Storytelling and Finding Our WHY

Recently, I had the joy of leading a personal storytelling workshop, within a circle of young women and university students, each carrying within them whole worlds waiting to be spoken. As I prepared to guide them through the visual languages of collage, movement, and film, I felt something stir deeply within me.

Beyond technique, beyond structure, I felt called to ask the big, tender question:

Why?

Why do we tell stories at all? Why do certain stories ache to be told while others remain in shadow? Where does this urge come from—need to speak, to share, to be heard?

I have asked myself these same questions many times, often in the quiet after creating—after pouring myself into words, into film, into canvas, or into the rhythm of my moving body. Time and time again, I return to the same truth:

My first need to tell stories came from a longing to release, to empower, and to heal.

My First Big "WHY"

I remember the moment I stepped into the world with my own story—a short documentary film about my family and the legacy of war in Bosnia. It was the first time I spoke to my mother in that way. It was also the last. She passed just a few months later. And in that tender window, the film became both an opening and a goodbye.

It was my first public offering, my first gesture of truth into the world, where I laid some of my deepest vulnerabilities. In doing so, I also created dialogue—with others, yes—but more deeply, with myself. That film now lives as one of my most sacred memories. A mirror to a past that shaped me, and a seed planted for my future.

Still image from the film "Personal Semiotics of War" (2011)

I finished it just before my son was born. So why did I make that film?

Because something inside me was brimming, full, waiting for breath. Because I had been holding space for other women to speak. I felt an ethical pull to contribute—to pour my story into the pool of stories. To say: I was here. I felt. I remembered. I survived.

My big WHY came from a need to release, to share, and to heal.

It came from a yearning to reclaim forgotten parts of myself. It came from daring to be seen and yearning to be heard.

We Tell Stories to Connect

As I held these questions in my mind, so too did the young women in my workshop. Slowly, softly, they began to answer. One by one, their stories unfolded— words become voiced, feelings merged into papers, images, colors, and shapes.

Again and again, I heard them echo the need for connection—for belonging. To tell a story is to build a bridge. To extend a hand. To say, “You are not alone.”

Some told stories to offer hope, others to offer truth. Many simply to be seen. And in that sacred space, where words met witness, we saw how storytelling becomes a form of communion. We dove deep. Into loss. Into grief. Into betrayal. Into joy. Into quiet happiness and unspoken strength.

I found myself in each story—as if my soul was being reflected back to me in every image, every phrase. In a video collage about grief, I saw my own longing. In a poetic piece about fear, I recognized my own quiet bravery. In words about betrayal, I felt the ache—and the strength—of healing.

Stories create sacred spaces

There is magic in storytelling—a kind that cannot be forced, only invited. And when it arrives, it transforms the air between us. We created a sanctuary that day, not with walls or rules, but with trust. We let ourselves be vulnerable. We made room for each other. We were brave enough to tell the truth. And in that truth, we came home—to ourselves, and to one another.

The Big Why Is Always From The Heart

The question of why is not one with a single answer. It bends and shifts with time. It wears many faces. But one thing I believe with all my heart is this: Our big WHY always comes from the heart.

From the depths of who we are. From the places where our wounds have become wisdom, and our memories have become maps. So we keep telling stories. We keep listening. We keep finding our way back to ourselves.

To give voice to that WHY—to share it—is one of the most courageous and intimate acts we can do.