Shape your footprint:

Creativity – Passion – Growth

__________________________

Links to navigate:

Thought Carousel: I’m Getting Off!

It’s 3:07 a.m. My brain has apparently decided this is the ideal time to launch an internal funfair. Complete with flashing lights, tinny music, and absolutely no evidence of a health and safety check. While the rest of the world slumbers peacefully, my subconscious hops onto a creaky thought-carousel that spins backwards, squeals like a dodgy bumper car, and has no intention of stopping. Ever.

There I lie, like a child at the fairground who thought, “Just one ride – what could possibly go wrong?”
Famous last words.

The moment I’m mentally strapped in, off we go on a wild tour through the land of endless what ifs.
Reality takes a backseat. My mind drifts into a parallel universe in which everything – inexplicably – went rather better.

First stop: “Should you have studied law in 1994?”
Second: “What if you hadn’t let that bloke go?”
It’s a relentless procession of doors leading to alternate pasts – all more polished, more successful, more… curated than the original.
I wander through these ghost lives like an insomniac time-traveller. No happy endings, but plenty of unnecessary plot twists.

And then, right on cue, comes regret.
Not subtle, either – more the kind of backseat driver who mutters,
„Told you to take the right turn – 15th May 1998.“

Somewhere in the background, the funfair mascot shuffles past – a knackered hamster in trackie bottoms, muttering:
„Keep overthinking. Who needs sleep anyway?“

I attempt to disembark. Breathing exercises. Meditation apps. Counting sheep.
But the sheep have clearly wandered off into the ghost train and are now yelling,
„You forgot your tax return!“

And still, the carousel whirls on, merrily ignoring all exit signs.
Outside, dawn is breaking. Birds are chirping. The kettle is thinking about boiling.

And me?

I stagger out of bed like a fairground punter at closing time – cotton candy stuck in my hair, clutching a paper bag, whispering,
„Tonight, I’m going to bed early. Honestly.“

Dear thought-carousel, I’d like to get off now. I don’t feel very well.

My Toxic Flatsharing Community

Time to Move On – But I Don’t Live Alone, I’m in a Very Lively Flatshare. Not lively in the sense of “We cook together and watch documentaries about fermented beans,” but more like: drama, constant alarms, and dilemmas.

In my head, there’s a colourful, never-sleeping flatshare. My flatmates are called Stress, Anxiety, Anger, and Powerlessness – and yes, they’re just as exhausting as they sound. They don’t pay rent, they devour my nerves, and they’re always arguing over who gets to claim the living room (aka my mind) as their own.

Stress is the early-rising control freak, endlessly pressured to succeed. He’s dictating my to-do list while I’m still brushing my teeth. If the lift takes longer than three seconds, he’s nervously staring at his phone. I want everything – and I want it yesterday!

Anxiety lives right next door to my bedroom. She whispers through the walls at night: “What if you fail?” or “What if you get criticised?” and “Don’t you dare show any weakness!” Anxiety is like a smoke alarm with a dodgy battery – beeping even when there’s no fire.

Anger has a loud voice, a short fuse, and an opinion on absolutely everything. She slams doors, swears like a trooper, and is convinced everyone else in the flat is – quote – “completely useless.” Yet somehow, she’s loyal. If someone messes with me, she’s immediately there with arms folded: “You really wanna say that again?”

Powerlessness is the opposite. She’s been lying on the sofa for weeks, chips on her stomach, Netflix on endless repeat. She’s built herself a cave and only occasionally whispers: “It’s ridiculous, but there’s nothing I can do.”

The moment I want to start something new, they all sound the alarm and I feel paralysed. Anxiety starts building a protective wall, giving a lecture on worst-case scenarios. Powerlessness whispers: “Don’t bother – you’ll just make a fool of yourself.”

Maybe one day I’ll move out. Or I’ll set up a new flatshare. With Joy, Silence, Clarity, and Calm. Applications welcome. Serious enquiries only, please.

A Little Revolt Against Perfectionism

The alarm goes off. The alarm goes off. I don’t so much wake up as I power on. My inner processor checks the calendar, my brain downloads the to-do list. My smartwatch smugly informs me I’ve slept “suboptimally.” All before my coffee has even brewed. Welcome to Function Mode – population: me.

But today’s different. I actually surprise myself. Normally, I’d be giving myself a good talking-to, optimising like mad and sighing: “Next time, please be perfect, yeah?”
Today, though? I’m thinking: Nah. Today, okay will do just fine.

Once upon a time, I had the Perfect Life Plan™. Milestones, deadlines, colour-coded career steps – basically a mash-up of a business plan and a Pinterest board. It looked brilliant. I was convinced that if I ticked all those boxes, the grand prize would be waiting: Satisfaction.

