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The streets become more and more familiar to me. Suddenly I know every curve and every house. We pass the town sign of my hometown and slowly roll towards the first red traffic light, where we stop. My eyes wander from the police station on the right, over the café next to it, the train station, the pharmacy that you can still see and the medical supply store on my left. Everything is completely familiar. My nervous system automatically calms down. The stress of the journey falls off me within just a few seconds.

I am safe.

Without even noticing, my body starts to relax. Curious, I look out of the window and watch the familiar streets. Maybe I will discover something new after all? And indeed, on my right I see a construction site that was not there last year. There used to be a house there with a fashion store in it, but I had never shopped there, so I did not miss it.

We leave the town again and drive the last few minutes through the winding forest before we turn into the gravel driveway of my parents’ house. My whole family is waiting for me with open arms.

I have trouble holding Ani on the leash. He is so excited to greet everyone and I struggle to stop him from jumping up on everyone. I would love to just hug every single person for a long time, but the dog makes that impossible.

My parents, my sister, nieces, nephews, uncle and aunt, everyone has come to welcome me with dinner. We eat German dark bread with cheese and sausage. It tastes delicious. I had waited for it for so long and the memory of this taste does not disappoint me. It tastes excellent.

As we all sit there together and talk, I do not feel like I have not been here for a whole year. Suddenly, it feels like always. I enjoy this familiarity. The longing for this place and these people that I had felt in Lima is finally satisfied.

It is also such a relief to speak and hear German again. I do not have to make an effort to understand everything, do not have to pay attention like a hawk to whether I know every word or miss a question. I can follow conversations effortlessly and say what I think without thinking about it.

Being surrounded by your mother tongue is underestimated. It creates a deep relaxation that I had not felt for a long time.

During my last days in Lima, I could barely wait to finally get back to Germany. The cleanliness and order, the rules, the organized traffic, the quiet, the decency, everything was calmer, more decent and more orderly. In Lima there was constant chaos. Loud. Dirty. Turbulent.

In Germany I could finally drive again, because I got along well with the German traffic rules. I had been looking forward to this freedom for a long time. Arriving in Germany was like falling into a ball of cotton wool. With a deep sigh, I landed in soft cotton wool that lovingly caught me.

After dinner, I am lying in bed talking to my boyfriend on the phone. I see our apartment, the bathroom, the couch and our bed. The apartment is tidy and I immediately have the familiar smell in my nose: fresh and clean.

My boyfriend squints his eyes because the sun is shining brightly through the window, while here it is already dark and I am snuggling into my bed.

In the background, I hear the ice cream man on the street in Lima, loudly signaling with his whistle that he is outside. This distinctive honking sound that normally annoyed me so much gives me a feeling of longing in this moment. A longing for my second home. The place where I spend most of my time during the year.

Where people happily congratulated me when they saw my baby bump and politely let me go first. Where every taxi driver was up for a nice little chat and red traffic lights were not quite so important.

When I am in one place, I long for the other. When I have one, I want the other.

Emigrating does not mean that you find a new home and replace the old one. Emigrating means that suddenly you have two homes that you have taken into your heart. Both with their own advantages and disadvantages.

Germany will always be the place close to my heart where I feel comfortable, where everything is familiar and where I function without thinking. Where I have the full support of my family, know every pebble and meet a familiar face around every corner.

But Peru will be the center of my life, the place where I live my routines, where my family has its center. Where everything is exciting and different, but where it will still be the city in which I have dropped my anchor.

I cannot compare these two places or put them against each other. I could never decide to choose only one of these places forever.

I will have to get used to the feeling of longing in my life, because with two homes it will remain my constant companion.

Forever.

The balancing act between two worlds, enrichment and sacrifice at the same time.

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The emotional roller coaster during pregnancy is easy enough to explain. My body is mixing quite the hormonal cocktail. But let’s be honest, having a baby is also a pretty reasonable reason to start thinking about your life.

After all, having a child is probably the only decision in life that is truly permanent.

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Normally, I always calm myself with the thought that nothing lasts forever. Every decision can be changed. Every decision can be undone.

Not the right degree at university? Fine. Then I’ll study something else.

Bought the wrong apartment? Well, then we’ll sell it again.

Moved to another city and realized it wasn’t as exciting as expected? Then we’ll pack everything up and go back.

But a child?

You can’t simply give a child back.

And besides, it’s an illusion to think the job is over after eighteen years. My dad is still the first person I call when my car won’t start, and my mom is still the one I call when I want to know how to cook German goulash.

So why does a decision that I wanted with all my heart suddenly scare me so much?

I have to admit something.

Ever since I became a freedom-loving backpacker, commitment has scared me.

Sometimes I genuinely ask myself:

How the hell did I end up here?

Pretty committed in a relationship.

Very committed to one place, with a permanent home. In a country I’m still not entirely sure I even like.

Extremely committed to a dog that now has to travel with me on my four-month trip to Germany. And let me tell you, traveling with a pet is more complicated than applying for child benefits in Germany.

And now comes the ultimate commitment.

A child.

Scary, I’d say.

Apparently, that’s exactly what my subconscious thinks too.

But why is a baby actually scary?

Because I’ll lose my freedom?

Because I’m not sure whether I can handle that much responsibility?

Or because of the thought that I’ll be forever connected to another person, the father of my child?

