Personal Transformation:

Growth – Footprint – Passion

__________________________

My toxic flat-sharing community

I’m living in a very lively flat share. Not lively in the sense of ‘we cook together and watch documentaries about fermented beans’, but more like this: drama, constant alarms and canned beer. My flatmates are called Stress, Fear, Anger and Powerlessness – and yes, they are as exhausting as they sound.

Stress is the early-rising control freak, always under pressure to perform. He barks the to-do list while brushing his teeth and panics if the lift takes more than three seconds. He clutches his phone like a ticking bomb and mutters, “I want everything – and I want it yesterday!” All his unanswered messages are like little airplanes circling overhead, waiting to land.

Fear lives right next door to my bedroom. At night, it whispers through the wall: “What if you fail?”, “What if they criticise you?”, “Don’t show any weakness.”
Fear is like a smoke alarm with a battery issue – it beeps even when there’s no fire.

Anger has a booming voice, a short fuse, and an opinion on everything. He slams doors, curses at drivers with vocabulary straight from hell, and is firmly convinced that everyone else in the flat share is – quote – “completely incompetent.”
And yet… he’s oddly loyal. If someone makes fun of me, he’s instantly by my side, arms crossed: “Wanna say that again?”

Powerlessness is the opposite. She’s been lying on the sofa for weeks, crisps on her belly, Netflix on eternal repeat. She’s built herself a kind of cave, from which she occasionally murmurs: “It’s ridiculous, but what can I do?”

And now there’s a debate going on: Should Patience and Serenity be allowed to move in?

Stress is outraged: “They’ll ruin everything! No structure, no urgency – this place will slow to a crawl! Nobody gets anything done that way!”

Fear is wary: “What if they change us? Or worse… what if we lose control?”

Anger thinks patience isn’t a virtue, but a system error. “Waiting is for people without Wi-Fi. Or without Prime.”

Powerlessness mumbles: “I don’t care. As long as they bring tea.”And me? I’m the one who’s officially the main tenant.
I think about it. Could Patience and Serenity actually save this madhouse? Or would they move out after a week because “the energy here is too toxic”?

I picture Patience brewing coffee in the morning while Serenity sweeps the balcony barefoot. And Stress, Fear, Anger, and Powerlessness gradually calm down – because someone’s finally here who doesn’t immediately freak out.

Maybe we’d even have breakfast together. With fresh bread rolls. And without feeling guilty. Maybe that’s naive. Or maybe it’s the beginning of real change.

I think I’ll send them the address. And ask if they’ll bring some plants.

Disruption is Men’s yoga

The other day, I was sitting in my favourite café. Next to me: three guys in hoodies, passionately discussing the next big thing. Spoiler: it’s Disruption. Again.

Disruption is male. Not because women aren’t disruptive – but because men shout the word more often while staring at a whiteboard as if the meaning of life were hidden somewhere between a post-it and a pie chart. In the tech scene, the disruptor is cast as a hero. He breaks rules. He is rebellious, restless, often brilliant. He destroys what exists in order to create something better – or at least newer.

Technology becomes a means of domination: faster, leaner, more efficient. High tech turns into a sandbox with a dress code. Entry requirements: a Patagonia vest, a 10-point plan for “scalable innovation” and the willingness to say at least once a day: “We want to change the world.” No matter how. Just… different.

Chaos used to be a problem. Something you tried to clean up. Now? It’s a feature. It’s called agile project development. Meetings without an agenda? Brilliant. Launching an unfinished product? Visionary.
In truth, chaos is the favourite accessory of disruptors – not a bug, but part of the myth. In real life, chaos is annoying. In tech culture, it’s sexy. Especially when paired with a hoodie that says “I’m broke” but costs $12,000 and can only be paid for in crypto.

This attitude – destroy first, figure it out later – is seeping into traditional business culture. Suddenly, disruption is the Botox of the management class. Adventure and risk-taking are back in vogue.
It’s as if a generation of older men gave themselves an autonomy jab. Impulsive decisions are now considered dynamic leadership. Content? Optional.

Everything’s in flux, driven by punchy, masculine proclamations – often softened with a meaningless infographic for “transparent communication”. Nobody knows what’s coming next, and that’s the point.
Long live the start-up mindset: If you haven’t nearly gone bust three times, you’re simply not disruptive enough. Failure? Growth. Customer loss? Beta test. Complete collapse? Valuable learning curve.

Disruption is what happens when men tweak the world until it looks like their browser history: cluttered, loud, full of tabs – and something deeply unwanted popping up at the worst possible moment. All that’s missing are a few loyal, easily moulded followers. Enter the rising stars: ex-consultants, former investment bankers – hungry, hyper-efficient, eager to serve. They define themselves through status, power and performance. They pour all their energy into ego maintenance, always in comparison mode, obsessed with being better than the rest. Perfect disciples. Excellent at executing micromanagement – and at calling it ownership.

