio 1’s biggest charity campaign, Deželak Junak, also began. While I was preparing for one of the hardest battles of my life, the team had already started their journey on a quad bike to help children experience a seaside holiday that summer. That day, they sent me videos filled with encouragement. I can’t describe how much those messages meant to me. When life places one of its greatest challenges in front of you, a single thought, a kind word, or a short video can give you incredible strength and hope. Dear team, thank you from the bottom of my heart ❤️. I will always be grateful, and I will never forget your kindness. Gestures like these stay with a person forever.

The day after my surgery, on May 29, 2025, my colleagues attended the Slovenian Marketing Conference. Even though I couldn’t be there with them, they made me feel included through their messages. They sent me group photos, and I was especially touched by a video greeting from Samuel Lucas’s concert. Moments like these remind you that people are thinking about you, even when you’re far away. Dear team, thank you for your incredible support. And thank you, Lukas. 🦋 Kindness like this stays in your heart forever.

If there’s just one thing I’d like everyone to take away from my story, it’s this: don’t wait. Call. Send a message. Visit someone. Don’t search for the perfect words, because they don’t exist. Your attention, your care, and your presence will mean far more to someone fighting the battle of their life than any perfectly crafted sentence ever could. Sometimes a simple “I’m thinking of you” is enough to brighten someone’s day or give them the strength to take one more step forward. And if you truly don’t know what to write, just send a little sun ☀️ or a butterfly 🦋. Even a single symbol can say, “I’m thinking of you.” And sometimes, that means more than a thousand words.

Shock. Adrenaline. Stress. Fear. Sadness. A true roller coaster of emotions. I would say that for most of the time, I was in shock and running on adrenaline. During the first fourteen days after my surgery, I was so heavily medicated that I was barely aware of what was happening to me. I did not even feel the pain to the extent I otherwise would have. That is why I believe the hardest moments may have been even harder for my loved ones than for me. For my mum. For my husband. For my children. I think my mum was the most frightened of all. What could be worse than watching your child become seriously ill? As a mother, I would do anything to take the illness upon myself. To suffer instead of my child. To protect them from fear, pain, and uncertainty. I was the one who got sick. Period. This was my journey. My battle. My test.

My loved ones walked that path with me. Each in their own way. In silence. In worry. In hope. And in the belief that I would come back home.

Throughout my treatment, I often wanted to hear how they felt about my illness. I tried to encourage them to talk, asking what they were going through and how it was affecting them, but they were never particularly talkative. Each of them processed their emotions in their own way. I felt their love mostly through their actions. I believe this period was incredibly difficult for them. That they suffered. That they were afraid. That they felt helpless. At the same time, I believe they never doubted me. They believed I would make it. That I would keep fighting. And that I would return home. Even though they never said it out loud, I could feel it. I could feel their support, their care, and their quiet faith in me. And it was enough. That was when I understood even more deeply that love is not always loud. It often hides in small acts, thoughtful gestures, and moments that most people never even notice.

In the lunch or dinner my husband prepares for me. In all the little things he does that continue to surprise me. In his kindness, his goodness, and his ability to find light even in difficult times. Even when things were at their hardest, he always managed to find a reason to hope. And because of all those actions, I know his love is genuine, even though he does not express it with words. “For better or worse.” He took that promise very seriously. Andro, THANK❤️YOU.

In the hug that needs no words, the hug my Mark gives me. That hug says more than a thousand spoken sentences. Mark always hugs me, and that means the world to me. He knows how to listen. And whenever he takes the time, he can talk to me in a very mature, responsible, and thoughtful way. Mark, THANK❤️YOU.

In Nik’s silent glance, where I can clearly hear the words: “Mum, I’m here.” My younger son Nik tends to keep his emotions to himself. What matters is that I can feel that he cares. That he worries about me. It took him some time to open up and start talking openly about my illness. For a long time, he didn’t really open up to me or talk to me about personal things. Perhaps it helped that he saw how open the relationship between Mark and me was. Slowly, he began to open up as well. Today, we talk often, although Nik never seems to have enough time. That is why I truly value every moment we have together and try to make the most of it. Nikson, THANK❤️YOU.