When I look at myself in the mirror now and see my belly, already visibly pregnant, round and sticking out in front of me, I still catch myself thinking:

“Wow. I’m actually pregnant.”

And I have a feeling that this sense of disbelief won’t disappear until the day I give birth.

I can hardly believe it myself. Of course it was wanted. Of course it was planned.

But it happened much faster than we had expected.

And on top of that, my life had turned around completely in just a year and a half.

Everything happened so quickly that I could barely keep up myself.

From a carefree backpacker to a caring mother with a permanent home and a new life growing inside her.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what this scary feeling is actually trying to tell me.

It’s like a little fear that keeps tapping me on the shoulder, asking,

“Are you sure this is what you want? Are you sure you can actually do this?”

It becomes especially loud whenever I’m standing in a baby store looking at cribs.

Or when I watch another mother in the park trying to calm her screaming two-year-old who simply refuses to listen.

“Can I do this? Do I even want this?”

The questions keep echoing through my head.

And here I am again, sitting in the taxi, overthinking everything while these thoughts race through my mind as fast as the sugar rush in my blood.

“Baby, there is nothing holding you back,” Shawn Mendes keeps singing.

And damn it, he’s right!

A baby isn’t going to change my ability to navigate my life the way I always have.

That scary feeling is simply warning me about something I don’t know yet.

Something I’ve never experienced before. Of course I can’t know whether I can do it. I’ve never had the chance to find out. But one thing my life has taught me is this:

I’ve handled every situation I’ve ever been in.

Actually, I’ve done much more than that.

Especially over the last few years, I’ve completely turned my life upside down.

I quit my stable job.

I spent four years backpacking through South America on my own.

I started dancing salsa and bachata.

I built an online job that I genuinely enjoy and that gives me financial security.

Every single one of those things was new.

But I didn’t have nine months to think them through.

I solved the problems along the way.

I found solutions.

I came up with new ideas.

And most importantly, I never let fear stop me from building the life I wanted.

And I don’t intend to do that any differently now.

Even if I’m no longer responsible only for myself.

No one is stopping me from creating a life that feels right to me.

No one gets to decide what that life should look like.

And just because this situation is new doesn’t mean I can’t do it.

Quite the opposite.

Yes.

This next chapter is a little scary because it’s new.

But that fear is allowed to exist.

It just doesn’t get to stop me from taking on the challenge.

And yet, a gentle smile spread across my face.

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I looked at my body with love, humility, and awe. A life is growing inside me, and I can clearly feel it moving in my belly. What an incomprehensible thought. The incredible work my body is doing leaves me speechless with admiration.

When I used to look at myself in the mirror, my eyes immediately went to the things I disliked: breasts that were too small, a butt that was too big, thighs that were too thick, hair that was too fine.

Instead of looking at my body with love, I looked at it with disappointment.

Why couldn’t I be prettier?

Why did I have so many flaws?

Pregnancy wasn’t the turning point

As a teenager, I felt deeply insecure about my body. I got my period very late, not until I was sixteen. My breasts stayed so small they were almost nonexistent, and in my own perception, I was always too fat.

It’s impossible to understand now when I look back at photos from that time and see a slim, athletic girl.

Not only as a teenager, but also throughout my twenties, I never truly felt comfortable in my body. I struggled with a few extra pounds, with my lack of feminine curves, with comparing myself to tall, slender girls with long flowing hair. On top of that came the hurtful words of my ex-boyfriend, who constantly pointed out that my breasts were too small. He kept pressing on the wound that already hurt.

So what changed the way I saw my body?

At 32, I quit my job and spent several years traveling through Latin America. Since tall, blonde, blue-eyed women aren’t particularly common there, I was surprised by how much attention I suddenly received. At first, it made me uncomfortable. But over time, I started enjoying it.

But that wasn’t the real turning point.

In Colombia, I started dancing salsa.

For my entire life, I had believed I simply couldn’t dance. That I couldn’t move my body.

And suddenly, I realized that I could.

Salsa is a partner dance, and the follower, usually the woman, dances a very feminine role. Besides the constant movement of the hips, which is essential in salsa, there are graceful turns and elegant hand movements.

For the first time in my life, I truly felt feminine.

In Colombia, I started spending entire nights in salsa bars, dancing until sunrise. You dance one song with one man, then move on to the next. Sweat soaked through my clothes and left my hair damp and heavy against my skin. Some men smelled wonderful, wearing expensive perfume. With others, I preferred breathing through my mouth because their garlic breath was unbearable. The physical contact was close, but never intrusive. Some men exchanged a few words with me after the dance. Others I simply thanked with a polite “Gracias, adiós,” before disappearing into the arms of the next partner.

For the first time, I didn’t feel desired only because of my appearance, but also because of the dancing skills I had developed.

For the first time in my life, I truly felt feminine.

Sexy.

Elegant.

Sensual.

Beautiful.

Suddenly, I no longer saw the small breasts, the stomach I thought was too big, or the hair that was too thin when I looked into the mirror.

Instead, a woman smiled back at me who genuinely found herself beautiful and attractive.

A woman who, after years of self-doubt and rejection, had finally learned to look at herself with gentle, loving eyes.

I first had to learn to love myself before I found the man who loved me

For many years, I had a talent for choosing men who reflected exactly what I already saw in myself. Men who pointed out my flaws.

“Chubby,” one of my ex-boyfriends used to call me “affectionately,” hitting exactly where it hurt.

