I stood on the bridge and looked at the rail yard below. I like watching trains being sorted and shunted along the tracks leading to Munich's central station. In my first months in the city, I took endless pictures of tracks crossing, splitting, and joining. Tracks arriving from somewhere, leading elsewhere. But over the years, I became too busy to pause and watch the trains. As I studied the maze of tracks, I realized that the rail yard mirrored the shape of my struggles over the past months. Tough decisions are like track crossings. If a crossing has switches, it is a real decision—with just a slight adjustment, a train can glide safely and almost effortlessly onto either track. Otherwise, the decision is not a real choice. Any attempt to change tracks will inevitably cause a train to derail. The only safe way forward is to stay on it. After weeks of obsessing over how to shape the next years of my life, that thought gave me peace of mind.

A crossing with switches—the choice is real

I felt lost. I tried to explain again. I tried to connect. I tried every communication tool I trusted. I was convinced that explaining more was the right thing to do—that eventually compassion and understanding would follow. Over time, I realized that this conviction was part of the problem. Some disagreements are structural and not just emotional. For years, I believed that enough empathy and goodwill would repair any hard conflict. But after endless arguments, I understood that better words cannot always change the outcome—sometimes, any communication will only add fuel to the fire. Empathy and goodwill can be well intentioned and yet reopen wounds. In such cases, continuing to explain is not kind but hurtful. Instead, silence, or even standing up and respectfully leaving the room, can be the most caring action available, even if it feels counterintuitive. Sometimes, the only way to stop a fire is to stop adding air.

Conflict is inevitable and its warmth may be fine, but burning is not

As the year comes to an end, my body has issued its bill. The listing is not short. It starts with too many sleepless nights, it continues with a chronically unpredictable work schedule, followed by all the times I forgot myself while obsessing over solving problems. Then add the tax for always wanting to do the right thing, whatever that means. And finally, an extra big tip for never considering the option of taking an actual break, but filling every gap with even more tasks or aspirations. All that sums up to quite an amount for the past year, and I do not get to choose whether to pay cash or credit, because the only form of payment is health points. This time I paid with two weeks of some sort of flu—if the brain refuses to slow down, the body certainly has means to make everything stop, in particular given that I had no real need to overstretch to this extent. I lived 2025 above my human means and the bill arrived right on time for Christmas.

Whoever built this Christmas tree maybe also lived above their means in terms of wine

I tried everything. Phone, DSLR, drone. All sorts of cameras. No matter what, the pictures were always missing something. The light just was not the same. The slight shades of the mountains in the background, the color grades in the valleys, the intensity of the green fields. It all somehow did not come across. After all these long flights, I wanted to capture that light at all cost and take it home with me, but I could not, no matter how hard I tried. In the end, I gave up. I started taking less pictures. I used the time to actually see and admire the vast, untouched landscapes of New Zealand that lay before me. I finally understood what makes this country so special and worth the long trip. The light. The scale. The harshness. Fortunately, photography remains a form of art and not a substitute for the actual experience. A picture may convey feelings that one would not feel in person, but the other way around is much more likely.

Notice the boat at the bottom of the waterfall (Stirling Falls, Milford Sound fiord)

A terrible feeling invaded me. It took me a while to understand what was happening in my mind. I had never perceived religion in this way. For all of my life, religion was a choice. I chose whether to believe in a God. And now, I confronted a scenario in which religion was a given. Of course, according to religion, there is nothing to choose. One simply is part of a religious community. And the rules that the religion defines are non-negotiable. They simply exist as well, and no amount of resistance or rebellion can change them because they are given by God. The thought scared me to death. Freedom is limited in many places on Earth, but it is theoretically possible to rebel against that oppression because it comes from other humans. But if God dictates how things should be, nothing can overturn those rules. All of this is well known, but facing it closely made it real. I cannot imagine anyone wanting to be part of such a system voluntarily.

The cathedral of Palermo. As long as religion is a choice, it provides great guidelines.