Mark and Nik. Each is different. Each follows his own path.Yet both have grown into men I am incredibly proud of and love with all my heart.

And then there is my mum. She never talked much about her feelings. Not with me. Not with her friends. But I know there were many tears, much sadness, worry, and fear hidden in her silence. One of the rare moments when she spoke openly about her feelings has stayed with me forever. She said: “Why is this happening to you? It’s not fair.” And then she added that she wished she were the one who was sick, and that I could remain healthy. In that moment, I truly felt how deep and unconditional a mother’s love is. As a mother myself, I would do anything to protect my children from pain, fear, and suffering. Mum, THANK❤️YOU.

Before my illness, I was always on the go. Always somewhere. Always everywhere. My illness stopped me and showed me what truly matters in life. Family. The people who love you. The people who stay by your side when life becomes its hardest. Nothing should be taken for granted. Not health. Not time. Not the people we love. That is why today I feel incredibly rich. Not because of the things I have. Because of the people I have. Rich in love. And it was that love that became one of my greatest strengths during the hardest moments of my life. Love is not perfect. It never was. But it is real. And real love is what keeps you standing when you no longer have the strength to stand on your own.

My psychotherapist prepared me exceptionally well for the illness, the surgery, and the treatment. I am endlessly grateful to him. Through his messages, he motivated me and gave me the feeling that I could do it. Every day, I kept him informed about my condition, and he always knew how to find the right words. Words that lifted me up when I needed them the most. His messages did not help only in the moment when I read them; they continue to give me strength even today when I read them again. And I know I will return to them many more times. Thank you. 🙏🦋

His messages lifted me up when I was at my most vulnerable. That is why I want to share them with you as well. I truly believe that his words, arriving at exactly the right moment, may help someone else just as they helped me. 🙏🦋

“Dear Barbara, I know your days are filled with challenges - both physical and emotional. But there is a strength within you that is greater than you realize. Every breath is a step forward, and every thought of love and life is medicine for both the soul and the body. Recovery is not only a process of healing - it is also a journey back to yourself, to everything that brings you joy, inspires you, and keeps you alive. I believe in you. Move forward courageously - day by day, with faith, gentleness, and hope. Wishing you all the best from the bottom of my heart.” 🙏🦋

“Dear Barbara, thank you for sharing such a personal and deeply moving experience with me. As I read your words, I truly felt it all - your pain, your uncertainty, but also your incredible strength and your ability to remain present through everything that is happening. Your battle is not only physical - it is also deeply human and heartfelt. The fact that you managed to get through the hardest moment, when you did not know whether you would survive, speaks volumes about how courageous and extraordinary you are. I am very glad that the doctors chose a conservative approach and that the antibiotics are showing their first effects. This is a precious victory - every step forward matters. I trust that your body knows how to fight. I also trust your heart - a heart that is already beating with renewed strength. I am keeping my fingers crossed for you. Day by day, breath by breath. With all my respect and warmth.” 🙏🦋

“Dear Barbara, I am happy that the medical team is noticing such good progress and that the new PICC line has made your treatment easier. The blood test results showing improvement are another important step in the right direction - congratulations! I completely understand that you are feeling tired; this is a natural response of a body that is working hard to recover after major surgery. What matters is this: you can do it. Your perseverance, attitude, and inner strength are truly remarkable. We are following your journey with trust and respect. You are not walking this path alone. Warm regards.” 🙏🦋

