Modern Love

Love & Other Emotional Crimes

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  • The Art of Letting Yourself Go

    Life is too short to care about what other people think of you. I know, because I used to care professionally. Olympic-level caring. I was uptight, perfectionist, deeply allergic to rejection. I curated myself like a museum exhibit: composed, appropriate, quietly impressive. No sudden movements. No visible weirdness. God forbid anyone realized I was… different.

    Then something snapped. Or softened. Or maybe I just got tired.

    Now I smile at strangers in the street. (Yes, this works in Bern. No, do not try this in Milano unless you want to be emotionally audited.) I carry walnuts in my pockets to feed crows and pigeons like some sort of forest witch on an urban commute. I headbang back at a random guy blasting metal at a red light because obviously that was a moment of mutual understanding. I pick up pine tree branches I find on the sidewalk like they’re treasure. I compliment people just because. No agenda. No flirting. No follow-up questionnaire.

    Living in Italy (especially Milano) kind of scrambled my internal GPS. Everything felt loud, performative, sharp-edged. Bern quietly rebooted me to factory settings. Friendly faces. Soft interactions. Compliments that don’t automatically translate to “so when are we sleeping together?” A city that understands the delicate art of balance: nature, people, and chill coexisting without trying too hard.

    And here’s the thing: life is way too short to micromanage how you’re perceived. Whether people “get” you or not. Be honest: do you fully understand yourself every day? Exactly. So why outsource your self-worth?

    It doesn’t matter if someone thinks you’re weird. It doesn’t matter if you make grammar mistakes, mispronounce words in languages that aren’t your own, or occasionally butcher your own language. Nobody is keeping score. Life is not that serious. We’re all enrolled in the same school, taking wildly different courses, on wildly different schedules. Sometimes we share a class. Sometimes we sit next to each other for a while. Why not enjoy recess like we’re still in high school: laughing too loud, being a little ridiculous, not taking ourselves so damn seriously?

    We don’t know how much time we have. Life can change in a split second. One wave, one wrong turn, one unexpected moment. So enjoy it. Even when the waves slam you. Even when your board snaps in half. You crawl back to shore, get a new one, and paddle out again.

    Life is breezy. Life is peachy. Life is actually pretty great. Especially when you stop overthinking it and start living like you’re allowed to exist exactly as you are. 

  • More Than a Place 

    I’m stargazing in Bern. On a clear night. The moon is nowhere to be found, and the Vegas-level light pollution from the Sternenmarkt isn’t enough to block the stars (fortunately). The sky is clear. I have an Aare Bier in one hand and then a Müntschi in the other. I’m standing on the terrace I dreamt about back in May. Yes, dreams do come true. Shooting stars and wishes. Life is good.

    On the walk back, I listen to “Weisch Du no?” on repeat, drifting through streets that feel like home, but technically aren’t. Not yet. Still, my eyes are sparkling in that unmistakable way that only happens when you’re in love. And yes, I’m fully aware I’m saying this about a city. Irrational? Sure. But love has never exactly been a fan of logic.

    Everything looks sharper here. The trees. The pavement. The lights. Suddenly Halunke’s line “Dr Neonliechthimu isch niene so schön wi hie” hits a little too close to the heart. Love really might be one of the strongest forces on earth, and somehow, I’m experiencing it… geographically. Wrapped in familiar scents. Held by bricks, stones, leaves. Everything feels alive. The city feels alive. Alive in a way that makes me want to find its invisible zipper, unzip it, and climb right inside.

    It’s not that Bern is magical: even though, fine, it kind of is. It’s that it has something for me – I suppose. Something I’m only just beginning to understand. And I’m falling for it more with each trip, deliberately, savoring every step of the discovery.

    So here’s my unsolicited conclusion: if you’re lucky enough to find a place on earth that your soul, mind, and body all agree on: go. If you feel that quiet, persistent pull toward a place, listen to it. Trust your gut. It’s worth it. I promise.

  • Looking Down on the Circuit Board

    Have you ever had the sneaking suspicion that your future self has been quietly running the show this whole time?

    We’re taught to romanticize fate. Destiny. As if life were some external force dangling clues in front of us, daring us to interpret them correctly. We wait for signs. We wait for permission. But what if the guidance we’re looking for isn’t coming from out there at all?