Once I started seeing my body and myself differently, the kind of men I attracted changed too.

I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship yet. There were still other wounds that hadn’t healed. But the men I dated were kind, respectful, and appreciated both me and my body in ways I had never experienced before.

One day, I met my partner. (How that happened, and why my healing beforehand was so important, is another story I’d love to write someday.)

From the very first day, he never stopped telling me how beautiful I was.

He treats me like a queen, admires both who I am and the body I live in.

Because of him, I noticed something I had never paid attention to before: my long, athletic legs. Legs many women would probably love to have.

I had always criticized my thighs.

I had never noticed that my legs were strong and powerful.

His words are flattering, of course.

But the beautiful part is this:

I no longer need that validation from someone else.

I don’t need his compliments to convince me of something I don’t already believe myself.

Through dancing and traveling, I learned to see myself through different eyes.

He simply holds up his own eyes like a mirror, reflecting back the beautiful woman I now love just as much as he does.

Pregnancy doesn’t make you beautiful. But it is the most beautiful feeling.

My body is changing during pregnancy.

The well-trained butt I used to be so proud of has disappeared.

I’m gaining weight.

The spider veins and varicose veins will probably remain long after pregnancy.

And yet, there is no more beautiful or feminine feeling than running my hands over my ever-growing belly and feeling the life inside it.

What an incomprehensible thought.

I have made peace with my body.

Feeling feminine and at peace in my female body is one of the most powerful and creative feelings I have ever experienced.

I never would have imagined that spider veins, varicose veins, and an ever-growing belly would bring me closer to my body than ever before.

With love,

La Alemana

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I want to read you! Leave a comment how you feel in your body? What are your thoughts about femininity and body confidence?

Deutsche Version:

Heute morgen stand ich nackt vor dem Spiegel und mir blieb der Mund offen stehen. Mein Blick blieb auf einem prallen Bauch hängen, der sich mittlerweile schon deutlich nach vorne wölbt. Meine Brüste waren sicherlich zwei bis drei BH Größen gewachsen und standen nun spitz und geschwollen nach vorne. An meinem Schienbein entdeckte ich einen dunklen Fleck, der fast wie ein blauer Fleck aussieht, der sich bis nach unten zum Fußknöchel zieht: dunkle Besenreißer. Vom hinteren Oberschenkel bis in die Kniekehle beulte sich eine dicke Ader nach außen, die man deutlich sehen kann.

Doch es breitete sich ein sanftes Lächeln auf meinem Gesicht aus. Voller Liebe, Demut und Ehrfurcht betrachtete ich meinen Körper. In mir wächst ein Leben heran, das ich deutlich in meinem Bauch bewegen spüre. Das ist solch ein unbegreiflicher Gedanke! Diese unglaubliche Arbeit, die mein Körper hier vollbringt, lässt mich in tiefer Bewunderung verstummen.

Wenn ich mich früher im Spiegel anschaute, fiel mein Augenmerk sofort auf die Zonen die mich störten: der Busen zu klein, der Hintern zu groß, die Oberschenkel zu dick, die Haare zu fein.

Anstatt mit Liebe auf meinen Körper zu blicken, sah ich ihn mit Enttäuschung an. Warum konnte ich nicht schöner sein? Warum hatte ich so viele Makel?

Die Schwangerschaft war nicht der Wendepunkt

Als Teenager war ich vollkommen verunsichert von meinem Körper. Ich bekam meine Periode sehr spät (erst mit 16 Jahren), mein Busen blieb so klein, dass er fast nicht vorhanden war und in meiner Wahrnehmung war ich immer zu dick. Nicht nachvollziehbar, wenn ich mir nun Fotos aus dieser Zeit ansehe und ich mich als schlank und sportlich sehe.

Nicht nur als Teenager, auch in meinen 20ern, fühlte ich mich in meinem Körper nie richtig wohl. Ich kämpfte mit ein paar Kilo zu viel auf den Rippen, meinen unweiblichen Formen, der Konkurrenz von gertenschlanken und zart gebauten Mädchen mit langen, wallenden Haaren, mit denen ich mich ständig verglich. Noch dazu kamen die verletzenden Worte meines Exfreundes, der ständig betonte, dass meine Brüste zu klein seien. Der Wunde Punkt, der sowieso schon Schmerz auslöste.

Warum änderte ich die Sicht auf meinen Körper?

Mit 32 Jahren kündigte ich meinen Job und reiste mehrere Jahre durch Lateinamerika. Da große, blonde, blau-äugige Frauen dort nicht gewöhnlich sind, überrascshte es mich, dass ich plötzlich so viele Blicke zugeworfen bekam. Anfangs verunsicherte mich diese ungewohnte Aufmerksamkeit, doch mit der Zeit, begann ich es zu genießen.

Doch das war nicht der ausschlaggebende Punkt. In Kolumbien begann ich das Salsa Tanzen. Bisher hatte ich mein ganzes Leben lang geglaubt, ich könnte nicht Tanzen. ich könnte meinen Körper nicht bewegen. Doch plötzlich begriff ich: ich konnte es doch!

Salsa ist ein Paartanz und der Follower - meist die Frau - tanzt eine sehr weibliche Rolle. Ganz abgesehen vom Hüftschwung, der bei diesem Tanz essentiell ist, kommen sehr geschmeidige Drehungen oder Handbewegungen dazu.