“Dear Barbara, thank you for sharing such an honest and courageous message with me. In your words, I can feel both exhaustion and hope, pain and determination. There is something very powerful in all of this - as if your body and your spirit are searching together for a new balance. The fact that you have an appetite is a wonderful physiological sign - it means that your body is once again expressing its desire for life. The fact that the fluid around your liver has already thickened is also proof that your body is working at full strength, quietly and behind the scenes - like nature healing long before the mind can fully understand it. I understand that the presence of fluid between your stomach and intestines is a new concern. And it is right for concern to be present - not as fear, but as awareness. At the same time, I believe that every hour in which the situation does not worsen is working in your favor. The antibiotics, your inner strength, and the sense of calm you are able to find despite everything - together they form a line of defense. Your body knows more than it seems. Your courage speaks even when you are resting. And your faith - the one that says, ‘I believe it will settle down on its own’ - is already part of the healing process. If your body could write, perhaps today it would say: ‘I know I am tired. But I am still here. And I am still fighting - not for victory, but for the life I can still feel, even when it hurts.’ I return your embrace with warmth, respect, and patience. When you are ready, I am here. At a safe distance, yet fully present. With you.” 🙏🦋

On the fourteenth day after surgery, I was at my lowest point emotionally. All afternoon, all evening, and late into the night, I was struggling with myself. Just as tears were running down my face, I received a text message late that evening. It was him. My psychotherapist. The person who knew how to lift me up even when I could no longer find the strength within myself. A short message that arrived at exactly the right moment:

“Barbara, it will be okay.”

How incredible. How did he know that I wasn’t okay? Many people would not believe it. I believed it then, and I still believe it today. He felt my pain. Of course, I told him about my day, and I received this reply:

“Dear Barbara, although some might call it coincidence or intuition, I believe there are moments when people - especially when they are genuinely connected and open - simply sense each other. Your restlessness that evening did not go unnoticed because you are more than just a patient. You are a person with an extraordinary presence, even when you are silent. Congratulations on today’s step forward - 16 fewer staples, but so much more courage. You deserve to go home. It is good that you are able to feel happiness simply because you are alive. At the same time, I completely understand your fear - when the physical battle begins to settle, moments of silence, reflection, and questions without simple answers often appear. Your strength does not lie in always being okay, but in knowing when you need the support and closeness of others. And you have already done that. With respect and warmth.” 🙏🦋

“Dear Barbara, thank you for your message and for the photograph, which - despite the difficult circumstances - reflects strength and light. I am glad that you are home; this is an important step forward. I also completely understand the slight anxiety that comes with leaving the safe, sterile environment of the hospital. Your caution is wise and entirely justified. The antibiotics, the masks, and the quiet that you are now consciously choosing are all part of your support system during this delicate transition. The peace that feels right for you at the moment is not an escape - it is part of the healing process. I am glad to hear that you will reach out when the time feels right. Until then, move gently forward, breath by breath, trusting your own body. A warm embrace.” 🙏🦋

“Dear Barbara, good morning 😊 Thank you for your message and for the wonderful news. I am truly happy that the test results are good and that you are now recovering at home. This is a significant step forward. As you said, your body grows a little stronger every day - and the same will happen with your mind and emotions. Allow yourself to feel whatever comes … even sadness has its purpose and its place after such an experience. It is not a sign of weakness, but of depth and humanity. Take in the peace and rest that Umag offers. The fresh air, the sea, and kindness toward yourself - all of these are healing. Enjoy your own rhythm, and we will stay in touch. Sincerely yours.” 🙏🦋

On the thirteenth day after surgery, my blood was tested again. The results were better than the day before, which was great news. My CRP had dropped to 70, falling below 100 for the first time since the operation. Its highest value had been 397 on the third day after surgery. Every day, I received blood-thinning injections, stomach medication, antibiotics every six hours, and pain medication. On the fourteenth day after surgery, I was told that I would be allowed to go home on Friday, June 13, 2025. Yes, Friday the 13th. That afternoon and evening were emotionally difficult for me. My mind was filled with endless thoughts. I felt sad. I finally fell asleep at 12:30 a.m., after waiting for my last nighttime dose of antibiotics.

On the fifteenth day after surgery, they removed 16 staples and one stitch. At first, I was quite shocked. How is it that they don’t stitch the wound, but instead close it with staples? To put it simply, it felt like they had “stapled” me together. It sounded rather brutal. Most of us are used to stitches, not staples. Looking back now, however, I believe it was the best solution for proper healing and the best possible outcome for the scar. I admit that I was afraid of the day the staples would be removed. Yet once again, it proved how often we worry about things unnecessarily. This fear turned out to be completely pointless. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt at all. Honestly, removing a bandage hurts more.