    What if “future you” is already whispering in your ear, because everything is happening at once, and we’re just stuck experiencing it like a linear Netflix episode instead of the full series drop on multiple screens watching it al at once?

    Picture a motherboard.

    Time isn’t something that passes. It’s the board itself. You’re not the board; you’re the signal moving across it. Your choices light up different pathways. Free will is which traces activate. Intuition? Signal feedback from other nodes. Past, present, future, all online simultaneously.

    Some routes glow. Some stay dark. Maybe somewhere, in another version of you, those dormant paths are fully powered. The whole system already exists: you’re just experiencing which circuits youenergize through thought, attention, and choice.  Perception and decisions. 

    Zoom out far enough and sure, the mainframe is the universe. Obviously. But here’s the thing: when we feel like we have no free will, it’s usually because we’ve hardwired ourselves too tightly into the mainframe: outsourcing our knowing instead of listening inward.

    I’m not saying free will is an illusion. I’m saying it’s more internal than we think.

    The more we trust ourselves, the more we stay in our bodies, the more present our energy becomes, the louder the signal gets. When the analytical mind finally shuts up for five minutes, something else comes online. Something quieter. Older. Smarter.

    That’s when time stops feeling linear. That’s when you feel close to creation. To unity. To the universe.

    And to yourself.

    I couldn’t help but wonder… In a world where the answers were never ahead of us, but already humming beneath our feet, waiting for us to notice which path lights up next, how can we maximize the input? 

  • Clones

    I was having what I thought would be an uneventful lunch break, cruising through the streets on my board after a dangerously sleepy risotto: the kind of carb lullaby that should be illegal during working hours. And then there he was.

    A clone. A flicker of the man I had almost just forgotten about. A familiar smile, a ghost of a gaze, a borrowed expression. In the exact spot I once had a phone call with the OG version. Different people, different timelines, and yet my heart did that embarrassing little somersault it only ever does for that one person.

    The clone smiled. I think I managed to smile back before I rolled past. By the time I got back to the office, I was flushed, giddy… in love. My face was on fire. No, it wasn’t the skating.

    Since May, I’ve been ambushed by these clones. Some sounded like him. Some froze me in the middle of the street. Some made me look away. Some made me tear up. Some made me question my sanity, some gave me chills down my spine. And some, like today, made me blush like I was twelve again, clutching a diary and doodling hearts around initials.

    I insisted for a questionable amount of months that I was not in love. I declared it. I stamped it. I practically made a public service announcement. But apparently, my heart didn’t get the memo. What I have now is the kind of crush a young girl has on someone she’ll never speak to: pure, ridiculous, innocent, and completely out of her control. And funny enough, I felt this way before. For the same man, two years ago.

    Back to the crush I thought I’d outgrown, evolved past, out-healed, or at least drowned in enough self-awareness to move on from. That magnetic, ridiculous, once-in-a-lifetime gravitational pull you swear you’re immune to, until a stranger with the right smile walks by and triggers your entire 2023 nervous system like you’ve time-traveled into your own romantic reboot. Even if it may last only a day, it feels good to feel in love again.

    And here’s the truth I don’t want to admit out loud: I don’t know if I’ll ever feel this way about anyone else. Right now it feels impossible. Out of reach. But then again… I also never expected to feel like this at all.

    So maybe life still has a few surprises left. Maybe destiny still has its own script, and I just need to catch up on my lines.

    And maybe, just maybe, the heart always knows what it’s doing, even when we don’t.

  • Is it self-sabotage… or sacred protection?

    the confusing art of leaving before it breaks you

    I’ve come to believe that anxious vs. avoidant attachment isn’t just trauma, it’s sacred protection. It’s your nervous system remembering what your mind keeps trying to forget. It’s your soul screaming “we’ve been here before.”

    And here’s what no one tells you when you start “doing the work”:

    The right relationship won’t give you butterflies.
    It’ll give you peace.
    It won’t light up your trauma.
    It’ll let your nervous system exhale.
    It won’t feel like a high, it’ll feel like coming down.

    And when you’re used to love feeling like survival, calm can feel boring.
    Untriggered can feel empty.
    Unchaotic can feel wrong.
    But that’s not sabotage.
    That’s just your body learning what safety actually feels like.

    Still, triggers are real. And important.
    Not because they mean someone’s wrong for you, but because they highlight the places where you still need healing.
    A trigger is just a neon sign that says “here’s where you’ve been hurt.”
    It’s not always a warning to run, sometimes it’s an invitation to stay… and finally do the work.
    To stay with yourself.
    To hold the wound.
    To remind that younger version of you that they’re safe now.

    Healing isn’t about avoiding all discomfort.
    It’s learning to sit with it, without losing yourself in it.

    So how do you know when you’re running from love, or being rerouted away from a repeat of your wounds?

    Check who’s driving.
    Is it your inner child, afraid they’re too much to be loved?
    Is it your hyper-independent ego, terrified of being seen?
    Or is it your higher self, the version of you that’s healed enough to know peace when she sees it?

    Because not everyone who feels like love is actually safe.
    And not everyone who feels safe is boring.

    So maybe the next time you feel the urge to leave something good, pause.
    Ask: Is this a red flag… or just a new color I haven’t learned to trust yet?

  • Allergic to Consequences

    Three Negronis in, I’m blasting techno on my balance board, fully allergic to consequences, and temporarily evolving into the most unhinged version of myself to date. Snusless. Dopamine-starved. Adrenaline-deprived. I literally climbed a random parking-lot wall just to feel something. I could see the fire in my own eyes and honestly? I understood what some say about my gaze. Looking at my own eyes in the mirror gave me chills like I was looking into twin crystal balls.

    Nobody talks enough about the withdrawal symptoms of “the life as we knew it” before everything went… south. Or sideways. Or into whatever spiritual demolition site this is. Becoming emotionally numb was not on my vision board. I miss flirting. I miss fire. I miss dopamine. I miss adrenaline. I miss calculated chaos. The highs. The chase. The spark.

    I feel retired at 27. Twenty-seven. If Earth is a school and this is my one body rental, then yeah, this is inevitably YOLO, isn’t it? It’s not that deep. It’s not that serious. We’re all just running experiments in human form. Send the text. Drink the drink.

    A car almost hit me again today while skating to work. I’ve genuinely lost count how many near-death guest appearances I’ve had since moving to Milano. My entire timeline could flip in two seconds. Again. And when life is that fragile, what exactly are we pretending is so serious?

    I don’t want to feel retired at 27. I want to live. I literally have a “live life to the fullest” tattoo from when I was 16 on my rib. Yes, it’s cringe. But teenage me was onto something.

    I want to bomb downhill on bikes. Ride waves. Be a passenger princess in a speeding car or on a sports motorcycle. I want to boulder, climb peaks, dive deep, hold my breath till I feel high, swim in freezing water, skate downhill with questionable survival odds. Listen to loud music, I want to flirt like tomorrow is a suggestion. Meet people whose names I’ll forget, or remember forever.

    I want to be alive. Feel alive. Be present. Follow my heart. My gut. The madness. Wherever life leads.

    YOLO, right?

  • Snow

    On Saturday, we went on the first snow hike of the year. Me, the snow-obsessed newborn who predicted snowfall at 15 months old before anyone even taught her what snow was, purely by smelling the air, had already been homesick for mountains for weeks. Soul pull, heart pull, ancestral craving for snow, cheese, chocolate, and glacier lakes. I am basically Plüsch’s “Heimweh” song in human form.

    But ever since more awareness entered my life; since being casually thrown into the flames of my life force and having my soul wake up to itself my emotional landscape has… shifted. Unless I’m actively purging stored emotions from my body, I mostly feel… neutral. Which is wild for someone who used to chase feelings like a sport. I still feel. Just differently now. I feel peace. Love. Heart-pulls toward places. The “green-light” for aligned actions. And occasionally, that deep shell-cracking pain that splits you open so something new can grow. Apparently, that’s just part of the deal now. And when something doesn’t feel right, I still get “bad vibes.” That’s not new. The difference is: now I actually listen.

    Back to the hike. I’m a person who doesn’t love physical touch. But cold air? Cold air gets a VIP pass. I love how it nibbles at my skin. I feel my body when it’s crisp. You know those guided meditations where they tell you to “feel your body,” and you’re like… sir, I feel nothing? Same, unless there’s cold air, cold water, tight clothes, or I’m rolled into a burrito in blankets. Cold turns my system on. Makes me feel present. Also: I hate sweating. So it’s layers-off hiking with sleeveless tops. The more you move, the warmer you get. Perfect system. No notes.