Ich fühlte mich das erste Mal in meinem Leben so richtig weiblich!

In Kolumbien begann es, dass ich nächtelang in Salsa-Bars verbrachte und bis in die Morgenstunden tanzte. Man tanzt einen Song mit einem Mann und wechselt dann zum nächsten. Schweißtropfen durchnässten meine Kleidung und ließen meine Haare nass und schwer auf meiner Haut kleben. Manche Männer rochen köstlich nach Parfüm, bei anderen bevorzugte ich es, durch den Mund zu atmen, weil der Mundgeruch nach Knoblauch unausstehlich war. Der körperliche Kontakt war eng - aber nie zu aufdringlich. Mit manchen wechselte man nach dem Tanz ein paar Worte, von anderen verabschiedete ich mich höflich mit einem “Gracias, Adios!” und verschwand in den Armen eines Nächsten. Ich fühlte mich nicht nur begehrt wegen meines Aussehens, sondern auch wegen meiner Tanzkünste, die ich entwickelt hatte. Ich fühlte mich zum ersten Mal in meinem Leben so richtig weiblich! Sexy, elegant, sinnlich und wunderschön.

Plötzlich sah ich im Spiegel nicht mehr die kleinen Brüste, den Bauch, der mir zu groß vorkam, die Haare, die zu dünn waren. Auf einmal lächelte mich eine Frau an, die sich selbst wunderschön und attraktiv fand. Eine Frau, die nach all den Jahren des Zweifels und der Ablehnung endlich gelernt hatte, sich selbst mit sanften, liebenden Augen anzusehen.

Ich musste mich erst selbst lieben lernen so dass ich den Mann fand, der mich liebte

Ich hatte viele Jahre ein Händchen für Männer, die mir den Spiegel vorhielten und meine Makel betonten, die ich selbst im Spiegel sah. “Specki!”, nannte mich ein Ex-freund “liebevoll” und stach direkt in die Wunde.

Als ich begann meinen Körper und mich selbst mit anderen Augen wahrzunehmen, veränderten sich auch die Typen der Männer, die ich in mein Leben zog. Ich war noch nicht bereit für eine feste Beziehung - da waren andere Baustellen noch nicht geheilt - aber die Affären, die ich hatte, waren liebevolle, respektvolle Männer, die mich und meinen Körper auf eine ganz andere Art und Weise schätzen als ich es bisher gewohnt war.

Eines Tages lernte ich meinen Partner kennen (wie es dazu kam und warum meine Heilung davor so wichtig ist, ist eine andere Geschichte, die ich gerne einmal niederschreiben werde). Ab dem ersten Tag hörte er nicht auf, mir zu sagen, wie schön ich sei. Er trägt mich auf Händen, bewundert sowohl meine Art als auch meinen Körper. Durch ihn wurde mir bewusst, dass ich lange, trainierte Beine habe, die sich viele andere Mädchen wünschen würden. ich hatte meinen Beinen nie davor Beachtung geschenkt, sondern eher meine Oberschenkel kritisiert. Doch dass meine Beine muskulös und kraftvoll waren, war mir noch nie aufgefallen.

Seine Worte sind schmeichelnd, keine Frage. Doch das schöne daran ist: Ich suche diese Bestätigung nicht mehr im Außen. Ich brauche seine Worte nicht mehr, um mich von etwas überzeugen zu lassen, dass ich selbst nicht glaube. Durch das Tanzen und meine Reisen habe ich gelernt, mich selbst mit anderen Augen zu betrachten. Und er hält mir lediglich seine Augen als einen Spiegel entgegen, in dem sich mein wunderschönes Abbild zeigt, das ich genauso liebe wie er.

Schwangerschaft macht nicht schön - aber ist das schönste Gefühl

Mein Körper verändert sich in der Schwangerschaft. Mein gut trainierter Hintern, auf den ich so stolz war, ist verschwunden. Ich nehme Gewicht zu und Besenreißer und Krampfadern werden auch nach der Schwangerschaft bleiben. Doch es gibt kein schöneres und weiblicheres Gefühl, als mit den Händen über den immer größer werdenden Bauch zu streicheln und das Leben darin zu spüren. Ein so unbegreiflicher Gedanke!

Ich habe mit meinem Körper Frieden geschlossen. Weiblichkeit und Zufriedenheit im weiblichen Körper ist eines der kraftvollsten und schöpferischsten Gefühle, die ich je erlebt habe. Ich hätte nie gedacht, dass ausgerechnet die Besenreiser, die Krampfadern und der immer größer werdende Bauch mich meinem Körper näher bringen würden als je zuvor.

In Liebe,

La Alemana

I burst out laughing.

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Smiling, I lingered on the photo. I remembered that moment all too well. We were in Cuba. Instead of the paradise salsa vacation we had imagined, we were confronted with the country’s reality:

Not enough drinking water. Toilet paper was a luxury. Food shortages. (We spent an entire afternoon looking for chocolate cookies, unsuccessfully. No KitKat, no Snickers, nothing.) Internet was scarce, which made communication difficult, and buying deodorant because we had forgotten ours seemed almost impossible.

Not to mention the financial situation. You couldn’t simply withdraw cash because the exchange rates at the ATMs were terrible, and getting hold of cash at all was incredibly complicated. We spent up to three hours on things we were used to finishing in 45 seconds.

Our conclusion about Cuba: we wanted to leave.

That much was clear. As quickly as possible.

After two weeks, we had had enough.

But that was much easier said than done. Websites wouldn’t load, phone lines couldn’t reach other countries, online payments with credit cards didn’t work. It was a disaster. Finally, using the Wi-Fi at a five-star hotel, Signe’s VPN on her laptop, and my phone app (shout-out to Satellite, my absolute travel hack!), I managed to call the airline and change our flights.

The photo Signe had sent me was taken on our last evening in Cuba.

Completely fed up.

Ready to leave.

“We've really lived these past few years,” I replied to her.

Life had changed radically for both of us.

My life had been exciting. Every few weeks I traveled somewhere new, rarely staying in one place for more than three or four months. I swam in the Caribbean, walked along white sandy beaches, ate fresh fish from the Pacific, climbed towering volcanoes, and danced through the nights in Rio. I felt like I was truly living. I felt fulfilled by my life and enjoyed every single minute of it.

By now, a lot has changed. I’ve been living in the same place for more than a year. I sleep in the same bed and shop in the same stores. After all those years of living like a vagabond, I’ve found a new home and settled down. I’ve built routines, discovered new favorite cafés, and found regular work. All things I didn’t have, and didn’t even want, for several years.

My life as a backpacker was also a life of being single. I didn’t have to consider a partner. I could make decisions on my own and do whatever I wanted.

Well - Now I’ve moved to Peru to live with my partner. A commitment I consciously chose. We both decided to build a life together. It started with our first addition to the family, our puppy Ani. And now we’re expecting our first child together.

The moment I received Signe’s photo, a wave of nostalgia rushed through me without warning. I found myself reminiscing about my life on the road. Without realizing it, I started scrolling through my photo gallery, admiring the memories.

Mexico.

Guatemala.

The Galápagos Islands.

Argentina.

Jungle.

Pacific.

Desert.

Nightlife.

“Damn,” I thought. “I really have lived a lot.”

Quietly, another thought began to grow louder.

Did I make the right decisions? Am I living the life I truly want? Can I really imagine living here in Peru and raising a child? Can I even be a mother? Do I really want that?

Doubts raced through my mind, making me frown as I tried to think clearly.

Where would I be if I had never met my boyfriend? What would I be doing? Where would I be living?

The what if game began spinning through my head like a merry-go-round. Faster and faster.

Did I actually want my old life back?

It took me a while to pull myself out of that spiral. But I forced myself to look at things rationally instead of letting my emotions carry me away.

A comparison slowly formed in my mind that calmed me down.

I had loved my school years. With all their highs and lows, they had been an incredibly eventful time filled with memories. Once school ended, that chapter of my life was simply over. People scattered in different directions. I stayed in touch with some, but not with others.

Even today, my old school friends and I sometimes reminisce about those days, laughing about stories from back then.

But it’s okay that those years belong to the past.

If it had been possible to stay in that chapter forever, I would never have allowed everything else that came afterwards to happen. I would have kept myself stuck in one place. I had to close one chapter, as scary and bittersweet as it was, in order to open another.

So am I ready for the next step, for having a family?

Maybe not completely. - But I’ll grow into it. A new chapter is about to begin. One that will create new memories and write new stories.

And every now and then, I can still open the old pages with admiration and gratitude, rereading the stories I wrote during my travels. All the memories and experiences that led me exactly to where I am today.

I like the thought that life is like a good book. Even the most exciting and beautiful chapters have to come to an end so that the story can continue.

And we never know whether the next chapter might be even more exciting than the last.

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Do you know the feeling of grieving an old life sometimes? Let me know in a comment. I would love to read you!

Love, La Alemana

VERSION DEUTSCH:

Mit einem leisen “ping” kündigte mein Handy das Eintreffen einer Nachricht an. Meine Freundin Signe schickte mir ganz unerwartet ein Foto. Es zeigte uns beide, mit verschwitzten Gesichtern, beide etwas dickeren Pausbacken und beide mit einem unfassbar genervten Gesichtsausdruck.

Ich musste laut lachen.

Lächelnd verweilte mein Blick auf dem Foto. Nur zu gut konnte ich mich an diesen Moment erinnern. Wir waren in Kuba. Anstatt unseres paradiesischen Salsa Urlaubs holte uns die Realität des Landes ein:
nicht genügend Trinkwasser, Klopapier war ein Luxusgut, Lebensmittelknappheit (wir verbrachten einen kompletten Nachmittag damit Schokoladenkekse zu suchen - erfolglos. Kein KitKat, Snickers und Co. Nichts!) Internet war Mangelware, Kommunikation war somit schwierig und ein Deodorant zu kaufen, weil wir unseres vergessen hatten, schien ein Ding der Unmöglichkeit.
Von der finanziellen Situation, ganz zu schweigen. Man konnte nicht einfach Bargeld abheben, da der Wechselkurs der Automaten unterirdisch und es höchst kompliziert war, an Cash zu kommen. Wir verbrachten bis zu 3 Stunden für eine Sache, die wir gewohnt waren in 45 Sekunden erledigt zu haben.

Unser Fazit von Kuba: Wir wollten weg!

