The Untold Story Behind Untold Wildlife: A Journey of Healing

My Untold Story

For 24 years, Turkey was home in the deepest sense. I grew up in Ankara, the capital, where I played high-level basketball, studied computer science, and learned the meaning of discipline, resilience, and community. Turkish people have a way of making life feel shared: through generosity, humor, food, friendship, and the instinct to show up for one another. The culture, the history, and the rhythm of daily life shaped who I am, and I carry that with pride.

After graduating, I became a software engineer in defense and space, fields that once felt close to the future I had imagined for myself. I worked hard and believed in the value of effort. But over time, I began to feel that Turkey's political and socio-economic struggles, shaped by poor governance and decisions far beyond ordinary people's control, were narrowing what felt possible. My frustration was never with Turkey's people or culture. It was with a system that made it difficult for ambition, discipline, and talent to receive the reward they deserved.

So I made one of the hardest decisions of my life. I left behind a country I love, not because I stopped belonging to it, but because I needed the chance to build a life where my effort could lead somewhere. Moving to the Netherlands meant starting again from almost nothing. What looked from the outside like a career move was, for me, a complete change of path.

Starting over was humbling. But it also gave me something I had been missing: the belief that dedication could finally meet possibility.

Physical and Mental Challenges

The Netherlands was beautiful, but it was also different in a way I felt deeply. The flat landscapes, overcast skies, and quieter rhythm of daily life were a sharp contrast to what I had known before. Over time, the uncertainty, distance, and pressure of rebuilding my life began to affect my mental health, and I found myself dealing with the quiet weight that comes with isolation.

The lifestyle shift made it harder. In Turkey, social life, movement, and outdoor activity were part of the everyday rhythm. In the Netherlands, I felt that sense of connection less often, and the distance from family and familiar community made the first months especially difficult. I was homesick, unsettled, and trying to understand how to stay grounded in a place that still felt new.

At the same time, I was dealing with physical nerve issues that I could not solve for almost two years. I saw many doctors, searched for answers, and kept hoping for a cure, but nothing seemed to bring the relief I needed. Eventually, I reached a point where I realized I had to take more responsibility for my own recovery. I started making my own decisions, changing my routines, listening more carefully to my body, and looking for different ways to heal. That period tested me in every possible way, but it also taught me that recovery is sometimes not a straight path someone gives you. Sometimes it is something you have to build for yourself, one difficult step at a time.

Turning to Nature

In that space, I began looking for comfort in nature. The Netherlands offered something I needed, even if I did not know it at first: accessible green spaces, protected landscapes, and the chance to slow down. I started walking more, riding my bike more, and spending time alone in places where I could breathe again.

Those moments became a kind of sanctuary. What once felt like empty time slowly became something healing. I began noticing the things I used to pass too quickly: birds moving through grey water, wind across open fields, animals living quietly beside cities. Being outside did not solve everything, but it gave me room to process what was happening.

The Camera Became a Way Back

I had never held a professional camera before the age of 25. At first, I tried a few different directions, including street photography and car photography, but none of them truly awakened something in me. They were interesting, but they did not make me feel fully present. That changed when I pointed my lens toward the urban wildlife around me.

With a camera in hand, I started noticing details I might have missed before: the shape of a bird’s plumage, the texture of a flower, the stillness of an animal at rest. Wildlife photography gave me something to focus on that was immediate and honest.

It also gave me a way to stay present. Instead of carrying only worry and uncertainty, I could direct my attention toward what was in front of me. A photograph became more than an image. It became proof that I had been there, that I had seen something beautiful, and that I had managed to stay open to it.

Videography deepened that feeling. The sound of leaves, water, wind, and birds made the experience more complete. I was not only documenting what I saw, but also what I felt in those moments. That combination of image and sound became a way to hold onto peace when life outside the frame felt unstable.

What the Wild Taught Me

One of the most memorable moments in that journey was seeing a European bison in Zuid-Kennemerland National Park. Standing near it felt like standing beside something older than my own sense of time. Its body, its stillness, its strength, all carried the weight of millions of years of evolution. When you remove the footprint of humanity from the picture, you are left with something raw and undeniable: a living presence far more powerful than you are.

For a moment, I felt very small, but not in a painful way. It was the kind of smallness that brings perspective. The bison did not need to explain itself, prove anything, or belong to the human world. It simply existed, and that was enough. That encounter stayed with me because it reminded me that nature is not only beautiful or calming. It is ancient, powerful, and humbling. Conservation matters because it gives these lives the space to continue existing beyond us.

Where the Name Came From

At first, I was writing only for myself. The name Untold Stories came from my own life first. It came from the parts I did not know how to explain, the struggles I carried quietly, and the feeling that there was more behind a person than anyone could see from the outside.

Later, as I met incredible people from different parts of the world, I realized this was not only true for me. Listening to them, learning from them, and spending time with their stories showed me that every person, every animal, every plant, and every place carries something worth hearing. Untold Stories became not just my story, but a way to honor the stories of others too.

Most people focus on the outcome, the photo, the video, or the visible action, but the story behind it is often where the real meaning lives. Sometimes a story has more to say than words can hold, and that is exactly the space I wanted to work in.

So I opened the project up. I asked others to join me, to bring their time, their interest, and their ideas. Untold Stories became Untold Wildlife, and the project became collective. Some of those people are still with us. Some moved on to other paths after making a real impact here. Either way, they helped build something stronger than a solo project could have been.

What Remains

Untold Wildlife is free for people everywhere to read and be inspired by. It exists because we believed those hidden stories deserved a place where they could be seen, shared, and remembered. The project is still growing, and I hope it always will.

What I am most proud of is not only what we have published, but what the project represents: collaboration, persistence, and the belief that untold stories matter to people and to nature alike. Looking back, I can see that the hardest experiences in my life were also the ones that changed me most. If you had asked me three years ago where I would be, I never would have imagined this path.

I would not have chosen the hardest parts of that journey. But I can see now that they moved me toward something I might never have found otherwise. What began as a private way to survive became the thing that gave my life a new direction.