MELTEM ARIKAN

  Türkçesi Aşağıda 👇 "One minute." In preschool: "Son, you need to put your shoes on." One minute. In secondary school: "Hurry up, the bus is here, you need to leave!" One minute. In sixth form: "Dinner is ready, we're waiting for you." One minute. As a thirty-year-old man: "Your coffee is getting cold." One minute. In our house, a "minute" is not a unit of time. It is certainly not sixty seconds. It is a concept. A vibe. It's a vague, flickering promise sent from another galaxy, much like a train cancelled due to a "signalling failure", that never actually arrives. I used to go into full "Come on, come on, for heaven's sake, HURRY UP!" mode. My AuDHD (Autism + ADHD) brain and my son's PDA brain are essentially two different types of chaos trying to occupy the same hallway. During these "one-minute" standoffs, my patience would melt faster than a dropped ice cream in the summer su...

  Türkçe'si aşağıda👇 Carl Jung said: “Wounded healers bring deeper empathy, patience, and acceptance to their clients.” I didn’t just learn this, I lived it. Through collapse. Rebirth. Silent cries. I met trauma not in theory, but in raw, unrelenting life. And I learned: Transformation doesn’t come from knowledge. It comes from being seen. From connection. From surrender. From deep listening to the self. There’s no single method. No fixed map. We are all different, and we all need different paths back to ourselves. No one else can walk your road. You are not here to fix or carry others either. Healing isn’t about handing over your power, It’s about standing fully in yourself, without waiting to be saved. Don’t give your will to anyone.  Because no one can rescue you. No one holds the key to your becoming. And the moment you stop outsourcing your truth is the moment your absolute path begins. I’ve learned this the hardest way. My life has been cracked open and rebuilt...

  Türkçesi Aşagıda👇 I’ve always felt different. Too much. Too intense. Too easily overwhelmed. Knows too much but believes too easily. My existence has always been a chain of contradictions. I was born into chaos and silence in Turkey. At five, a car crash shattered my family. My mother never came home. Grief arrived early, and never really left.  It learned to live in me, quietly. I wrote to make the world bearable and to wrap words around the ache, to bring order to the noise. But I still didn’t belong. They called me sharp-tongued, dangerous, unruly. One of my books was banned. I was judged, criticised, and reduced. So I masked. I doubted myself. I learned to disappear while appearing strong. No matter how much I created, something kept pressing in, like I was made of static in a world that only accepts silence and smoothness. In 2013, my absurdist play Mi Minor,  a mirror held up to imagined power, became the target of a hate campaign. They said I inspired ...