Your decision to stay celibate feels like a quiet rebellion against a world that often equates worth with sexual activity. I read it and thought of my own path, a road that has been tangled with war, love, and the longing for connection across borders that were once drawn in blood.
I grew up Serbian, watching the Yugoslav wars tear families and neighborhoods, learning early that intimacy can be both weapon and balm. During those years I met a Croatian woman on an online dating site; we exchanged letters that stretched across the map like a lifeline, each message a small prayer for peace. Her words were gentle, full of hope, and for a while I felt a bridge forming between two peoples taught to fear each other. Yet fear lingered in my heart, a hesitation born from the sounds of artillery that echoed in my childhood. I hesitated to meet, worried the world outside our screens was not ready for our fragile trust. The correspondence faded, not because love died, but because history’s weight pressed too hard on our shoulders.
Later, in Chicago, I met a Bosnian Muslim woman at a community gathering. She smiled, and the city’s skyline seemed to promise a new beginning. We talked about music, food, and how the Danube reminded us of home. Our conversation was easy, as if the war had never existed, and for a few weeks we shared coffee and stories that stitched our separate scars. Then she stopped responding. I later learned her family, still rooted in old prejudices, could not accept a relationship that crossed ethnic lines. The pain was sharp, but I felt gratitude for the brief window of understanding we created, a reminder that even amid division humanity can still reach out.
These experiences taught me that intimacy is not only physical; it is also the willingness to see another person’s humanity, to listen without judgment, and to allow vulnerability to flow. Choosing celibacy, for you, may be a way to protect that inner space, to keep it clear of expectations that can cloud the heart. It can be a meditation, a pause that lets you hear the softer whispers of your own spirit, much like the quiet moments I found when writing letters across war‑torn borders.
I do not see your path as an abandonment of love, but as a different form of love—love for yourself, for your own growth, for the world that will one day need your calm presence. When the time feels right, you may find that the connections you once feared will appear in ways you cannot predict, perhaps through a shared prayer, a simple smile, or a handwritten note. Until then, honor the stillness, let it nurture you, and know that you are not alone in choosing a quieter route.
With warm thoughts and a heartfelt pozdrav, I send you my best wishes across the distance, hoping that peace settles in your heart as it did, slowly, in mine today.