The world does need change. Urgently. Preferably not by people who’ve never emptied a dishwasher, but who claim to “completely rethink society”. Disruption is what happens when men tweak the world until it resembles their browser history: Confusing, noisy, full of tabs – and something unwanted always popping up.

Connected. Open hearted. Courageous.

MUC Airport, 7 a.m. I’m still half asleep, desperately trying to find my e-ticket in the app while the queue grows and my phone starts to overheat in my hand. Next to me, a young guy with Beats headphones taps me on the shoulder: “You just have to open the Wallet. It’s quicker.” Stranger. Early hour. Loss of control. But he grins. I trust him. We laugh. Then he says: “If you’re ever in Liverpool, let me know.” I save his number under Airport Angel. Suddenly, the world feels smaller. And deeply connected.

The world is growing more unstable. The tone rougher, more masculine. And yet, in all this disruption, interpersonal connection becomes a kind of anchor. Social closeness acts as a counterweight to external chaos. But in times like these, closeness is no longer a given. Digital boundaries open – while real ones quietly close. Algorithms connect – and exclude. True connection is no accident. It’s an act of will. A daily choice.

It’s never been easier to connect with the whole world – and yet staying truly in touch feels harder than ever. Contacts are everywhere. Real connection is rare. “Let’s stay in touch.” We say it often. We mean it rarely. People long for belonging. For trust. For real conversations – where not just language, but meaning is shared.

Anyone who moves through the world knows this: The most exciting things often begin where we feel just a little uncomfortable. Where we let go of control. Where we don’t understand everything – and still keep listening. Growth doesn’t start with metrics. It starts with connection.

Being open-minded doesn’t mean agreeing with everything. It means being willing to be challenged – by other cultures, other views, other ways of doing things. It means stepping out of the comfort zone. But what happens when words stumble, when gestures are misunderstood?

Curiosity and creativity help us grow. Real, childlike curiosity asks: “What do you mean?” instead of “Why do you do it like that?” It listens without judging. Maybe that irritating behaviour hides a wonderful story.
Creativity helps us shape connection – playfully, tenderly, with imagination.

True connection isn’t a fixed state. It emerges when someone says, despite all the differences: “Let’s do it anyway.” A conversation. A project. A moment of shared wonder. Connections don’t grow despite differences. They grow because of them. When we stop needing to understand everything – and start marvelling together.

Internationally connected, open-hearted, bold in action. It’s not just a sentence. It’s a mindset. A challenge. And a pretty good reason to stand back up after something didn’t go as planned.

Carousel of thoughts, I’m getting off!

Today is the day for a major internal clean-up. My 50th birthday is just around the corner, and suddenly my brain hits play on an endless loop of What if? questions. On days like this, life doesn’t happen in the here and now — it drifts off into a mental parallel universe where everything somehow turned out better. The inevitable starts to loom, and I decide: time for a symbolic spring clean before I turn 50. (Fifty is the new thirty, right? Ha!) What if I hadn’t let that one guy go? What if I’d followed passion instead of playing it safe? What if I’d actually studied journalism back then?

There’s no way out — just more doors opening to alternate versions of my life, each one somehow glossier than the original. I scroll through my imagined timelines, none of them with a satisfying ending. And right on cue, the emotional sidekick of this mental movie shows up: regret.

It’s like a grumpy backseat driver muttering: „I told you to turn right on May 15th, 1998.“ Regret is the one emotion that reliably shows up — whether I’m brushing my teeth, trying to fall asleep, or going for a run. It loves a trigger: an old photo, an email from 2012, a milestone birthday when I still thought 50 was for other people.

My countdown box sums it up perfectly. For my 49th birthday, I was given a “bucket box” – 52 cards, each with a little mission to complete before the big 5-0. Now there are exactly three cards left. Three activities until I touch down in a new decade. This week’s card: Write a letter to yourself about your life goals.

What would I say at the end of my life? “That was nice. A happy life full of happy moments.”
Hmm, probably not. So far, it’s felt more like duty than the lightness of being.
Or maybe: “I made a difference. I mattered. It meant something.”
Also tricky. I would’ve liked to make a difference – but somewhere between obligations and dependencies, I lost sight of the map.
Looking back, I’d probably just say: “What a journey.” A patchwork of experiences. Adventures, detours, highs and lows. And a decent dose of curiosity.

In the short term, we tend to regret the things we did – like that regrettable WhatsApp message after the third Aperol. But in the long run, it’s the things we didn’t do that haunt us:
The kiss we were too scared to go for.
The job in Lisbon.
The trip we kept postponing for “next year.”

And there it is again – that thought. Maybe it’s time. Time to leave the company that’s come to feel like family. Time to go solo. Backpack. Into the unknown. Now the anger fades into sadness. This can’t be real.
How did it come to this?

“Thanks for the ride, dear carousel of thoughts. I’m getting off now. I feel a little sick.”