For ages, I thought satisfaction was at the end of a well-planned life. Somewhere between climbing the career ladder and surviving my third digital detox. I chased goals like a kid after soap bubbles – except the bubbles never popped, they just floated further away. Higher, further, more.

And that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Spoiler alert: when you get there, you’ve got a dodgy back, forgotten your password, and you’re off again because – surprise! – you still have to be “successful.”

My ego was my relentless personal trainer: always chasing applause, likes, recognition, and the perfect oat milk latte in a hipster coffee shop. “Show them what you’re made of! Outrun the others! Keep going! There’s always more to do!”

Then came the heart. At first, just a tiny, irritating whisper: “Um… can I just say something?” Sadly, the microphone was usually taken. Then louder. Then full-on diva mode: “Seriously? Weren’t we supposed to be here to laugh, love, mess up, and do stuff that actually makes us happy? Enough’s enough, darling.”

My “enough” is now a no-go zone for perfectionism. Strictly half-full glasses only. No room for resolutions, detoxes, or calorie-free happiness promises. Oh, and my vision board? It’s been demoted to behind the fridge. If I ever find it again, I’ll grab a marker and write: Enough is enough.

A New Beginning Smells Like Citrus Cleaner

It all started quite innocently. A quick look at the kitchen counter. A single coffee stain. Tiny. Almost poetic. “I’ll just wipe that up quickly.” Famous last words – about as naive as saying, “I’ll just pop into IKEA for a minute.” Before I’d even grabbed the cloth properly, my eyes landed on the kettle. “Might as well descale that too.” Then the cutlery drawer – complete chaos. The living room? Don’t get me started. The coffee table, the bookshelf, and that spaghetti mess of cables behind the telly. Three hours later, the flat smells like lemon cleaner – and I’m feeling like a winner.

What began as a cleaning frenzy turned into a full-on life reroute. That first bit of tidying up was basically me saying: I’m ready for this.

Then a much bigger question barged in: Where do I want to leave my mark? We all want to leave a footprint, don’t we? Something to show we were here and it actually mattered. Leaving a trace in other people’s lives, in the world, at work, or just in the grand scheme of things. It’s about not just vanishing into thin air but doing something worth remembering.

The first step to leaving your own mark is also the trickiest. It’s about figuring out what really matters to you. What fires you up? Where do your strengths lie? Answering these questions creates an internal compass. And no, this isn’t some half-hearted “inspiration” from an Instagram post.

The spark for change wasn’t a dramatic thunderclap or a light-show moment. No fireworks, wings, or applause. No “From now on, everything’s different!”

It was more of a quiet, stubborn: “I’m doing this anyway.” Despite the doubt and inner nags. And here’s the magic: suddenly, you give yourself permission to do the things that once felt impossible. A bold new haircut. A long trip abroad. New friends. A new job. A breakup. Your inner phoenix says, “You don’t owe anyone anything but yourself.”

Change isn’t a straight road. It’s more like a dance – circling, listening inward, and taking brave steps into the unknown. It’s not a drill sergeant barking orders, but a cheeky tango. Transformation is life in all its messy, contradictory, emotional glory.

And the fire? It’s burning – slowly, stubbornly, and unstoppable.

Flatshare Meeting: Moving In Comes with Side Effects

Me – well, officially the main tenant – started wondering: Could Patience and Calmness actually save this flatshare? Or would they scarper after a week, claiming the atmosphere was just “too dodgy”?

I picture Patience making the morning brew while Calmness barefootedly sweeps the balcony. Meanwhile, Stress, Anger, Anxiety, and Powerlessness slowly start to chill because someone’s finally here who doesn’t lose the plot. Maybe we’d even have breakfast together – with fresh baps and no faffing about.

Maybe I’m being a bit wet. Or maybe this is the start of proper change. I’m thinking of sending them the address. And asking if they’re bringing any plants.

It was Tuesday, 7:30 pm – time for the weekly flatshare knees-up. The mood was well tense.

Agenda item one: The arrival of Patience and Calmness.

Stress was straight up against it, trembling at the thought of losing the reins:
“They’ll throw the whole place into chaos! No structure, no deadlines! This flat’ll turn into a right slowcoach – and nobody gets anything done!”

Anxiety shuffled nervously on the kitchen chair, whispering:
“What if they change us? Or worse – what if things go pear-shaped? What if we actually… relax? Then all bets are off! We might even forget the online banking pin!”