Das war uns klar. So schnell wie möglich. Nach zwei Wochen hatten wir genug.
Doch das war einfacher gesagt als getan. Internetseiten ließen sich nicht öffnen, Telefonlinien erreichten keine anderen Länder, mit Kreditkarte konnte man online nicht zahlen - es war ein Disaster. Im WLAN eines fünf Sterne Hotels gelang es mir endlich mit Signes VPN Verbindung des Laptops und meiner Telefon-App (Shoutout zu Satellite! Mein absoluter Travel Hack!) die Hotline der Airline zu erreichen und die Flüge umzubuchen.

Das besagte Foto, das Signe mir schickte, zeigte uns am letzten Abend in Kuba. Die Schnauze voll. Ready to leave.

“We've really lived these past few years”, antwortete ich ihr.

Das Leben hatte sich für uns beide radikal verändert.

Mein Leben war aufregend gewesen. Ich war alle paar Wochen an einen anderen Ort gereist, blieb selten mehr als drei, vier Monate an einem Ort. Ich badete in der Karibik, spazierte an weißen Sandstränden, aß frischen Fisch aus dem Pazifik, bestieg hohe Vulkane oder tanzte in Rio durch die Nacht. Ich hatte das Gefühl, ich LEBTE. Ich war erfüllt von meinem Leben und genoss jede Minute davon.

Mittlerweile hat sich einiges geändert. Ich bin seit mehr als einem Jahr an einem Ort angekommen, schlafe im selben Bett und kaufe in den selben Geschäften ein. Nach all den Jahren des Vagabundenlebens, habe ich wieder eine neue Heimat gefunden und bin sesshaft geworden. Ich habe Routinen entwickelt, neue Lieblingscafes gefunden und eine regelmäßige Arbeit. Alles Dinge, die ich für einige Jahre nicht hatte und auch nicht haben wollte.

Mein Leben als Backpackerin war außerdem ein eigenständiges Leben als Single. Ich musste keine Rücksicht nehmen auf einen Partner, konnte Entscheidungen alleine treffen und tun und lassen was ich wollte.

Nun bin ich nach Peru gezogen, um mit meinem Partner zu leben. Ein commitment, das ich bewusst gewählt habe. Wir haben uns beide zusammen für ein gemeinsames Leben entschieden. Es begann mit dem ersten Familienzuwachs eines Hundewelpens und nun erwarten wir unser erstes gemeinsames Kind.

In dem Moment, als ich das Foto von Signe erhielt, schoss mir ungewollt das Gefühl von Wehmut durch den Körper. Ich begann in Erinnerungen an mein Reiseleben zu schwelgen. Ich ertappte mich, wie ich langsam meine Fotogalerie durchscrollte und bewunderte.

Mexiko.

Guatemala.

Galapagos Inseln.

Argentinien.

Dschungel.

Pazifik.

Wüste.

Nachtleben.

“Verdammt”, dachte ich, “Ich habe wirklich viel erlebt.”

Leise wurde ein Gedanke in mir lauter: Habe ich die richtigen Entscheidungen getroffen? Lebe ich nun das Leben, das ich wirklich haben will? Kann ich mir wirklich vorstellen, hier in Peru zu leben und ein Kind großzuziehen? Kann ich überhaupt Mama sein? Will ich das überhaupt?

Zweifel schossen mir durch den Kopf und ließen mich die Stirn kraus ziehen. Angestrengt dachte ich nach:

Wo wäre ich, wenn ich meinen Freund nicht kennen gelernt hätte? Was würde ich machen? Wo würde ich leben?

Das “was wäre wenn” Spiel begann sich in meinem Kopf wie ein Kinderkarrusell zu drehen. Schneller und immer schneller.

Wollte ich vielleicht doch mein altes Leben zurück?

Es dauerte eine Weile, bis ich mich wieder aus dieser Spirale zurückholen konnte. Doch ich zwang mich, nüchtern auf die Dinge zu blicken und mich nicht von meinen Emotionen davontragen zu lassen.

In meinem Kopf formte sich ein Vergleich, der mich beschwichtigte: Ich hatte meine Schulzeit genossen. Mit allen Höhen und Tiefen war es doch eine sehr ereignisreiche Zeit gewesen, in der viele Erinnerungen entstanden waren. Sobald die Schule abgeschlossen war, war dieser Lebensabschnitt diskussionslos beendet. Die Menschen stoben in verschiedene Richtungen auseinander - mit manchen hielt man Kontakt, mit anderen nicht.
Manchmal schwelge ich mit Schulfreunden noch heute in alten Erinnerungen und wir erheitern uns mit Anekdoten der Schulzeit.

Doch es ist okay, dass diese Zeit der Vergangenheit angehört.

Wäre es mir möglich gewesen, in dieser Zeit stehen zu bleiben, hätte ich all die weiteren Ereignisse meines Lebens nicht zugelassen. Ich hätte mich selbst blockiert und wäre auf dem Fleck stehen geblieben. Ich musste ein Kapitel schließen - auch wenn es unheimlich und wehmütig war - um andere zu öffnen.

Bin ich also nun bereit für den nächsten Schritt, eine Familie zu haben? - so ganz vielleicht nicht. Aber ich werde hineinwachsen. Es wird ein neues Kapitel beginnen, das ganz neue Erinnerungen bringen wird und neue Geschichten schreiben wird.

Und ab und an kann ich voller Hingabe und Bewunderung in den alten Blättern lesen, die ich auf meiner Reise geschrieben habe. All die Erinnerungen und Geschichten, die mich genau hierher geführt haben wo ich jetzt bin.

