I am Maria Elena Angola, born Elena Croitoru — a Romanian author, medical doctor, and storyteller currently based in Croatia. With over 15 years of international medical experience, I have combined science and creativity to design programs that support well-being and transformation across cultures.
Over time, my path shifted from conventional medicine toward writing and storytelling. This transition was guided by a deep inner calling to explore healing beyond medicine, through words, imagination, and deeper meaning. Today, I write transformative fiction that bridges science and wonder, matter and spirit, and inner experience and daily life.
Every story I tell is meant to encourage each reader to let their inner light soar and to color the world in their own unique hues.
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be?
I was born in Romania during a dictatorship—one that, in many ways, echoed the intensity of regimes like North Korea today. Fear permeated every aspect of life. Speaking against the system meant forced labor for adults and correctional schools for children. No one was exempt. Submission was expected from everyone.
And everyone I knew submitted and conformed.
Everyone, except one.
That person was my uncle, Gheorghe—my grandfather’s brother. He dared to stand against the system, and he paid the price. For fourteen years, he was imprisoned and sent to forced labor camps in repeated attempts to break him and reshape him into submission.
Yet when he was finally released, the defiance remained in his eyes.
There was something my uncle had discovered that was more valuable than survival.
And that intrigued me deeply.
And one day, when I was around seven years old, it became clear.
Decrees from the Communist Party arrived constantly, each one tightening control over our lives. And that day, another decree came—taking even more of our land. And on that land stood our cherry tree.
But to us children, that tree was never just a tree. It was our rocket to space, our world of imagination, our place of magic.
Fearless, innocent, and unaware of the consequences, we decided to start a revolution—to save our cherry tree.
Fire rose in my chest, piercing through fear and helplessness.
Courage gave me wings, and we went into the street shouting:
“Down with the Communist Party! Freedom! We want freedom!”
The revolution was stopped immediately by our parents.
But something awoke in me that day: the courage to move beyond fear and survival to protect a place of wonder—both in our yard and in my heart.
I never let that flame die. I carried it in my heart and poured it into my words. And in the forge of those words, I melted pain into poems, suffering into stories, and life’s hardships into fairy tales.
However, something else from my uncle’s story quietly infiltrated my mind: what price would I have to pay for the freedom of my own voice? And for many, many years, I avoided seeking the answer to that question.
Before the stories, there was medicine.
My soul knew I was meant to write.
But long before I had the courage — or the clarity — to choose in alignment with that knowing, I became a doctor.
I practiced medicine in Bucharest, and then I entered the corporate world — stepping into an international career that would shape the next chapter of my life.
Within the corporate world, I combined medical expertise with creativity, designing international programs that fostered behavioral change, well-being, and personal growth across diverse cultures. My work led me on professional missions to Italy, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, the United Arab Emirates — and eventually to Croatia, where I relocated and established my home.
During this period, I served as a medical advisor for a film production shot in Italy and Nigeria, ensuring medical authenticity on screen.
That experience was more than a project.
It was a signal.
Science and storytelling met — and something inside me aligned.
From the depths of my being, my longing rose again. Stronger. Clearer. Impossible to silence.
But still, I postponed the inevitable — the call to heal and inspire through my own stories.
In 2016, while still in the corporate world, dreams and synchronicities broke into my life — sudden, undeniable, unstoppable.
I dreamed of a transformative journey — from matter to spirit — through an underground labyrinth where many, including myself, became lost. A guiding voice showed me how to “melt” the glass ceiling above and follow Polaris, the North Star.
At the entrance of the labyrinth stood my mother, Maria. At the exit, my father waited — in Angola, above a cotton field where enslaved people had once labored.
Maria… Angola… The words circled in my mind for months.
A year later, in Peru, the dream resurfaced.
To my astonishment, that very day we visited the famed Maria Angola Bell in the cathedral of Cusco — born from the story of an enslaved Angolan woman who cast her only bracelet into molten metal so that her voice would live on within it. Locals say that sometimes it rings… and sometimes it weeps.
The following year, the Angel of Death appeared in a dream, revealing the agony of a soul that had never allowed its light to shine. I felt it in every cell — a pain I have never forgotten.
That same year, standing in the Jordan River in Israel, I prayed for a new name. A man approached, traced three crosses in the air, and said only one word: Maria.
These signs, and many others, awakened a truth I could no longer ignore: my soul must shine its own light.
In 2020, as the world held its breath, I left a successful medical and corporate career — stepping into the unknown.
To honor the miracles woven into my journey, I chose the name Maria Angola — a symbol of all voices that, even in chains, found a way to be heard.
I kept Elena, too, as a reflection of my original self and because of its meaning: “reflected light” or “moonlight.” It serves as a reminder that no matter how brightly stories shine, they are only reflections of a greater Light: God.
The transition was not gentle. For five years, I wrestled with two voices: one pulling me back to conventional medicine, the other calling me forward — to create, to inspire, to unveil truth through stories.
The answer came one day while walking on Korzo, Rijeka’s central promenade: in the double-headed eagle on Rijeka’s coat of arms, I saw a reflection of myself. I was like a bird with two heads—one logical, rational, and professional; the other magical, intuitive, and alive with synchronicities, like the two hemispheres of the brain. For years, I had favored one over the other, and the inner battle never ceased—until I realized that for the bird to fly, both heads must work together.
This is how Maria Elena Angola was born—uniting both worlds: science and wonder, matter and spirit, dreams and daily life.
I write to bend time, defy logic, and let words carry me anywhere. Every sentence is freedom, every story a small rebellion of the imagination.
I wander through cities, mountains, and coastlines, letting each place whisper its story. Every journey, every culture, and every person I meet becomes a spark for my soul, a breeze for my mind, and a gentle warmth for my heart.
It brings back my inner child, crocheting with my mother and grandmother on snowy winter afternoons—laughing, nibbling donuts, and basking in the warmth of the fire.
I love the sensation of floating freely, weightless, cradled by the water and held gently by Mother Nature herself—a quiet dance of freedom, calm, and wonder.
I lose myself in the joy of creation—quilling delicate paper spirals, shaping clay into ceramics, and exploring countless other crafts—each piece a little world born from my hands and imagination.
Nature energizes me, strengthens me, and connects me to something greater. Mountains, forests, and coastlines guide my steps and awaken a quiet magic within me.