Anger thumped their fist on the table, making it buzz like a dodgy telly.
“Patience is dead, mates, it’s a right old cock-up. Waiting’s for people without Wi-Fi – or no subscription to Netflix. And Calmness? That’s just coolness in an old man’s cardigan.”

Powerlessness slouched in the corner, muttering into their chamomile tea:
“Can’t be arsed. As long as there’s tea. And Hobnobs. Or something stronger.”

Then came a knock. The door creaked open slowly. Calmness nodded politely but kept schtum. Patience quietly put a pot of herbal tea on the table.

Stress started hyperventilating. Anxiety legged it behind the fridge. Anger chucked an organic carrot. But then the unthinkable happened: nobody lost the rag immediately.
Instead, there was – and this was proper revolutionary – a pause.

A proper, real, awkward, comforting, game-changing pause.

Patience and Calmness moved in.

SOS from the Friendship Circle: Help, She’s Changing!

The moment I announced I was going to make a change – me, personally, genuine and all! A hush fell over my circle, as if I’d just said I’m forming a cult and from now on I’ll only eat under a full moon in onesies.

Cue the full spectrum of human insecurity:

Category 1: The Doomsayers
They respond like there’s been an earthquake:
“Are you alright? Do you need a holiday? Oh God, what’s happened? A midlife crisis? Burnout?”

Category 2: The Control Freaks
They immediately start flicking through imaginary contingency plans:
“Change? Great idea. But don’t rush it. Think about your responsibilities. Your health insurance. Your mortgage plan!”

Category 3: The Jokers
They crack wise:
“Sure thing, and I’ll be an astronaut next week.”
Irony—the final defence when people don’t know how to handle real courage.

Category 4: The Secret Dreamers
Their eyes light up when I talk about my plans, then they murmur things like:
“Oh yes, I should really… one day… sometime…”
Inside, they’re dying to join me, to bolt for new horizons, chase dreams, leave their mark. But something holds them back.

And me?
I’m a bit confused, a bit liberated, and I get it. It’s absolutely fine.

Friends don’t have to be thrilled straight away. I’ve learned to treat the Secret Dreamers with gentle kindness—they’re not showing me my limits, just their own. Change feels like a new pair of shoes: it pinches at first, then you end up dancing. The important thing isn’t to stay put just because others are scared you might suddenly be strutting in stilettos.

Between Yesterday and the Horizon

I’m in a café, the book The Art of Transformation is perched beside my avocado toast. Right, I’m ready to change my life. I take a bite, strike a confident pose out of the window – as if I’m the heroine of some self-discovery novel. And then the waiter arrives with a tempting slice of chocolate cake. I take a deep breath. And just at that moment, another waiter arrives with a massive latte macchiato. Ah, it’s going to be a long road!

Personal growth rarely begins with a perfect plan. It starts with daring to admit you have no idea what’s going to happen – and doing it anyway.

Perhaps setting off isn’t about finding the perfect shore right away, but simply daring to disturb the pond and staying curious. Throw lots of little pebbles in the water, and see whose ripples reach the far bank. Some sink without a trace. Some make a duck quack. And some set off a chain reaction sweeping all the way across.

Sometimes we throw a tiny pebble – maybe a new morning routine or finally eating the leftover veg we’d been keeping around for a higher purpose. At first it just makes a little plop. But then – whoosh! – small, perfect waves start. And suddenly we have the motivation to turn our whole world upside down. Project “Transformation” is underway, and we’re ready to build a new world.

Once those pebbles are in the water, you’ll notice: the pond is full of ripples. And that’s when transformation becomes a sport. Every ripple has its own pace. Some spread quickly and pull us along. Some are slow and need patience. And then there are the stubborn ones that refuse to disappear. They ask the big questions: “Hold on, wasn’t this about more than just drinking water and eating veg?”

The beauty is this: the pond will never be the same again. Even if you started with just one pebble, you’ll find you’ve changed not only the pond, but the whole ecosystem. And who’d’ve thought those little pebbles – with their tiny, unassuming ripples – could have such a massive impact? So come on, grab a pebble! Throw it, watch, wonder – and then throw the next one. Sometimes it’s not the giant wave that changes us most, but the many small, curious circles dancing across the pond.

And Suddenly, There Was a Glow

“Follow your passion!” the zeitgeist cries. “Live your dreams!” – preferably with a sunset backdrop, swaying palm trees, and a casual hip shimmy. Bam! Flash! Love at first sight. A calling from nowhere.

Honestly? It’s rubbish. Passion isn’t some freebie from the universe, nor does it fall from the heavens in a glorious montage. It doesn’t knock politely on your door with a shiny five-year life plan on a silver tray. In reality, passion usually begins in a far less glamorous way. No fireworks. No fanfare. Just a vague, “Hmm, that’s… interesting, I suppose?”