On Friday, June 13, 2025, the sixteenth day after surgery, I finally went home at 1:13 p.m. It was only temporary, for a few trial days. I had to return to my hospital room on Wednesday, June 18, 2025, at 7:30 a.m. for the final tests. Everything was fine, and on June 18, 2025, I was finally discharged home for good. In total, I spent 23 days in the hospital, although I was allowed home for a few days in between. Happy. Grateful.

When I walked through the hospital doors that Friday at 1:13 p.m., I was happy. Not because everything was over. Far from it. More check-ups, tests, and a long recovery still lay ahead. But I was happy because, after all the complications, fears, pain, and sleepless nights, I was finally going home. To my home. To my husband ❤️ and my sons 💙💙, who stood by my side the entire time and gave me strength when I needed it most. When you feel the love of those closest to you, it gives you incredible strength to keep fighting.

At that moment, I had no idea how long my recovery journey would still be. I only knew one thing – I had made it through the hardest part. And for that, I was deeply grateful. That day, I walked out of the hospital as a winner.

On the eleventh day after surgery (Sunday, June 8, 2025), my hairdresser Mateja came to visit me in the hospital to take care of my hair. I immediately felt better. It is incredible how something so simple can have such a powerful effect on your mood. All it took was freshly washed and styled hair, and I felt reborn. With new energy. New strength. A more positive mindset. I was incredibly grateful to Mateja. It is not something you can take for granted - that a hairdresser would come to the hospital on a Sunday, her day off, just to make you feel better and bring a smile to your face. But Mateja did that for me. And I will never forget it. At that point, I was completely helpless. I could not even shower by myself. Mateja washed my hair, did my hairstyle, and brightened my day far more than she probably realized. It’s amazing how much better you feel when you feel good about yourself - especially when you are struggling and in pain.

When I think back on all those details today, I cannot help but laugh😂. How on earth did we pull it off? A nurse brought a special shower chair to my room, the kind patients use to shower while seated. At that moment, it was priceless. I was sitting completely naked on that chair in the shower while Mateja washed my hair. It did not take long before she realized she was going to get soaked, so she ended up undressing as well and staying in her underwear. Even now, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if a nurse or a doctor had walked into the room at that exact moment. They would have seen a naked patient and her friend standing there in her underwear. A sight they probably would never have forgotten. Meanwhile, the two of us were simply trying to make things a little easier. And although I was sick and exhausted, that moment was actually quite funny. Most of all, it was unforgettable. Mateja, thank you. From the bottom of my heart 🙏.

The next day (Monday, June 9, 2025), at 6:00 p.m., Nika came to do my nails. At that point, I finally felt refreshed and more like myself again. I was already able to shower by myself. Mateja had taken care of my hair, and Nika took care of my nails. I felt fresh again. I am deeply grateful to Nika as well. She took time out of her day and came to the hospital simply to cheer me up and brighten my day. Those who know me well, know how important my hair and nails have always been to me. That is why Nika’s gesture meant so much. Nika, thank you too 🙏. For taking your privat time for me. For your kindness. And for putting a smile back on my face during one of the hardest periods of my life.

Many people probably wondered what was going on with me. There I was, seriously ill, not knowing what would happen next, and still thinking about my hair, my nails, and my appearance. Yes, exactly. Looking after my appearance has always been important to me, even while lying in a hospital bed. The only thing that mattered was that it made me feel better. And that is all that really counts. Especially in moments like those. 🦋

