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Home in Berlin — and at home with myself

Berlin isn’t perfect postcard happiness. It’s real. It can be rough, sometimes too fast, but this is exactly where my life feels right. I don’t need nostalgic rearview mirrors — I’d rather look ahead. And when I want quiet, I know where the city softens: an early-morning park, one of the many lakes in the Berlin surroundings, a hiking path in the Grunewald or the Spandauer Forst that helps untangle my thoughts.

My family is a firework. Musicians, artists, adventurers — people who turn the night into a stage and the world into a party. I love them for it. Truly. But I don’t have to match their pace to feel alive. My happiness is quieter, steadier, closer to everyday life than to the spotlight.

Anteros and I have found our own kind of counterspell: good food, simple rituals, a glass of red wine, candles, and a bit of laughter about everything and nothing. After that, even Berlin feels less hectic. Maybe because home isn’t just a place — it’s a person.

And yes — I hope that one day I’ll become a mother. Not as a sugar-sweet dream, but as the next right thing. A life I wouldn’t trade for any glamorous family anecdote. I want to write my own story: with love, with both feet on the ground, and with enough courage to live it day by day.