Passion tends to sprout in the least expected places. A hobby. A trip. A random encounter. A fleeting indulgence.

And then comes the hard part. Passion has to grow. Slowly. Over weeks. Months. Years. It’s stubborn, temperamental, and gets in a huff whenever you’re too busy for it. It grows like a lump of clay on a potter’s wheel. First clumsy. Then wobbly. Then it tears. And you start all over again. Patience? Demanded in bucketloads. Strength? Drains faster than your phone battery on 2%. Energy? Constantly needs topping up.

Sometimes I wonder: is this even passion, or just a slightly tragic form of committed madness? Of course passion takes its toll. Of course your head fills with doubt. But that’s its magic: it gives back more than it takes. It sends little bursts of joy through dull days. It lights tiny fireworks in your thoughts when everything around you is a bit… beige.

What began as a personal curiosity suddenly spreads – connecting people across borders, sparking friendships across cultures and ideas. It becomes a shared love of exploring and growing. The thrill of imagining new worlds. Give a spark some space, stay curious, and soon passion starts to dance. You build something that grows beyond yourself.

“Follow your passion?”

Yes, definitely. But not because it’ll whisk me off on a cloud of bliss. Because it grounds me. It fuels me. It spins me round and reminds me – again and again – why I get up in the morning.

Passion is the most beautiful, powerful engine there is. It doesn’t run on autopilot – but once it’s purring, it’ll take you further than you ever thought possible. And today, I’m glad that Patience and Calm have moved into my emotional flat-share.

When the Friendship Disco Closes Down

„Transformation“ sounds like butterflies—but mostly feels like a caterpillar with digestive issues. Nothing fits anymore. The flat’s too small, the job too loud, the partner too tired, and the friends? Suddenly they feel like guests at a party you wouldn’t even go to anymore—or one where the music’s too loud, the snacks are gone, and the DJ looks one song away from a breakdown. It just feels like… it’s time to leave.

My own transformation changed everything—including the people around me. No one tells you that when you grow, your social circle might throw a teenage tantrum. These days, I sit through some catch-ups and wonder: why’s there no spark anymore?

It’s not that they’ve become worse people. They’ve just stayed on FM while I’ve accidentally switched to DAB+. The signal’s fuzzy.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: transformation shifts the frequency. When you lose the shared wavelength, conversations that once flowed now feel sticky. Or worse—your growth becomes a trigger. For someone stuck, your changes might feel like a silent challenge. Tension creeps in. People pull away—not out of malice, but self-protection.

Realising that a friendship has passed its sell-by date is a tough pill to swallow. Friendships are the foundation of our lives. But now, some are quietly fading. Some with a bang. And where there are real feelings, there’s often drama—that’s just life, lived properly.

Letting go hurt. It felt like a loss that kept expanding. Especially when it’s friends you used to share dreams and fears with—the ones who slowly disappear without a word. But then, with time, I stopped mourning what was. I just carried on, making space for new people, new experiences. Who knows? Maybe the friendship disco will reopen someday—this time with the right music, good snacks, a DJ who knows what they’re doing, and guests who are up for dancing through this next chapter of life.

How Embarrassing – and Other Valuable Life Lessons

I used to think the point of learning a language was to order a glass of wine on holiday without accidentally asking for a goat. These days, I know better: we learn languages to discover parts of ourselves we didn’t know existed—though yes, ordering that glass of wine, but with poise, is still a perk. More than anything, every new language is like a software update for the brain.

My English was once the linguistic equivalent of a 90s toaster: mostly functional, but prone to blowing a fuse. And yet, it changed me. Not because I suddenly became more British—although I do now say “apologies” like it’s a personality trait. English became my entry ticket to a world where everything feels slightly awkward, but also, somehow, a bit more freeing.

In the beginning, my English was a chaotic blend of textbook phrases, bits I’d picked up in global Zoom calls, the odd James Bond quote, and the unwavering confidence of someone who used “literally” to mean… well, anything. I was literally always confused.

But with every cringe-worthy conversation—and I’m thinking particularly of those Teams meetings where my over-polite “Could you please…?” became my accidental catchphrase—not only did my vocabulary grow, but so did my patience. Especially with myself.

Every small failure was worth its weight in gold. Failing makes us human. It keeps us humble. And it proves one thing beyond doubt: you can’t Google your way to personal growth. You have to live it—heartbeat racing, cheeks burning, and the smile that only shows up later, once you’ve processed the embarrassment.