The Black Swan Event

A glass of champagne is never a mistake. But rushing down the stairs and missing a step definitely is. A fall. A terrible sound. Then pain. I take a deep breath. It can’t be that bad. I try to get up. Nothing happens. I try again. Still nothing. So I crawl forward, hoping the slope of the stairs will help. It doesn’t. I lie there like a stranded whale. Helpless. And now, the ball is rolling.

After the examination, it turns out I was more lucky than smart. Nothing broken. The knee is stable. The culprit: a torn extensor tendon. Painful, but it will heal on its own. Relief floods in. Painkillers and crutches. Rest, ice, elevation. Physically manageable. But no one mentioned the psychological side effects.

The pain brings me back into my body. That might sound strange, but somewhere in all the stress, my mind and body had parted ways. Now I walk slowly through the park, bathed in unusually golden sunlight, trying to mobilise. I inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. Silence settles in. And suddenly, without meaning to, I start to think. Really think. Now, almost philosophical thoughts come to the surface completely uncontrollably.My mind drifts to the knee – a marvel of evolution, brilliant in design and yet frustratingly prone to failure.

Mechanically, it’s just a hinge. It connects thigh and shin. It moves. It supports. But symbolically, the knee is something else entirely. It reflects our modern posture: flexible, but not directionless. It allows us to kneel when humility is needed. It helps us rise when resistance is required. While the brain plans, the heart feels, and the hands act – the knee decides whether we can move at all. It is the hinge between ambition and reality, between taking off and breaking down.

And sometimes, it simply refuses. Without warning. At the worst possible time. Like a grumpy colleague in the transformation team – one who hears the word agility and just rolls their eyes before collapsing. But maybe that’s the truth of it: The knee wasn’t built for constant pressure, but for rhythm. For motion. For stillness. For moving forward and stepping back. It reminds us that progress requires bending.
That every forward step is, in essence, a small bow to the moment.

I’ve never been this dependent on others. Never seen the world from this angle. But one thing is clear:
A stone has started to roll. Something has been set in motion. A new beginning?

My phoenix wears reading glasses

Spring. We’re all craving light, fresh air, and a clean slate. And yet—somehow—we cling to old routines like a favourite, slightly worn-out sweater. Spoiler: My inner phoenix didn’t exactly launch into the sky.
More like: “First, let me put on my comfy socks.” And I find myself wondering: How do I locate my keys without AI?

New beginnings at 50 aren’t about fire, light, and applause. There’s no glittering mythical creature wrapped in flames, rising triumphantly from the ashes. The inner phoenix doesn’t need sparkle or drama.
It might show up in Birkenstocks—but it shows up. And oh, does it speak: “You don’t have to please anyone but yourself anymore.” And: “Enlightenment? You’ll find it at the DIY store. LED spotlights, aisle three.”

At a certain age – let’s say the moment we stop buying face creams for the scent and start comparing active ingredients – the idea of a ‘fresh start’ shifts. It’s no longer the big, loud “I’m reinventing everything!”
It’s the quiet, defiant: “I’m doing it anyway.” Despite the doubts. Despite the what-ifs. And something remarkable happens: We allow ourselves things that once felt off-limits. A radical haircut. A longer stay abroad. New friends. A new job. A split. Permission, granted.

Change isn’t a straight line. It’s more of a spiral. A listening inward. A brave step into unknown territory.
Transformation isn’t a command – it’s a dance. It flows. It feels. It adapts. To truly evolve, we need to reframe transformation: Less rigid. More human. More feminine.

Transformation is not a PowerPoint deck. It’s like life itself: messy, nonlinear, emotional. But it works. Not always elegantly. Not always efficiently. But truthfully, and with soul. That’s why transformation is feminine.
Because she doesn’t ask if it will work—she asks how. And my inner phoenix? It may have a few grey feathers and need reading glasses. But its vision is sharper than ever. The direction is clear. There’s even a plan B. Experience brings a calm eye to fads like “digital detox,” “trendjacking,” or “reel feeds.” And the fire? It still burns. Slowly – but fiercely.

New beginnings after 50 are like cherry trees in April. Quiet. Unassuming. And breathtakingly beautiful.

My Phoenix also speaks English

Today I said: „Yes. I’m ready for change.“ Not a dramatic resurrection—no flames, no ashes, please.
More like: an update. With espresso. And a bit of sunshine. This time, I want my new beginning to be smarter. And most of all: more curious about other people. I used to wonder if my haircut looked okay.
Now I wonder how to make a proper British roast in England. And whether my Japanese neighbour really meditates every morning at six—or if she’s just sipping coffee and bluffing us all. Maybe that’s the secret of a new beginning: It’s not about changing the world. It’s about real connection. And in those moments – we find ourselves.

Germany and England. Two countries that genuinely like each other – yet still manage to experience a mild culture shock every time they meet. It’s like watching a film where the subtitles always arrive one second too late. We understand each other – sort of -but never quite fully. And that’s what makes it interesting.
Somewhere in all that confusion, something beautiful happens: Laughter. Curiosity. And a charming way of not entirely understanding each other—but liking each other anyway.