As I watched the nearby island melting with the warm colors of a perfect sunset, a strange feeling came up in me. The little Greek island was just two kilometers off the Turkish coast on which I was standing. For the past week, I had traveled and admired the Turkish Riviera in all its beauty. I had tasted its amazing food, I had swum in its turquoise waters, I had visited its ancient wonders. On earlier trips to Greece, I had done very similar things, yet something felt very different. That evening, I finally understood. As I watched across to the Greek island, a feeling of belonging came up in me. In Greece, I was a European visiting Europe. In Turkey, I was a foreigner visiting a faraway land, even if just two kilometers apart. While deeply rooted in the European identity, I believe that being a foreigner is the best way to learn and grow through curiosity and observation. One does not become a different person, but a more receptive one.

The Greek island of Καστελλόριζο and the Turkish coast at Kaş

I have a very clear memory of the taste of the white cheese that was served at the little restaurant down the road. As a child, I would sit on the restaurant terrace on summer evenings, tasting the fresh Quark while a mild breeze brushed over the nearby fields. The little restaurant is long closed. And so is the restaurant of the old farm that was on the other side of the forest. Not profitable. The next generation moved away and took better jobs in the city. We used to go there in the slaughter season to eat the tastiest fresh sausages and traditional dishes that I have ever had. All gone. Longing to relive those tastes, I asked my relatives which restaurants in the area would serve such dishes nowadays. Their answer was devastating: none. All replaced with pizza, pasta, burger. Or in the best case, with industrial versions of those traditional dishes. The peaceful feeling that came along with those extinct tastes from my childhood is gone.

A frame from an old family video showing the extinct white cheese in August 1995

Being in the moment. Who would not want that. It has been a while since I became aware of how important that is. And for quite some time, I have been neglecting it. My excuse is that I have too many tasks to worry about, but that is the worst excuse ever. Many people are busier than me, yet seem to have more time. This paradox is actually the root of the problem. The causality is wrong. It is not that I am not in the moment because I do not have time for it; rather, I do not have time because I am not in the moment. As soon as one takes the time to be present, the bubble of stress one is living in bursts and one starts having time for so many things. Most importantly, one can start right away doing and enjoying the things one really cares about, instead of wasting time worrying about not being able to do everything. One may never get to do some of the tasks, but being present and enjoying the ones one gets to do, is more than satisfying enough.

I did not do many things that day. But sitting by the lake was all I needed.

Maybe listening to a podcast about nuclear close calls influenced my mood. Maybe it was because I peeked again into the inconceivable void that opens up when being aware of death. Or maybe it was because my mind went one more time through the realization that the vast majority of human beings want nothing else than a happy life close to the people they care about. Probably it was the combination of all, but all of a sudden, a wonderful feeling of all-encompassing love came up in myself. Unconditional love for everyone and everything, knowing that any hostile or hateful behavior is rooted almost always in fear. And a deep compassion for that fear, which is often a mix of insecurity and anxiety. Excessive selfishness, greed, anger, and many other unpleasant feelings build on top, but fear is the underlying cause. Trying to escape it only makes it stronger. Welcome the fear and it will eventually fade into a sea of solace.

Even the strongest sun fades into the sea every evening

I looked out of the window as the plane slowly taxied to the runway. Everything seemed as usual, but something was off. I just could not name it. We passed the modern T4 buildings and turned towards the northern runways for take off. I observed the slope that separates the airport from the nearby villages. And then it struck me. The slope was green. It was green in a country that is mostly yellow. The past months had been rainy due to a surprising weather phenomenon, and for the first time in as far as I can remember, the landscape was green. As the plane took off and started its climb, a wonderful spectacle unfolded in the mild evening sun. Green as far as the eye could see. Fields, mountains, valleys. Everything was green. The view was surprisingly soothing. My jaw relaxed and I suddenly realized how stressed I had been. Finally, the plane reached its cruising altitude, one of the few generally peaceful places left on Earth.

An unexpected green view