On the ninth day after surgery, I took my first shower by myself. I was full of hope because I was supposed to finally go home that day. I had packed all my things and was ready to leave. All that was left was my daily blood test and “one final” abdominal ultrasound. Then I would be on my way home. Unfortunately, things did not go as planned. My excitement didn’t last long. Another shock. More bad results. My blood tests had been improving day by day, and both previous ultrasounds had looked perfectly fine. But… yes, that “but” again. This time, the ultrasound was not good. A significant amount of fluid had accumulated in my abdominal cavity - pancreatic fluid and blood. My blood results were slightly worse than before. As a result, I had to extend my stay in the hospital. I had to wait another day or two while the doctors checked what was happening with the fluid that had leaked into my abdominal cavity. They hoped the new antibiotics would stop the leakage of pancreatic fluid and blood. I hoped for the same outcome. The doctor explained that if the leakage did not stop with antibiotics, they would have to operate on me again. That was something I truly did not want. I could not even imagine whether my body would be strong enough to go through another surgery.

On the tenth and eleventh days after surgery, I started experiencing stomach pain. It was not surprising, considering how many medications I was taking while barely eating. Me - someone who loves food - had absolutely no appetite. But for my condition, that was completely normal. I knew I would have to force myself to eat. My body needed fuel to keep fighting. The body needs food.

On the twelfth day after surgery, June 9, 2025, I had my appetite for the second day in a row. That was a very encouraging sign that I was starting to feel a little better. That I still had the will to keep going. At 9:00 a.m., I was taken for a contrast-enhanced CT scan of my abdominal organs. Once again, I had to fast. Unfortunately, the CT scan showed even more leakage of pancreatic fluid and blood throughout my abdominal cavity. At 4:00 p.m., I was urgently taken to the operating room for a puncture procedure. They inserted a tube and tried to drain the fluid that had collected around my liver. But there was no fluid left. It had already turned into what the doctors called “jam” - thickened material that had begun to dry out. That was actually a very good sign because it meant the bleeding in that area had stopped and there was no longer a risk of further leakage there. Great news. But the story was far from over.

We were facing another, even bigger challenge. A collection of fluid between my stomach and intestines. The fluid was located in such a difficult position that they could not safely reach it with a tube because they risked puncturing the intestines. The consequences could have been extremely serious - it could have led to sepsis and posed a major threat to my survival. The doctors decided to give the new antibiotics another two to three days to see whether they could stop the leakage. If the amount of fluid increased, they would have to operate again and reopen my abdomen. That was the worst possible scenario. So all of us hoped that the antibiotics would do their job and stop the leakage.

At that point, I did not know whether the antibiotics would work. I did not know whether my body was finally calming down or preparing for another surgery. I knew only one thing - once again, I would have to wait. And hope for the best … 🦋

On the sixth day after surgery, I finally started feeling a little better. My test results were improving every day, and so was my overall condition. That day, they had to perform another abdominal ultrasound, and thankfully the results were fine. They also removed the drain from my abdomen. A drain is a medical tube temporarily left inside the body after surgery to remove blood, fluid, and infection from the operated area. It helps reduce the risk of internal infections and complications while allowing doctors to monitor whether the wound is healing properly. The tube can be 20 to 40 centimeters long - one part was deep inside my abdominal cavity, while the other exited through my skin. I had the chance to watch them removing drains from other patients while I was there, and with some of them it looked very painful and uncomfortable. I don’t know whether it would have been better if I hadn’t seen it beforehand, because maybe I would have been less afraid. But I didn’t have a choice. When they pulled it out, it felt like it would never end. The sensation was strange and very uncomfortable, but it was almost painless. That day, everything was moving in a positive direction until around 5:00 PM. Then the fever and feeling of unwellness returned again, lasting throughout the night and into the morning.

On the seventh day after surgery, my emotional state was very bad. I was extremely emotional and completely exhausted. They drew several more tubes of blood. My friend Tamy came to see me, showered me, and washed my hair. I was grateful that she came and took care of me. I immediately felt better afterward.