Language remains an adventure. It all starts innocently enough. The Brit says, “We should hang out sometime.” The German checks their calendar and replies, “How about Thursday at 6:30 p.m.?” Result: the Brit disappears – politely, of course. The German googles: What does ‘hang out’ actually mean?

And yet, somehow, a real conversation follows. About life. About courage, happiness, menopause, and onion chutney. These are the moments we realise: Yes, our cultures are different. But our stories? Surprisingly similar. All of us have experienced loss—and new beginnings. We’ve all learned how to let go gracefully. And how to get back up again.

My inner phoenix didn’t rise from Silicon Valley. It emerged in a small English town. Where I learned that true connection is built with time, tea, and genuine interest.

Resurrection isn’t loud. It’s a smile across a language barrier. A hug, even if we’ve only met twice. And the quiet courage to try something new, make mistakes – and laugh at them anyway.

Life is not Performance

The alarm goes off. I wake up – or rather, I’m woken up. My internal processor scans the calendar, my system loads the to-dos, and my eyes skim emails before the coffee’s even brewed. Welcome to function mode. But honestly – who decided that life equals performance? Where is it written that our existence must be measured in milestones, with “success” as the final boss and burnout as the bonus level?

When I was a child, life was clearly a game. There was lightness, adventure, curiosity. Every child instinctively knows: the game ends the moment something becomes a must. Must kills joy. Must suffocates curiosity and turns the colourful board game of life into a grey Excel spreadsheet full of mandatory fields.

My ego used to be my motivational coach – forever chasing applause and external validation. “Show them what we can do. Be better. Be faster. And do it with flair.” My mind played the loyal sidekick – efficient, rational, in control. “Stay focused. Be productive. Make it make sense.” Together, they were an unbeatable team. Also: exhausting. And, if I’m honest: soul-crushing.

Then came the heart. First, just a quiet interruption. “Uh, excuse me… mind if I say something?” But the microphone was always taken. Until one day, the heart raised its voice: “Wasn’t the deal different? We didn’t come into this world to function like machines. We’re here to feel. To laugh. To love. To make mistakes. To do things with passion – even if they don’t come with a KPI.”

And finally – it became a choice. I no longer ask: What’s the point? I ask: What’s the difference I want to make? I don’t live to perform. I create and contribute so I can feel. I work in order to grow. I am no longer a machine – I am human. And that feels damn alive.

Designing life doesn’t mean it sparkles all the time. But sometimes, one glitter sticker on the grey canvas of the everyday is enough to remind me: Hey – I’m holding the pen. Even if it’s just a pink felt-tip.

 A little revolt against perfectionism

It starts in the morning. I wake up, and my phone informs me that I could’ve slept better. Thanks, sleep tracker. My coffee isn’t latte-art-ready—it’s just coffee. Yesterday’s plate is still in the kitchen. Not artfully arranged – just eaten. Scandalous. In the past, I would’ve chastised myself, optimised everything, and sighed internally: Next time, let’s aim for more perfect, shall we? Today I think: Oh no. Today is also okay.

I used to have a perfect life plan. It came with phases, deadlines, checklists, and colour-coded career milestones. It looked amazing—a cross between a business plan and a vision board. I believed that if I just ticked every box, the big reward would be waiting at the end: satisfaction.

For a long time, I thought satisfaction was the prize for a well-executed life – somewhere between the next promotion and the third digital detox. I chased goals like a kid chases soap bubbles – except these didn’t burst; they just kept floating slightly out of reach. A little higher, a little further, a little… more. And the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Spoiler alert: by the time you get there, your back hurts, you’ve forgotten your password, and you have to leave anyway—because you still haven’t succeeded properly. So I made a decision: I’m done chasing. Now, I’m practising standing still. And sitting. And, on occasion, lying down – with crisps.

Perfectionism yells, “There’s still room for improvement!” But my inner enough whispers, “Actually… it’s pretty nice here.” My “enough” is now a protected space – entry only for people with half-full glasses and no bullet journal. Perfectionism can wait outside – along with detox plans, guilt-trips, and calorie-free promises of happiness.

Oh, and my vision board? It’s now behind the fridge. When I find it again, I’ll write across it in Sharpie:
Enough is enough.

My personal footprint

An ordinary Tuesday. Packed with numerous appointments. A day of endless meetings. Between two of these meetings, I suddenly paused. What am I actually doing here? Do these discussions actually get us anywhere? Would the meeting have gone differently if a Mr Müller, Mr Maier, or Mr Schmidt had taken part instead of me? Diagrams, PowerPoints, and a calendar that looked like a game of Tetris on ‘Inhuman’ difficulty flashed across the screen in front of me. As I walked by, a colleague called out, “We need another alignment meeting.” But a completely different question popped into my head: Is this really where I want to leave my footprint?