Cross-cultural experiences don’t just transform your vocabulary—they stretch your capacity for tolerance. For others, and for yourself. I learned that small talk doesn’t have to be a form of torture—if you approach it like an Olympic sport. That a smile in England, a nod in Canada, and a “cheers” in Australia can build more connection than any grammar book.

And then one day, I noticed: I wasn’t just thinking in German anymore. I was thinking in half-sentences, filler words, and a strange linguistic cocktail of German, English, and the universal language of hand gestures. I didn’t become multicultural through exotic travel—I became multicultural by regularly tripping over prepositions.

And that, really, was the gift.

Today, my English is sharper, my humour more international, and my patience considerably expanded. And if I ever get stuck mid-sentence, I simply smile and say, “Bear with me.” It sounds calm and competent—and no one suspects I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m about to say next.

Brain for Numbers meets a Heart for Colours

Once upon a time, my world revolved around pivot tables, break-even charts, and the comforting click of a calculator. I was, to put it mildly, a Finance Guy. Linear thinking, logical frameworks, and a deep-seated belief that everything—yes, even happiness—could be measured in spreadsheets. I spoke fluent ROI. Efficiency, cash flow, scalability—my holy trinity. All very sensible. All very… numerical.

Then came a Sunday morning. First coffee in bed, the usual ritual. And suddenly, an idea popped into my head—completely uninvited. To grow, I need new experiences. A placement. At 50? Bit odd. Perhaps it sounded better as “volunteering”. Or “shadowing”. Maybe even a course or two after. A sabbatical at the very least. Possibly more.

Fast forward: I’m standing in a creative agency, surrounded by designers discussing moodboards. One wall is covered in post-its, doodles, and a hand-scrawled motto: “Don’t make it right, make it brilliant.” I start taking breaks—not because Outlook says so, but because the sunlight is hitting the brick wall just right. The team debates whether apricot blush or burnt terracotta better suits the brand’s “soul”. The moodboard is called Longing 3.0. Our morning meeting begins with: “Let’s take a moment to feel what the brand wants to say.” Someone whispers to me, “It’s all about the vibe.”

Then came my first hands-on task. I was simply meant to upload a blog image. Drag, drop, publish—five minutes max. But then I noticed something: the button in the bottom right… was slightly misaligned. A pixel too low. Maybe two. No one would’ve noticed—except me. And the internet. And possibly God.

So I opened the design tool. “Just a quick fix,” I told myself, like someone reaching for one piece of chocolate. Three hours later, the image still hadn’t been uploaded, but I had:

• Designed an entirely new colour palette
• Changed the font from “approachable” to “cheekily professional”
• Fallen down a rabbit hole of typography tutorials and moodboard inspiration

My browser had more tabs than an advent calendar has doors. In the end, everything looked fabulous. Perfect. Except… the post didn’t exist. And the original button? I’d deleted it. It was never really my style anyway.

At some point, I realised: sometimes the return on emotion matters more than the return on investment. I wasn’t the same person anymore. I’d become a creative. A rare breed: numbers for a brain, colours for a heart.

Transformation tastes like Wine: Maturesco Ergo Sum

There are days I feel like a middling Riesling: too sweet for some, too sharp for others—and slightly overwhelmed on the finish. And yet, I know I’m in the middle of something. Transformation, the coaches call it. Personal growth, according to the podcasts. “Let it breathe,” says the sommelier.

I’ve learnt that transformation has a lot more in common with wine than I’d care to admit. Both need time, patience, the right conditions—and occasionally a bit of pressure. Fermentation is rarely pretty. It bubbles. It smells odd. And sometimes, it hurts.

It usually starts with a spark: a thought, a new project, a longing, or an overenthusiastic TED Talk. Then comes euphoria—closely followed by reality. Much like your first sip of natural wine: you think, “Wow, intriguing!”, then immediately, “Wait—is this off?” Transformation feels the same: unclear, raw, unfiltered.

But here’s the turning point: when you stop rushing to judge. When you start to taste. To wait. And to give yourself permission not to be instantly likeable. Good wine doesn’t appeal to everyone. It needs to develop character. And that only happens with time, friction, and a bit of fermentation in the dark.

I’m slowly learning to savour my own evolution. Not to overanalyse. Not to speed things up. But to pause. To sniff. To sip. And to think, “Hmm. Something’s happening here.”

Transformation isn’t a sprint—it’s a vintage. And while I used to think pleasure was the opposite of change, I now realise: it’s exactly the point. If you truly enjoy something, you give it time. And only things given time can grow.

So here I am. In the thick of it. In the maturing. In my very own personal cuvée – a heady blend of crises, chances, and a generous splash of self-deprecating humour.

And if anyone asks me where I am right now…

More posts: