She had rehearsed the big reveal for months, and it was finally time. As she sang the lyrics, It will only get better/I’ll make my grandma proud, Mikaela tore the Bulgarian flag from her body, revealing another dress, in the colors of the rainbow. She tossed the first layer aside. The crowd didn’t notice the toss–instead, they cheered louder when they saw the rainbow. The trick worked. Everything was perfect, until the footage hit the internet, and eventually, reached the police.

The year was 2012. Sixteen-year-old Mikaela was resting her head on the shaky wooden desk while Ms. Stancheva handed back the latest math exam. Another F, the third one that semester. She hadn’t even tried, instead she’d just scrawled “I’m sorry, Ms. Stancheva, but I don’t know anything,” and drew a heart.

Before leaving school, she shared a cigarette with Kristina. The cigarette died—it was time to go home. Her parents never punished her for bad grades, but the walk back still felt heavy. Her only escape: a pirated Doors album on her MP3 player.

After wrestling with tangled headphones cable, she hit play and maxed the volume, but not loud enough to drown out the thoughts spiraling in her head. She knew, in theory, that many great artists failed in school. Maybe her failures meant future success. But that future felt distant. Right now, she felt like the worst student in the class. Since first grade, she’d felt trapped by a system that celebrated science, history, and literature, while treating music, art, and drama like time fillers.

Artists in Bulgaria were labeled as losers, boxed in. Mikaela couldn’t wait to break free and open the minds of those who tried to shrink her world.

“Riders on the Storm” by The Doors faded as she unlocked her mom’s apartment in the luxurious central neighbourhood, Oborishte. She coiled her headphone wires and stuffed them into her pocket. Unlike most Bulgarian homes, her mom, Vanya, didn’t mind shoes inside the home. Mikaela kept her Converse on and collapsed face-first onto her bed. Vanya was out at a book event. She’d left chicken and rice for dinner, so Mikaela ate alone. No one to say “Bon Appétit” or “Goodnight.” She turned the music back on, stepped onto the balcony, lit another cigarette with her mom’s lighter, and headed to bed. “Three more years. Three more years and I’m taking over my life,” she repeated like a prayer until sleep took her.

Mikaela’s 17th birthday was one of the rare times both sides of her family gathered in one room. Her parents didn’t hate each other, but they avoided meeting. Both sets of grandparents came, cousins too—the whole “рода” (big family) sat around the table, toasting to Mikaela’s health. Everyone drank, even the kids. The smell of rakia (traditional Bulgarian liquor), garlic, and cigars mixed with loud Serbian folk music from the TV. A perfect Balkan family celebration.

After a few small rakias, her uncle had a sudden revelation.

“Mishentse, get your guitar and sing us some songs!” She happily agreed, tuning her guitar and launching into the 60s and 70s classics they loved—The Beatles, The Stones, and local hippie anthems. The adults screamed along, mangling the English lyrics, reliving their youth. After an hour, she ran out of songs, sipped from her mom’s wineglass, and sat back. As the party wound down, her uncle had another bright idea: “My friend Kircho edits X-Factor. Mikaela, you should audition!” She snapped back: “I’m not going on that show with connections. I want to do it on my own.” She hadn’t considered it before.

But then, days later, she thought, “Why not?” She had nothing to lose—only experience to gain.

In Converse sneakers, a little black dress, and bunny ears, she was ready to perform at the Bulgarian X-factor. Her mom thought it was absurd, but she let it go. Three friends came to the studio to cheer her on. In the waiting room on the monitors, Mila spotted her parents’ celebrity friends in the audience. Tension rose.

As she stepped on stage, a judge—CEO of the biggest pop label—smiled and said: “Let’s not pretend we don’t know each other.” Another judge chimed in, “Mila Robert Gergova—are you the daughter of the famous basketball player Robert Gergov and the even more famous lyricist Vanya Shtereva?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she answered. The crowd laughed. She began to amateurly strum “Wicked Game” on the nylon strings of her old classical guitar.

“Why is everyone crying?” she wondered. “Is it that bad?” She knew she wasn’t a great singer or guitarist. Her hands trembled. She messed up. The performance was raw, amateur—but honest. Then came the shock: “You have the X factor,” “I want you on my team,” “It felt like a world-class concert.” Four “yeses” from Bulgaria’s top vocalists.

Backstage, even the host of the show was in tears. For the first time, she was celebrated for her own talent—not her last name. That day, Mila felt more free and significant than ever.

RedBull, Vodka Flirt, cigarettes, Doner Kebab–four years of consuming these things on a daily basis, was the main requirement to graduate from the best acting school in Bulgaria: NATFIS. Rehearsals ran from 7a.m. till 2a.m. and during the breaks, the aspiring actors went to the bar next door. Mikaela quickly adjusted to this lifestyle.

“All Oscar winners are alcoholics or psychopaths,” her friend Dimcho used to say. “If you want to stay sane, drink!” It was her senior year at college, and even though the theatre stage was her childhood dream, something was missing. She was playing Shakespeare, Chekhov and Brecht, but she saw no purpose. Theatres in Bulgaria didn’t have enough authority to influence a broader audience. She would turn on the news every morning, witness the suffering of domestic violence, gang violence, gambling addiction, kids dying from inhaling poisonous drugs. It was time to start writing, not scripts, but songs.

My favourite month, of my favourite season/spending it in my favourite place with my favourite people. An unreleased original song that described the beginning of what was supposed to be the perfect day. Mikaela and her best friends, Kris and Maria, were sunbathing on the Burgas beach. After washing off the sand from their bodies, the trio dressed up and went out to a cozy bar by the sea. They weren’t drunk, they were only a little tipsy. Kris made new friends with some men from the other table. They were laughing together, buying shots for each other, until the alcohol awakened unreasonable aggression. The men started calling Kris slurs and pushing him. The bartender and security guard made them leave.

The storm calmed down. The trio went back to innocent gossiping. Suddenly, they heard loud sirens and saw blue lights flashing from the street. Two muscular police officers walked in the bar.

“They called the cops?” Maria whispered. The officers continued to come closer to Kris without saying a word.

“We’re the ones who got attacked,” Kris tried to say, but the words barely left his mouth before the first punch landed.

“Mika, record this,” he shouted. “Mika, record everything!” Mika’s hand was shaking as she took out her phone.

Was this real? The officer shoved Kris against the wall. That’s when Mikaela stepped between them.

“I’m a woman,” she said. “Will you hit me too?” The officer answered by hitting her breast with a fist. The physical pain wasn’t stronger than her shock. Later, they’d learn these officers had multiple complaints filed against them—none were investigated, they were protected by the people above them.

The day after the parade, Mikaela woke up to find herself at war. The rainbow dress lay crumpled on her floor like a relic from a dream, still damp with sweat. Her name exploded across headlines, slurred through parliament speeches, spit from the mouths of men in suits who had never been hit for holding hands.

VMRO (a nationalist organization/gang) filed a lawsuit: “desecration of national symbols,” as if the flag meant more on the ground than in the hearts of the people.

Death threats poured in like clockwork, most of them, anonymous. She stopped walking alone, avoided big crowds and public appearances. They didn’t see the trembling hands, the rehearsed courage, the teenage girl behind the glitter and the mic.

And yet, in cafés and bathrooms and basements, strangers found her slipping her folded notes, saying, “You made me feel seen.”

The country split in half, but something deeper had cracked open too.
When Mikaela tore off that flag, she didn’t destroy it—she turned it inside out and showed them what it could be. “И все по-добре ще става” (It will only get better) Mikaela continues to sing, change takes time, she isn’t giving up.