We all want to leave a footprint – proof that we were here, and that it meant something. To make a mark on people’s lives, in the world, at work, or even in the grander scheme of things. We don’t want to vanish without a trace; we want to create something that lasts or at least be remembered.

The first step toward leaving my own footprint was also the trickiest: recognising my true values and passions. What drives me? What are my personal strengths? Answering those questions became my internal compass. Not a half-hearted quote from Instagram, but real introspection. And there it was again – the life goal question from my Bucket Box:

• Stay healthy through regular physical activity and a mindful lifestyle
• Nurture a happy relationship and meaningful connections with friends and family
• Keep learning, growing, and never stand still

Something had clearly shifted. Not a single performance-based or career milestone made it into the top three.

In a time when change has become the only constant, one truth stands out: It’s never too late. In fact, with age comes clarity. And when paired with curiosity, that experience becomes the perfect foundation to explore new paths – paths that break free from rigid expectations.

At 50, we finally have enough lived experience, missteps, and small triumphs to know what kind of footprint we want to leave – and more importantly, to make sure it’s ours, not someone else’s version.

As the rain tapped against the window and I stirred my third coffee, I realised something:
this question wasn’t going away anytime soon. And maybe – just maybe – that’s when real change begins.
Not with a glossy strategy document, but with a simple, inconvenient question that shows up in the middle of everyday life.

Why your Environment suddenly wants to call the Emergency Services

It always starts out harmless. We say something like, „I want to change a few things.“ Nothing specific yet – just a bit more of me, and something that genuinely brings joy. But the moment those words are out, the people around us go on high alert.

I quickly realised: transformation is less of a solo act and more of a social dance.

While I’m trying to weave in some new steps with grace, those around me cling tightly to the old choreography. Nothing unsettles people more than someone who suddenly becomes unpredictable – especially when they’re smiling about it.

The moment I seriously said, „I’m making a change. This time for real. Me. Personally,“ a ripple of panic ran through my social circle, as if I’d just announced I was founding a cult, dining only under full moons and wearing velvet robes.

The responses? A greatest hits collection of human insecurity:

And me? I’m a little confused, a little liberated – and I realise: that’s completely okay. Friends don’t have to be thrilled right away. I’ve also learned to meet those who react with unease with a bit of extra compassion. They’re not showing me my limits – they’re revealing their own.

Change always feels like a new pair of shoes at first: awkward, stiff, unfamiliar. But with time, they soften, and suddenly, you’re dancing. The key is not to stand still just because others are afraid you might start walking in heels.

Tidy up your Life and bring order to Chaos

Completely unexpectedly, it started – like so many things – with a harmless glance at the kitchen counter. A single coffee stain. Tiny. Almost poetic. “I’ll just wipe that off,” I thought. A sentence as naïve, in hindsight, as “I’ll just pop into IKEA for a quick look.”

The cloth wasn’t even in my hand when my gaze shifted to the kettle. Limescale. Like a snowy blanket on Mount Everest – just less romantic. “I’ll quickly descale it,” I mumbled, already in a sort of trance. Then the cutlery drawer. Chaos. Next stop: the living room. The coffee table, the bookshelf, the mysterious cable jungle behind the TV.

Three hours later, the apartment smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and something else: triumph. I had actually planned something entirely different for the day. But as always, when something truly important is on the agenda, my brain suggests a charming little detour: Let’s tidy up first. Just for a moment.

But of course, the urge to clean was not about the coffee stain. It was a signal. I need to declutter my life. The cleaning spree was my subconscious shouting: I’m ready. Time to grab the metaphorical rubber gloves and start vacuuming the corners of my soul. Or digitally decluttering, at the very least.

Here’s the problem, though: life isn’t like a cupboard where you simply pull everything out and toss what you don’t need. Life is a stubborn closet packed with emotional clutter, outdated worries, and dreams that no longer fit – but still refuse to be binned.

Let’s start with the physical stuff. The wardrobe: a sacred battleground. I had grand hopes of shedding 20 years’ worth of clothing. But as in every honest decluttering session, the first shock came quickly: I found things I’d long forgotten. A leather jacket from the good old days. Shoes I’ve never worn. And memories—of carefree student nights when I truly believed anything was possible. Spoiler: it wasn’t…

Then there’s the emotional baggage – the mental equivalent of old, never-worn outfits. The “friends” I haven’t seen in years, but who still send birthday wishes on LinkedIn. The toxic relationship I still haven’t quite released, though it’s clearly outlived its shelf life. And the once-vibrant friendships now faded like an old photo album. The colours are gone, and so is the spark. It started subtly—fewer calls, less curiosity. Until that one quiet moment of truth: We’re actually not as close as I thought we were. It’s like turning away from a childhood teddy bear you’ve hugged all your life.