On the eighth day after surgery, I was told that I would most likely be able to go home the following day. That day became one of the most beautiful days of my life. My surgeon gave me the best possible news. Before I continue, I’d first like to make a short introduction … I have always been - and I probably always will be - an exception. Somehow, my life always happens in those tiny percentages. Let me explain. When they tested my tumor markers through blood work, I was among the 10% whose blood showed nothing abnormal. When I had MRI and PET/CT scans, nothing was visible - the tumor had hidden itself so well that it could not be detected. Before and after surgery, doctors - from the radiologist to my surgeon and the medical board - were 100% convinced that I had a malignant tumor. The chances that the final pathology would prove otherwise were only around 5%. And then… A miracle happened. I was part of those 5%. Against all odds, the tumor turned out to be benign. One of the rarest and best possible outcomes. That meant no chemotherapy, no radiation, no additional treatments. They removed everything. I cannot even describe the feeling of relief and gratitude. All the nurses at the hospital kept telling me that I was a miracle. And yes … I truly am a miracle. 🦋

That evening, I fell asleep believing the hardest part was finally behind me. But I had no idea that my body was about to face another major challenge … 🦋

On the fourth day after surgery, late in the afternoon, I was transferred from the intensive care unit to a regular hospital ward, room number 10, where I shared the room with a young girl who had who had surgery for appendicitis. The fact that I was able to leave intensive care was a sign that my condition was slowly starting to improve. At six in the morning, they removed the third IV line from my left arm because my arm had become completely swollen and hardened from all the aggressive medications and fluids being administered directly into my veins. I had constant problems with IV lines and my veins throughout this period. The IVs kept failing, my arms were swollen and painful, and finding a usable vein was becoming harder and harder. I could see that the nurses genuinely felt sorry for me as they looked at my arms and searched for another vein where they could still place a line. In the end, they inserted a new IV into my right arm. The fever still persisted, so they kept lowering it with antibiotics and medication. I was fighting. I was completely exhausted, but I still believed things would soon get better. Most of the time I simply slept - all day and all night. Meanwhile, my body was fighting with everything it had. That day, I was more exhausted than ever before. The surgeon told me it had been one of the more difficult surgeries and that I was doing very well. That I was fighting incredibly hard.

On the fifth day after surgery, my roommate went home, and I was moved into a premium private room where I stayed alone. Alone in my room. With my own bathroom. My own toilet. My own television. I had my peace. And in those moments, that peace meant everything. I was deeply grateful to my surgeon for arranging the private room I had asked for before surgery. That morning, I woke up even more exhausted than the day before. I still slept most of the time because my body was completely drained from the constant battle. The fever kept returning, and during the night they had to change my bed sheets twice because I was sweating so heavily. Since my veins were already severely damaged, they took me to the operating room where they inserted a PICC line - a peripherally inserted central catheter for safer medication administration and blood draws. That day, for the first time, my blood results were significantly better. They added potassium, while the other values had become much more stable considering my condition. My ability to speak was almost nonexistent. I never imagined that even speaking could become so exhausting. But slowly, I started making progress. Very slowly, step by step, but things were improving - and that was the most important thing. I was completely exhausted, which was understandable after everything my body had been through, but I still believed I would make it. I believed - and I still believe - that in the end, I will be the winner. Richer because of the experience. Calmer within myself and within my heart. Stronger than ever before. More determined to live life my own way, to listen to my body, and to follow my feelings. And above all, more grateful. Grateful that I am still here. Grateful for every new day. That day, I believed I had finally turned the hardest corner. What I did not know was that my body would soon be faced with another major challenge… 🦋

Today my father would have turned 80 years old. That is why I decided to publish this post connected to him today. His strictness became my strength. Today I can thank my father for making me who I am. The way he raised me shaped me into a strong woman - much stronger than most people. How would I describe myself? Strong. A devoted mother. Ambitious. Hardworking. Demanding. Efficient. Systematic. Disciplined. Brave. I dislike superficiality. Positive-minded. Full of life energy. Stubborn. Emotionally stable. Determined. Punctual. Persistent. For a long time, I felt anger toward him because of the strict, almost military way he raised me. But today, when I look back, I am grateful to him. I would not be who I am if I had not gone through my father’s tough hand while growing up. It feels as though he already knew back then that he had to prepare me for the difficult and demanding life battle that would eventually come. Today I understand that it was not only what I went through that shaped me, but what I chose to take from it. Through his strictness, my father taught me discipline, responsibility, persistence, and the strength to survive. I carry all of that within me today - as a gift I could not recognize in my youth, but deeply value now. Without him, I would not be the woman I am today.

