As I approached my 60th birthday, I took a moment to look back and reflect briefly on the meaning of my life.
I was only 18 when I first came face to face with death. At the beginning of my second year in the Management Engineering Faculty of Istanbul Technical University. We were taking classes on the Ayazağa campus, which in the 1980s was still on the outskirts of Istanbul. The faculty had not yet moved to Maçka, the vibrant heart of the city.
One day, as I was crossing the street, a minibus hit me. I tumbled three or four meters, and my friends rushed me from one hospital to another until finally a state hospital agreed to admit me.
When I opened my eyes in the emergency room of the hospital around midnight, I could not remember the previous eight hours. My mother was standing over me with tears in her eyes, and next to her was our beloved family doctor, “Murat Amca ” Dr. Murat Dilmener.
It was past midnight.
The good news: apart from a few small fractures, I was physically fine.
The bad news: I might have internal bleeding — in short, I could die.
They would monitor my reactions until morning. Murat Amca, with his comforting smile, told me I must not fall asleep and then left.
If I died, what story would I leave behind?
That night, I came face to face with a feeling I barely recognized: fear.
Not the fear of death itself, but something far more unsettling; the fear of leaving this world without a story worth telling.
Eighteen years of life did not add up to a meaningful story. I had no extraordinary talent, I was not particularly brilliant. I had some qualities I could not yet name, but without developing them, no real outcome was possible.
And yet I had dreams bigger than myself.
My mother imagined that I would become a teacher and contribute to society. I resisted this idea from the beginning — I believed I could do more than a single teacher could. I had chosen Management Engineering consciously. I thought I could become a successful businesswoman.
I dreamed of building and leading Turkey’s first true global brand ; a name that could travel across borders, earn foreign currency, and carry the country’s ambition with it. These were not unusual dreams for someone shaped by the Özal era: a time when Turkey first tasted economic liberalization, when borders felt as if they were opening, when young people like me were encouraged to believe that entrepreneurship, global integration, and bold economic reforms could change not only our own futures, but the future of the country itself.
The military coup of September 12, 1980 — which unfolded when I was just fifteen — cast a long shadow over our entire generation. Overnight, political life was crushed; parties were dissolved, freedoms were suspended, and an atmosphere of fear seeped into schools, homes, and public squares.
Yet even in that apolitical vacuum, we carried something quietly defiant within us. We were, in our own way, gentle romantics — young people who dreamed of a more open, peaceful, and democratic Turkey.
We watched with heavy hearts as the Iran–Iraq War raged just across our border and the civil war tore Lebanon apart. These conflicts were more than distant headlines; they shaped the emotional landscape of our adolescence, reminding us how fragile life in our region could be. Even then, I found myself wondering whether the cycle of violence was inevitable — or whether wiser, braver political choices could break it.
In a world divided into two rigid blocs, where every crisis felt like an extension of a global standoff, I nurtured a quiet conviction: that our region deserved more than perpetual tension, and that peace — true, lasting peace — was something we could imagine, build, and someday offer to the world.
To chase any of these dreams, I first had to make it through that night; to quite literally stay alive long enough to claim the future I imagined for myself.
From that moment on, my fear was no longer death itself — it was the fear of passing through this world without leaving a story behind.
Life Projection
Lying in that emergency room, I sketched the first rough outline of my future. I imagined life unfolding in three stages:
• In my twenties, I would ground myself with a solid education and take my first steps into professional life.
• In my thirties, I would work hard, stand on my own feet, and earn my living.
• And after my forties, I would turn outward — to society, to the world — hoping to serve something larger than myself.
At eighteen, it is almost impossible to imagine life beyond fifty.
Yet remarkably, life followed the plan I had drawn that night.
I completed university and went on to earn my master’s degree in the United State. I received an excellent education. I began my career in Russia, returned home, and continued at senior levels of the professional world.
I founded and expanded my own company, keeping my father’s entrepreneurial advice close to heart. I built international partnerships and developed brands that carried my signature.
But by my mid-thirties, a quiet realization settled in: the story I dreamed of at eighteen could not be written through business success alone.
Great Loves Are Found While Chasing Great Dreams
That night, love and marriage were not on my mind. For an eighteen-year-old girl of that era, it might seem unusual not to dream of romance or family. I trusted those things would come in their own time. First, I wanted to grow myself to become someone who could love deeply, wisely, and freely.
I believed great loves find us while we are chasing great dreams. And so it happened.
While pursuing our own visions of a better world, Hüsam and I found each other. When we married in 1995, I was 30 and he was 40. With his values, his imagination, and his sense of purpose, he became both an extraordinary role model and the truest companion I could have wished for.
A Path Opened Through Civil Society and Politics
Civil society and politics offered me the path I had been searching for — a way to write the meaningful story I had imagined in my youth. When I embarked on this journey in my early forties, I quietly set myself a goal: by the age of 60, I would have contributed to something larger than myself.
I believed I could lead a more purposeful life — and leave behind an inspiring story — by pursuing the big dreams I cared about: strengthening democracy, building peace, advancing human rights, fostering gender equality, and helping Turkey find its rightful place within the European Union.
I also felt a responsibility to young women who did not have the opportunities I had been given. If my path could open even a small door for them, then my story would matter.
For the past twenty years, I have continued along this road — as an activist, a civil-society leader, and a politician — guided always by the principles of equality, justice, and solidarity.
2025 Came Very Quickly
The milestone I had set for myself in my early forties approached faster than I expected.
Suddenly, 2025 was here.
It arrived a little too soon, catching me somewhat unprepared. A subtle urgency began to rise within me — the awareness that a new chapter was waiting to be written after 60. Part of me whispered that time was running short; another part reminded me that every single day is a blessing, a chance to deepen life rather than count it.
With this mixture of anticipation and vulnerability, I stepped into my 60th year.
No One Writes Their Story Alone.
Recognizing that I have come closer to fulfilling the dream of my eighteen-year-old self — to leave a meaningful story in this world — fills me with a deep and steady sense of gratitude. The awareness, experience, and clarity I have gathered over the years now guide me toward strengthening that story and sharing it with an even wider circle.
But one truth has become undeniable: no one writes their story alone.
Mine has been held, encouraged, and enriched by many hands and many hearts. I owe profound thanks to my family, my friends, my companions in struggle — and above all to Hüsam, whose love, vision, labor, and unwavering solidarity have illuminated every step of this journey.
As I enter this new decade, I carry a sharpened understanding of the richness within and around me — the wealth of memory, connection, and purpose that cannot be measured yet shapes everything.
And so I move forward with the only compass that has never failed me: with wisdom, and with love.
Gülseren Onanç