Der Gedanke gefällt mir, dass das Leben wie ein gutes Buch ist. Auch die spannendsten und schönsten Kapitel müssen zu Ende gehen, damit die Geschichte weiter geht. Und wir wissen nie, ob das nächste Kapitel nicht doch noch einen Tick spannender ist als das letzte.

That is not quite what happened.

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What actually happened was me sitting on the sofa in grey Lima light, watching the same YouTube tutorial over and over again, trying to understand why my hands refused to do what looked so simple on the screen.

The woman in the video moved so easily.

I did not.

My stitches were uneven. Sometimes too tight, sometimes strangely loose. At one point I had no idea whether I had made a mistake or invented a new problem entirely.

It was not peaceful. It was humbling.

And still, I liked it. Not because I was good at it. I am not. But because there was something honest about it. And it’s a challenge.

There was yarn. There were my hands. There was a small visible result. A bad one, maybe, but a result. And for some reason, that felt comforting.

I think being a beginner again is one of the most uncomfortable things for adults.

As children, we are expected to be bad at things. We learn to walk badly before we walk. We write crooked letters before we write words. We fall, try again, forget what we just learned, and nobody is shocked.

But as adults, we get used to knowing who we are.

We become the capable one. The organized one. The creative one. The independent one. The smart one. The one who has experience.

And then suddenly we try something new and there is proof, right in front of us, that we are not good yet.

A first draft that does not say what we wanted it to say.

A new language that makes us sound less intelligent than we are.

A new city where the simplest things suddenly need explanation.

A new job, a new life, a new role, a new body, a new identity.

And there we are again. Awkward. Slower than we want to be. More insecure than we expected.

I have met this version of myself many times. When I first moved abroad and realized that independence feels very different when you do not fully understand the systems around you. When I started teaching online and had to learn how to make a living without the structure of a normal office job. When I began writing publicly and suddenly every sentence felt more exposed. And now again, in pregnancy, where my body is doing something completely new and I am supposed to somehow trust a process I cannot fully control.

Knitting is a small thing compared to all of that. But maybe that is why it shows the lesson so clearly.

You cannot rush it.

You cannot pretend your way into being good.

You cannot skip the ugly part.

You have to sit there and let your hands learn what your brain already thinks it understands. That is the frustrating part.

We often understand things long before we are able to live them.

We understand that change takes time.

We understand that new beginnings are messy.

We understand that nobody starts as an expert.

But then we begin something and still expect ourselves to be graceful immediately.

I do this all the time.

I want the courage of a beginner, but the confidence of someone who has already mastered the thing. I want the freedom of starting over, but not the discomfort that comes with not knowing exactly what I am doing. I want growth, but preferably without the phase where I look a little ridiculous.

And maybe that is the part we do not talk about enough.

Starting over does not only require bravery.

It also requires tolerance. Tolerance for the awkward stage. Tolerance for slow progress. Tolerance for not being able to turn every attempt into a beautiful story while you are still in the middle of it.

Sometimes progress does not feel inspiring. Sometimes it feels like doing the same small thing again, slightly better than yesterday, but still not well enough to be proud of it.

That is where many people stop. Not because they are incapable.

But because being bad at something touches something deeper than the skill itself.

It touches pride, identity, the quiet fear that maybe we are not as talented, brave, disciplined or special as we hoped.

But maybe the question is not whether we are naturally good at the beginning.

Maybe the better question is:

Can I stay with something long enough to let it become mine?

That question feels useful to me right now.

For knitting, yes.

But also for building a life abroad.

For writing.

For motherhood.

For any version of life that is still forming and does not yet feel natural.

Maybe the beginning is not supposed to reassure us all the time. Maybe it is supposed to show us what we do when things do not immediately confirm our self-image.

Do we quit? Do we call it a sign? Do we decide we are simply not that kind of person?

Or do we continue, even a little, even badly, even without a beautiful result yet?

I am trying to choose the last one more often.

Not in a dramatic way. Just by picking up the yarn again. Writing another sentence. Going through another grey day in Lima. Letting this strange season of pregnancy change me without needing to understand every part of it in advance.

There is something calming about remembering that almost everything meaningful begins before it looks good.

A new life.

A new skill.

A new version of yourself.

At first, it may look uneven.

Unclear.

A little disappointing compared to the image you had in your mind. But that does not mean nothing is happening. Sometimes it only means your hands are still learning. And maybe that is enough for today. Not mastery. Not a finished thing. Just the willingness to be bad at the beginning and still return. Stitch by stitch.

Until one day, almost quietly, something has taken shape.

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“Sure! Send me her number and I’ll get in touch with her,” I agree, even though I always found my friend’s family a little unusual.

A few days later, I reluctantly sent Jennifer a message. We began the usual pregnancy small talk.

She was having a girl. She could already feel the kicks. Her belly was growing and had become huge. She wasn’t nauseous anymore, was craving Haribo and burgers, and recommended a book by a midwife who specialized in homeopathy and essential oils.

One day, I proudly sent her a picture of the tiny baby booties I had managed to knit myself. They had plenty of mistakes, weren’t the same size, and the pattern was uneven. But I was proud of them and delighted that I had managed to complete the project in slow motion, with the help of countless YouTube videos. I had never knitted before. Yet it had become a pleasant activity, and I had discovered a new hobby.