My discipline is the strongest gift I received from my father. His strictness, precision, demands, and rules shaped me into a woman who knows how to stand tall in the hardest moments. From him I learned that things must be finished, that you begin exactly when you are supposed to, that you do not give up after the first, second, or tenth challenge, that order brings peace, and organization creates safety. Discipline is not foreign to me - it is part of me. It is the way I live, the way I work, the way I care for my body, my nutrition, and my healing. When things were hardest, when I had no energy left, when I was scared and helpless, it was discipline that kept me above water. It is that inner strength that activates on its own in critical moments, as if somewhere deep inside me I could hear my father’s voice saying: “You can do this. Keep going. Stay in rhythm. Don’t give up.” And I kept going. That is why I can honestly say: discipline is not something I have. Discipline is something I am.

My systematic nature is something that has followed me my entire life. Something that is part of my way of thinking, my sense of order, my way of functioning. From childhood, I was used to clear rules and responsibilities. With my father, there was no improvisation - something was either done or it was not. And that strict, precise approach taught me that order brings security, while having control over things brings peace. Later in life, this quality only became stronger. Motherhood with two small children, relationship challenges, and career responsibilities - all of it forces you to become extremely organized and always one step ahead. My systematic nature allows me to have control over my life, my treatment, my nutrition, and my goals. It is the reason I do not get lost in chaos, but instead know how to turn it into a clear plan. It is the reason I successfully lead, solve problems, and accomplish the things I set my mind to. My systematic nature is not just a habit. It is my way of maintaining balance, stability, and peace - especially now, when my body reminds me every single day how important it is to know how to take care of myself.

My courage is not something I was born with. It is something that was built through experience after experience. My father’s strictness gave me inner strength, taught me how to withstand pressure, and gave me the ability to handle more than most people. Motherhood gave me an additional kind of fearlessness. My illness, however, taught me what true courage really is - continuing despite the presence of fear. My courage is moving forward even when I do not know how. To keep fighting. To believe.

My strength is the greatest gift my father gave me - although for a long time I did not understand it. He did not teach me softness. He did not teach me gentleness or surrender. He taught me toughness. He taught me how to get back up. How to hold myself together. How to survive even when life becomes difficult. And it was from that toughness that my strength was born. My strength is that I never surrender to despair. That I accept what is and do the best I can. My strength is persistence. My strength is rising, not falling. It is the decision to keep moving forward when many others would stop.

My determination is part of my character - by nature I am strong and goal-oriented. But it was also shaped by experiences that forced me to act quickly and clearly. During my childhood. When I became a mother. When I led teams. When I had to make difficult decisions. Once I decide something, once I feel something, once I set my mind on something - I follow through. No half measures. No excuses. My determination is the part of me that makes sure I do not stand still, but continue growing. In recent months, I chose to take control of everything and completely change my way of life because of my illness.

My persistence is the deepest mark my father left in me. He never gave up. And neither do I. My persistence is the thread running through my entire life that nothing has ever managed to break: not pressure, not doubt, not illness, not loss, not exhaustion. When I fall, I get back up. When life shakes me, I rebuild myself. When life tests me, I go through it. Persistence is the reason I survived things many people would not have. It is the reason that after every fall, I am still here - stronger, calmer, and more connected to myself. Because of persistence, I am today a woman who knows how to stand tall - no matter what is happening around me.

When I look at all my qualities today, it is more than clear that my father is the person who shaped me the most. His “school of life” was not easy, but it was priceless. Back then, I did not understand. Today, I do. From his strictness grew my strength. From his rules, my discipline. From his toughness, my courage. From all of that - me. I realized that my father shaped me far more than I wanted as a child - and far more than I was willing to admit as an adult. But because of his school of life, I am today a woman who knows how to stand, survive, lead, and rise again and again. And that is the greatest gift he could have given me - a gift I am only now truly beginning to understand.