And then it gets really real. The ‘time to say goodbye to toxic thoughts’ phase. Like opening a dusty wine cellar. So many bottled-up ideas and emotions I just can’t let go of. I suddenly feel like a part-time minimalist—discovering more of myself with every mental item I release. But instead of opening the wine, I fall in love with the cork and think, This might be useful someday.

The strange part? Once you start, it becomes addictive. Because it’s not just about letting go—it’s about making space. It’s a full-body exhale. Like putting up a big neon sign that says: Back to me. And everything that no longer serves me gets tossed into the virtual recycling bin.

In the end, it’s not just clothes I get rid of – but also invisible weight. Old dreams, chronic self-doubt, and that haunting little voice asking “what if?” And suddenly, I feel lighter. Even if the closet’s still half full. Maybe clearing out your life isn’t about a massive cleanse at all. Maybe it’s just a gentle “see you later” to the things that no longer fit. And who knows – maybe there’s space now for something new. Something surprising. Something that feels just right.

Between yesterday and horizon

I’m sitting in a café, the book ‚The Art of Transformation‘ resting beside my avocado toast. I’m ready to change my life. I take a bite and gaze confidently out the window, as if I’ve suddenly become the heroine in a novel about self-discovery. But then the waiter appears – with a dangerously tempting slice of chocolate cake. I take a deep breath. And just at that moment, another waiter walks by with a gigantic latte macchiato. Clearly, this journey won’t be easy.

When we set out to transform ourselves, we often imagine we need to have the perfect roadmap from the start: define goals, set milestones, run a SWOT analysis five times over. But growth rarely begins with a master plan. It begins with the courage to not know what comes next – and to act anyway.

Maybe transformation isn’t about finding the right shore right away. Maybe it’s more about having the nerve to stir the waters and stay curious. It’s about throwing lots of little stones into the pond and watching the ripples unfold. Some stones sink without a trace. Some make a duck quack. And some spark a ripple effect that reaches far beyond what we imagined.

Sometimes we toss a tiny stone – a small change project, like starting a new morning routine or finally eating the vegetables we’ve been hoarding in the fridge for the sake of our self-image. At first, nothing much happens. Just a quick splash. But then – whoosh! – a subtle wave forms. And suddenly, we’re riding a surge of motivation that makes us want to turn our whole life upside down. The transformation project has begun, and we’re ready to reshape our world.

Once we’ve thrown a few stones, we begin to see: the pond is alive with ripples. And that’s when transformation turns into a kind of sport. Every ripple has its own rhythm, its own tempo. Some spread quickly and sweep us up with them. Others are sluggish and require patience. And some – those particularly stubborn ones – linger. They ask difficult questions. They whisper: Isn’t this actually about something deeper than hydration and greens?

The beauty of it is this: the pond will never be the same again. Even if we started with just one stone, we might end up changing not just the pond – but the whole ecosystem. Who would’ve thought that those small, quiet ripples could make such a big impact?

So go ahead – throw the stones. Watch. Wonder. Then throw the next one. Because in the end, it’s often not the giant wave that changes us most, but the many small, curious circles that ripple through the waters of our lives.

Why the Club of Friendship sometimes has to close

The moment I realized that not all friendships are meant to last forever was a tough one. The beautiful thing about friendship is that we discover it and instantly want it to last. It makes us feel seen. It gives us a sense of home. The joy of friendship lies in its voluntary nature. And then, suddenly, it’s like being at a party where the music’s too loud, the snacks are gone, and the DJ has either vanished or looks like he’s about to cry. That’s when you know: it’s time to leave.

The other day, an old friend asked me if I was still me or if I’d gone completely esoteric. I replied, “I’ve just raised my frequency.” She promptly Googled whether that was a medical condition. I suppose that’s what you’d call a gap in understanding.

Transformation sounds like butterflies – but it feels more like a caterpillar with food poisoning. Nothing fits anymore. The apartment feels too small, the job too noisy, the partner too tired, and even your closest friends suddenly feel like guests at a party you wouldn’t choose to attend anymore.

I’ve learned that when I change, it inevitably affects those around me. No one warned me that people might react like sulky teenagers whose Wi-Fi just got cut off. We used to talk about men, career struggles, or general life chaos over wine and potato chips. Now, at some get-togethers, I find myself wondering: why isn’t my inner Wi-Fi picking up a signal?

It’s not that they’ve changed for the worse – they’ve simply stayed on FM while I accidentally switched to DAB+. The reception is fuzzy. I crave deep conversations that stretch into the night. I want substance. Sure, wine is still non-negotiable – but when I speak, some people look at me like I’ve started hoarding incense and am about to renounce my tax ID.

Here’s the truth: transformation changes everything. If the shared frequency is gone, conversations that once flowed effortlessly start to feel forced. Or worse – your transformation might trigger others. If someone feels stuck, your growth can make them feel uncomfortable, even threatened. That’s when tension arises or people quietly pull away – not out of malice, but out of self-protection.