    The hike itself: which old me wouldn’t have even called a “hike” because it lacked the usual physical suffering, felt more like a poetic snow walk. Afterwards, we went into the city in search of glühwein and accidentally ran into the Christmas lights countdown. I couldn’t have cared less about the ceremony itself, but being at the right place at the right time felt quietly adequate. Like a shiny little cherry on top. 

    Later, glühwein was found. And after five cups, I felt the pull to Bern hit me like a freight train. Not the usual soft background hum. This was the full-volume version, alcohol making everything feel more dramatic. The place my heart orbits. The gravitational field I pretend I can ignore. The comparison point for everywhere else on Earth. No matter where I go, Bern remains the blueprint. It’s like I do have a love of my life. It’s just… it’s a city. 

    The next day, slightly betrayed by mild hangover physics and a late night, I chose warmth. Because yes, I may have walked sleeveless at 2000 meters in a snowy mountain landscape and rolled around in snow like an unsupervised puppy, my skin demanded reparations. Herbal teas. Hydration. Homemade masks. Balance. Warm porridge. Hot showers. At my next place, I am signing up for a bathtub. And a sunny terrace. And plenty of space for my indoor plants that are growing faster than my hair.  

  • Music Wars

    My upstairs neighbors; apparently a pack of teenagers I would avoid at all costs in public, you know the type that looks like they want to be in a gang, have decided it’s perfectly acceptable to blast music at any hour of the day and night. Bold. Loud. Unapologetic.

    Which, unfortunately for my moral high ground, is classic karma because yes, once upon a regrettable era, I was that person too. This apartment has endured enough metal screaming because of me. And Balkan pop on especially drunken nights. We don’t talk about that chapter.

    Back then, I blasted whatever made me feel alive just to cope with my own internal chaos. Now? I respect decibels and suburban civility… mostly. Spending time in Switzerland reminded me that I was, at some point, a rule-abiding, respectful citizen before my rebel phases kicked in. 

    But alas, I still have a deep sense of justice (I should’ve been a Libra). So when the bass upstairs threatened to peel the paint off the walls, I did what any spiritually evolved yet slightly feral woman would do:

    I retaliated. Swiss German pop? Tried it. Thought the language I love the most would annoy them. Didn’t register. German metal? Immediate silence.

    Instant. Dead. Quiet.

    Victory sip: Alpine herbal tea, poured triumphantly in my kitchen like I just won a medieval battle.

    Moral of the story: Respect your neighbors. But also: know your soundtrack weapons. 

  • 2025

    Spotify Wrapped is here, the year is basically over, and I can safely say this has been the worst year of my life. Not because everything collapsed or because I lost it all but because this was the year I did everything in my power not to break. Not to fall apart. Not to let myself be destroyed, even though the truth is… I already would have been.

    I’ve spent over a year holding the fort. Actually, let’s be painfully honest: the fort fell at some point, the enemy retreated. I rose anyway. And then I found myself surrounded again.

    The people inside my metaphorical Gondor are starving for connection: safe connection. They want out of the city. They want to feel free again. But leaving feels dangerous. When your world’s been under siege long enough, even stepping outside the gates feels like a risk.

    So if this is Return of the King and I am Gondor, then my ego is clearly Denethor, my guides are Gandalf, and life keeps launching Sauron’s allies directly at my face. Thankfully, Rohan already answered the call, that being my own life force marching in like, “We ride at dawn.” At this point, I am only waiting for my Aragorn to show up with that long-overdue ghost army. The unfinished business crew. The karmic debt collectors. The “we made a pact and we’re finally keeping it” squad who can actually tip the balance and save the damn city.

    But of course he won’t show up until his sword is reforged. Not broken, not half-functional, not “in progress.” He has to wake up. He has to realize what’s his to claim. That sweet ranger has to accept that he is the King. Stop being humble, Aragorn. You know the truth as much as I do, deep down. 

    Only then can the plot finally shift to Frodo: who, in my world, is my own courage. My own impossible bravery. The part of me willing to step out of my comfort zone, march into Mount Doom, and drop the ring: the identity, the fear, the old timelines; the life that has served its purpose into the fire.

    Then, and only then, do the eagles come. Then, I finally return home – to where the next chapters of my life can actually unfold.

    And honestly? 2025 really was the Year of the Snake. I shed literal skin (my lips were basically a desert landscape for months, and hello, the 5 rounds of sunburn because I have never heard of sunscreen in my life), and I shed more metaphysical skin than any human should legally be allowed to. If 2026 really is the Year of the Horse, then God, I’m ready for movement. Ready to stop defending this exhausted fort. Ready for freedom, for momentum, for wind in my hair and not smoke from another damn battle.