Dad, my strength carries your name. GRATEFUL. 🦋

A long vertical scar now stretched from my chest down to my belly button. It was closed with staples. I also had a drain coming out of my abdomen, through which blood and pancreatic fluids were draining. I had a urinary catheter as well, because for the first three days I could not get out of bed at all. On the first day after surgery, I was still completely dizzy and drugged from all the medication. I barely felt any pain. I slept through most of the day and night. Even when I was awake, I was not fully aware of everything happening around me. And maybe that was actually a good thing. My body was resting. Fighting. Everything flowing through my veins kept me free from pain. But then Friday came - the second day after surgery. I was still weak and dizzy, but at 6:30 PM my fever suddenly rose to 38.6°C. I immediately knew something was wrong. The doctors and nurses reacted right away. They took four bottles of blood for microbiological testing and started searching for the cause of the infection. Those were very difficult hours. For the first time after surgery, I truly became scared. Scared that I might not survive. I did not know what was happening inside my body or what would come next. They gave me antibiotics directly into my vein to reduce the fever and calm the inflammation. Around 9 PM, the fever finally dropped, but then a new kind of waiting began. Waiting for the morning. For the results. For the doctors’ decision. On the third day after surgery, early in the morning, they performed an abdominal ultrasound. The ultrasound itself did not look catastrophic, but my blood results were quite bad. Until 4 PM, I waited to hear whether they would operate on me again or first try treating me with stronger antibiotics. Those were hours of complete uncertainty. I was completely exhausted and could not even imagine how I would find the strength for another surgery. Then finally came the decision - they would first try stronger antibiotics. For the first time in a long while, I truly felt relief. Deep inside, I just hoped the antibiotics would work. Every single day they checked my blood. Every single day I waited in fear for new results. Those days were no longer just recovery after surgery. It had become a fight for my life … 🦋

Wednesday, May 28, 2025. My second day in the hospital. Surgery day. Adrenaline. In the morning, they told me they would take another lady into surgery before me because her operation was expected to last only about an hour. Then they would come for me. While waiting, I felt the need to write my thoughts and wishes down on paper. In that moment, I was manifesting my victory. Manifesting life.

On one side of the paper, I wrote:

Barbi … everything will be okay!
I am strong.
I will win.
I will fight with everything I have.
I love life.
I still have so much left to experience.
It will be a hard battle.
But Barbi can do this.
In the end, I win.

On the other side of the paper, I wrote:

The surgery will be successful.
The alien will be successfully removed.
It is not and will not go anywhere else.
Only out of my body.
I will fight for myself every single day … step by step.
Universe, please, take it back.
I already have enough friends, I do not need a new one.
Please. Thanks. B.🦋

When I look at that handwritten paper today, I remember how calm I felt while writing those words down. In that moment, I truly believed that everything I had written would come true. Those words gave me a sense of peace. A feeling that, in the end, everything would somehow be okay.

Of course, it didn’t go without complications. About half an hour before surgery, a nurse came in and told me I had to remove every single earring from my ears. I had eight of them - the kind we simply could not unscrew ourselves. In the end, they had to call the firefighters. Two firefighters came. They managed to save and unscrew two earrings, but the other six had to be cut off using cutters and tweezers. Even today, I still cannot believe that firefighters were standing in my hospital room before surgery, cutting earrings out of my ears. In the end, we solved that “challenge” too, and then they took me down to the operating room on the first floor. Normally, I should have removed my nail polish as well, but I managed to keep it because the surgeon had already arranged it with the staff the day before after my request. The surgery lasted approximately five hours. They started around 9:30 AM and finished around 2:30 PM. After the surgery, they took me to the intensive care unit on the third floor, where there were five of us. I was completely dizzy and drugged from the anesthesia and medication, so I did not really feel the pain yet. They removed three quarters of my pancreas, my entire spleen, and part of my liver … 🦋