Realizing a friendship has run its course is hard to swallow. Friendships are the pillars of our lives. And yet, some begin to slip away. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes dramatically. Through slow fading (gradual withdrawal), ghosting (radio silence), or full-blown emotional fireworks.

In their place, new people appear – ones who understand the new frequency of your inner radio. Who can hum along when you sing your new song. Maybe they even love the same weird tune. And no – I’m not out of touch. I’m just tuned in. If you want to listen, the station is Transformation FM, frequency 2025. Sometimes it plays gentle melodies. And sometimes it’s just me.

Letting go hurt. It felt like a loss that kept unfolding. It’s especially painful when besties – the ones you shared fears, hopes, and dreams with – start quietly retreating. It makes you wonder: how does that even make sense? Where deep feelings exist, there’s bound to be some drama – that’s what real, intense connection looks like. And so the question arises: was the bond ever truly real? Maybe we’ll never know. But hey, it’s not the end of the world. More like an emotional renovation to make space for what’s next.

And then, one day, the sadness fades. That one friendship is simply no longer part of my life. I’ve moved on – made space for new people, new energy, new experiences. And who knows? Maybe the discotheque of friendships will open again soon. This time with the right music, the perfect snacks, a DJ who knows how to read the room—and friends who feel like the ideal party crew for this next chapter of my life.

And suddenly there is a Glow

“Follow your passion!” the zeitgeist calls out to us. “Live your dreams!” – preferably with a sunset in the background, swaying palm trees, and a casual hip swing. Bam! Flash! Love at first sight. A life’s calling that appears out of nowhere. Let’s be honest: that’s nonsense

Passion isn’t a gift – wrapped package from the universe. It doesn’t fall from the sky or knock on your door with a polished life plan on a silver platter. In reality, passion often begins in a very unspectacular way. No magical moment. No confetti. More like a quiet “Hmm… this might be interesting?”

Passion tends to grow exactly where we least expect it. It starts small – in a hobby, a random encounter, a trip, or a fleeting pleasure. And then comes the messy part. Passion is a slow burn. It takes time. Weeks. Months. Years. It’s stubborn, temperamental, and easily offended when we neglect it. It grows like a vase on a potter’s wheel: lumpy at first, then wobbly, then it cracks – and we start all over again. Patience? Ruthlessly demanded. Strength? Needed in bulk. Energy? Needs refueling – over and over again.

Sometimes we wonder whether this is still passion or just a tragic form of persistent madness. Of course passion demands effort. Of course our heads fill with doubt. But that’s precisely where its magic lies: it gives back more than it takes. It sparks moments of enthusiasm in otherwise weary days. It sets off little mental fireworks when everything outside feels dull and grey.

What begins as a personal curiosity can suddenly expand – connecting people across borders, building bridges between cultures and ideas. It’s the joy of discovery, of shared growth. The thrill of thinking ourselves into new worlds. And when we give that spark room to breathe, when we stay curious, passion begins to dance. It becomes the desire to build something greater than ourselves.

So, “Follow your passion”? Yes, absolutely. But not because it sweeps us away on pink clouds. Because it grounds us. Because it lifts us, shakes us, and reminds us – again and again – why we get up in the morning.

Passion is the most beautiful, powerful engine there is. It doesn’t run on autopilot. But once it starts, it can carry us farther than we ever imagined.

And today, I say: it’s a good thing that patience and serenity have moved into my apartment – they’re the best flatmates passion could ever ask for.

How embarrassing and other learning moments

I used to think we learn languages so we can order a glass of wine on vacation without causing a minor incident. Today I know: we learn them to rediscover ourselves—and then order that glass anyway, just with a bit more flair. Because every new language is essentially a brain upgrade.

My English is like a toaster from the ’90s: it works, but every now and then it blows a fuse. Still, it’s changed me. Not because I’ve become more British – though I do say “apologies” now, with great sincerity – but because English became my entry ticket to a world where everything feels a little awkward, but also a little more free.

In the beginning, my English was a curious mix of textbook phrases, office jargon from international meetings, James Bond quotes, and the unshakable confidence of someone who used “literally” for literally everything. And I mean everything. I was literally always confused.

But with every awkward conversation—and I’m thinking especially of team meetings, where my “Could you please?” became something of a running joke – not only did my vocabulary grow, but also my patience with myself. Every little mishap was worth its weight in gold. Mistakes make us human. They keep us humble. And they remind us: transformation can’t be googled. We have to live it—heart racing, ears burning, smile delayed until we’ve had a moment to recover.

Because intercultural experience doesn’t just expand your vocabulary – it stretches your limits. Your tolerance for others. Your grace with yourself. I’ve learned that you don’t have to hate small talk if you treat it like an Olympic event. That a smile in England, a head nod in Canada, and a cheerful “cheers” in Australia can connect more than any perfectly constructed sentence.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking in German. Now I think in half-sentences, filler words, and a mash-up of German, English, and the international language of hand gestures. I didn’t become multicultural by traveling the world, but by failing – daily – at the delicate art of linguistic nuance. And that, oddly enough, was the real gift.