    Ready to finally crown Aragorn, and to let Arwen stand where she chose to stand: not where her ancestors mapped her life out for her. Guided by her heart, her intuition, and the kind of love that refuses to obey anything but truth.

    Because at this point, Denethor (my ego, my old self) is already on fire, and he is in absolutely no condition to deny the siege or the true king anymore. The illusions are cracking, reality has arrived, and this stubborn old man simply couldn’t cope. But even his dramatic tomato-munching era had to end eventually.

    Aragorn, sweetheart, we’re ready for you. Elrond, listen to Arwen and hand the man his sword. Gondor is tired. Deeply tired. The ghost army has business to finish. 

    And it’s time we finally move on to the part where the ring gets destroyed, the shadows get faced, and the story actually moves forward.

    Maybe it is also time to re-watch the extended versions.

  • PMS Goblins – Or Are They Actually Messengers?

    What if PMS wasn’t a pack of unhinged basement goblins we’re supposed to chain up, hide from society, and pretend we don’t have?

    What if our symptoms were just… messengers?

    Loud, dramatic messengers, sure, but still pointing at everything we’ve been bottling up. That month. That year. Our whole damn life.

    What if our period is basically a monthly diagnostic scan? Not to torment us, but to highlight the unresolved: the wounds, the resentment, the grief, the tiny swallowed feelings we said we’d “deal with later.”

    Just like modern medicine, we slap bandaids on symptoms and avoid the root. PMS works the same way.

    If the same themes show up month after month (no matter how healed or self-aware we think we are) then maybe they’re not random. Maybe they’re the exact chapters we’re supposed to work on.

    I only realized this now. So I’m mapping out my emotional “PMS report” this cycle and actually working with it. Who knows, maybe my PMS goblin will turn into a gentle glittery fairy. Maybe that’s what she wanted all along: care, attention, appreciation. Not blame. Not shame. So yes, I’m apologizing to my sweet, chaotic red gremlin for all the times she tried her best to show what I had been bottling up to me only go get ignored. 

    Maybe we should all treat our period like a monthly staff meeting. HR barges in with her clipboard:

    “Heart, your boundaries need an upgrade. Inner Child, sweetheart, this is not a daycare, someone please hold this kid. We’ve contacted IT six times about the Abandonment Issues bug. They swear they’re working on it, but the system keeps crashing. Self-Worth, Self-Love, Self-Care: excellent performance this month, keep it up. Past Mistakes… stop showing up uninvited. We’re not rehiring.”

    Honestly? Start journaling every emotion PMS HR lady brings up. Then revisit it through the month. Work on it. Integrate it.

    Is it work? Yes. Are we getting paid for it? Not in money. But in nervous system stability, emotional resilience, and the ability to build healthy love someday? Absolutely.

    I’m not just working on myself for me. I am, for the family I might have. Because I know what emotional neglect looks like: how it shapes kids who grow into adults who flinch at touch, cry into pillows, isolate instead of ask for help, and treat vulnerability like a threat. I know what it’s like to be raised by parents whose nervous systems simply couldn’t hold mine. I know firsthand how the way our emotions were handled when we were young can make building a healthy relationship feel impossible: even when the love is real, the fear keeps showing up. How when we never observe healthy nervous system regulation, it takes us ages to learn it for ourselves. I know all about the urges to run away, disappear without saying a word and come back when I feel better. I know what it’s like to be misunderstood. I do not want my future kids to go through what I have. 

    Someone once asked me what my biggest aspiration in life was. I don’t remember what I said, but it’s always been this: to break the pattern. To be a good mother and a good partner. To raise emotionally aware kids who never have to feel as alone as I did.

    That’s my real ambition. Not the materialistic financial side of the story. That’s why I ended up on this path. Apparently I did choose this journey myself, just… it looks nothing like I thought it would, hence why I think I hadn’t signed up for this at all. Turns out, I have.

    If I’m meant to have a family one day, I want to meet them as the integrated, steady version of me. Not the girl who never had anyone to hold her when she needed it.

    And on the days when it all gets brutally hard -courtesy of an awakened life force doing whatever the hell it wants- it helps to remember what the point was all along.