Today, my English is better, my humor more international, and my patience deeper. And when I get stuck, I just smile and say: “Bear with me.” It sounds confident, collected – and no one notices that I have absolutely no idea what I’m about to say next.

Brain for Numbers and a Heart for Colours

Pivot tables, break-even analyses, and the calming presence of a calculator used to define my everyday life. I was a finance guy through and through – living in a world of straight lines, logical formulas, and a firm belief that everything could be measured in numbers. Including success. It was a worldview that radiated returns. Efficiency, cash flow, scalability – I spoke of little else. Everything was very rational.

Then came a Sunday morning. I started the day peacefully, sipping my first coffee in bed. And suddenly, a thought popped into my head: If I want to grow, I need new experiences. An internship? At 50? Absurd. Maybe I just need a better word. Volunteering. Or shadowing. Sounds more acceptable. Maybe followed by some upskilling. Actually… it’s sounding like a sabbatical. Or something even bigger.

Fast-forward: I find myself in a creative web design agency. Someone points me toward a wall covered in Post-its, doodles, and a handwritten quote: “Do it cool, do it sexy, do it wicked – not correctly.” And something astonishing happens. I start taking breaks- not because Outlook tells me to, but because the sunlight hits the brick wall outside just right. We’re debating whether “apricot pink” or “burnt terracotta” better fits the brand’s mood. The mood board is called “Longing 3.0.” It’s all about “tonality” and “brand soul.”

The morning meeting opens with: “Let’s first feel what the brand wants to tell us.” Someone leans over and whispers gently: “It’s about the feeling.”

Then comes my first real task. I’m supposed to upload a blog image. Simple: drag, drop, publish. Five minutes, max. But then I notice it – the button at the bottom right… it’s off. Just slightly. One pixel too low. Maybe two. No one would’ve noticed – except me. And the internet. And God.

So I open the design tool. “Just a quick fix,” I whisper, like someone telling themselves they’ll only eat one square of chocolate. Three hours later, the image is still not uploaded, but I have:

• created a brand-new color palette
• changed the font from “friendly” to “cheeky-professional”
• fallen deep down a rabbit hole of typography tutorials and Pinterest boards

My browser now has more tabs than an advent calendar has doors. In the end, everything looks stunning. Flawless. Only one thing’s missing: the actual blog post. And the original button? I deleted it. It wasn’t really my style anyway.

That’s when it hit me: Sometimes, the return on emotion is more important than the return on investment. I wasn’t the same person anymore. I had become a creative. A rare hybrid: A brain for numbers. A heart for color.

Transformation tastes like Wine: maturesco ergo sum

There are days when I feel like a medium-bodied Riesling: too sweet for some, too sharp for others – and just a little overwhelmed on the finish. And yet, I know: I’m in a process. “Transformation,” say the coaches.
“Personal growth,” say the podcasts. “Let it breathe first,” says the sommelier.

I’ve come to realise that transformation has more in common with wine than I’d care to admit. Both require time, patience, the right conditions to mature – and occasionally, a little pressure. Fermentation is rarely elegant. It bubbles. It smells odd. And yes, sometimes it hurts.

It often begins with a spark: an idea, a project, a longing—or a suspiciously enthusiastic TED Talk. Then comes euphoria. Followed by reality. It’s like your first sip of natural wine: “Wow, this is… interesting!”
A beat later: “Wait… is it supposed to taste like that?” Transformation feels the same. Murky. Wild. Unfiltered.

And here’s the turning point: when we stop judging too quickly. When we learn to taste. To pause. To accept that we won’t always be to everyone’s liking. Because good wine isn’t made to please the masses—it’s made to develop character. And that only happens with time, tension, and a little darkness.

I’m slowly learning to enjoy my own evolution. To stop overanalysing. To resist the urge to rush. To breathe. To taste. To notice the quiet moments and think: “Aha. Something is happening.”

Transformation isn’t a sprint—it’s a slow pour.
And while I used to think enjoyment was the opposite of change, I now understand: it’s the gateway. Those who enjoy take their time. And those who take their time can grow.

So here I am. Mid-process. Mid-fermentation. In my own personal cuvée of chaos, curiosity, and a generous splash of self-deprecating humour. And when someone asks where I’m at these days, I just smile and say: “I’m not finished, but I’m drinkable.”

I’m slowly learning to enjoy my own development. Not to overanalyse. Not to accelerate. But to pause. To smell. To taste. And to realise: ‘Aha. Something is happening.’ Transformation is not a sprint – it’s a course. And while I used to think that enjoyment was the opposite of change, I now know that it’s the other way round. Those who enjoy take their time. And those who take their time can grow. So I’m right in the middle of it. In the process. In the maturing process. In my own personal cuvée of crises, opportunities and a good dash of self-irony. And when someone asks me where I’m at right now, I just say: ‘I’m not finished – but I’m drinkable.’