Jennifer knitted sweaters with intricate cable patterns, had her own website, and had been selling her handmade knitwear for years. Naturally, she had already knitted three sweaters for her baby girl. And an extra blue one as well, just in case it turned out to be a boy after all, since the prediction was only 80% certain.

Jennifer also gave me advice on dog training, since she had already owned three dogs and was planning to get another puppy once her baby was a few months old.

We exchanged Instagram accounts. She liked all my posts. One evening, lying in bed unable to sleep, I took a closer look at her profile.

The most beautiful nature photos. Stunning mountain panoramas. A picture-perfect trip through America. Her family posing as a happy family in Norway, where part of her extended family came from. A large house. Dogs running around a huge garden. Beautifully set tables. Luxurious country homes owned by her family. Of course, there were plenty of photos of the dogs and the knitted creations too.

With a sigh, I closed the app and switched off the light. I huffed loudly and turned onto my side in frustration. This couldn’t be true. Did I really have that feeling of a lump in my throat? Was I really picturing myself struggling stitch by stitch through my first pair of socks while this woman cheerfully held up her handmade Norwegian sweaters with elaborate colorwork?

It was true.

I was jealous.

Jealous of a woman I didn’t even know. A woman I had only exchanged messages with.

The realization made me think. Suddenly, all my tiredness disappeared and I sat back up in bed.

“Why am I jealous?” I asked myself. “Why do I feel less than her?” It didn’t make any sense.

I’m living the life I chose for myself. I have a wonderful partner who is exactly like the man I once described on a note in my journal when I wrote down everything I wanted in a future partner. I finally have the dog I had dreamed of since childhood. I have a remote job that allowed me to build a life in Peru and work from here. And now my dream of having a family was coming true as well. What more could I possibly want?

But the longer I thought about it and answered my own questions honestly, the more I realized something. I wasn’t jealous of the woman who already had a complicated relationship with the father of her child. I wasn’t jealous of the perfect knitted sweaters either, because I could still appreciate that I was a beginner and celebrate my own little success with those tiny booties. I wasn’t even particularly jealous of the house she lived in.

I was jealous of the security she had.

She didn’t have to worry about money because she had lived off her parents’ wealth her entire life. She didn’t need to work and only did so because she enjoyed it. She had already raised three dogs and knew how to do it properly. Meanwhile, I constantly doubted myself with Ani and wondered whether I was doing things right.

The very security that I had voluntarily given up a few years earlier.

Back then, I quit my job. I gave up my apartment. I bought a one-way ticket and set off into the world. I loved the freedom. The uncertainty. The possibility of deciding every day what came next.

Security wasn’t what I was looking for back then. But something has changed. I’m no longer responsible only for myself. Ever since I found out I’m going to be a mother, I’ve started asking different questions. Questions that would never have crossed my mind as a backpacker: Will my child be okay? Will we have enough? Can I give him the stability he needs? Can I give him the foundation my parents gave me?

Maybe that’s why I was so jealous of Jennifer.

Not because of her house.

Not because of her knitting skills.

Not because of her dogs.

Not even because of her money.

But because of the sense of security her life seemed to radiate.

And suddenly, I understood that my jealousy didn’t actually reveal anything about Jennifer. It revealed something about me.

For the past few years, my most important question had been:

“What makes me feel free?”

Lately, that question has changed. More and more often, I find myself asking:

“What makes me feel safe?”

Jealousy is uncomfortable. But sometimes it points directly to the thing we are currently longing for. Not because someone else’s life is better, but because it reveals something about our own.

Maybe jealousy tells us more about ourselves than about the people we envy.

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I tried calling a few girlfriends in Germany, but they were all enjoying the holiday and the beautiful weather back home and didn’t have time to talk.

In Lima, the weather was grey today. Just like it had been for the past few days. Winter was arriving, which meant that every day, a grey soup would be waiting for me outside my window. “Lima la Gris - Lima the Grey” is what Lima is called during winter.

As I scrolled through my contacts, I became painfully aware once again that I still didn’t have a real social circle in Lima. There was no one I could casually text for a spontaneous coffee. And yet, on that particular day, I would have loved nothing more than a cozy coffee date with someone. I longed for a conversation with a friend where you lose all sense of time and suddenly all your problems feel a little smaller. When you realize that other people struggle with similar things too, and while talking, you once again notice that your life is actually pretty good. A conversation where you can let yourself go and feel emotionally held.

Every now and then, my finger stopped on a name:

Paulina - conversations with her always revolved around her money problems.

Susanne - was job hunting. She was trying to keep herself and her boyfriend afloat with the little money she managed to scrape together.

Daniela - was breaking under the weight of her financial worries and sinking into depression.

Lisa - had massive fears about the future that were showing up as panic attacks.

“Wait a minute,” I suddenly thought. It seemed like I was currently attracting a very specific type of person into my life. All of these women had one thing in common: financial worries and fear of the future.

And suddenly, I realized something: I was projecting my own fears onto my surroundings. I was choosing exactly those women who reflected my own anxieties back to me: How is life supposed to continue? How will I make money? What is my path? Where am I going?

Sighing, I put my phone aside and made a decision: boundaries. I definitely needed boundaries now. These conversations that constantly revolved around financial insecurity filled me with anxiety. Fear was taking up too much space in my mind.
I made a decision that sounds harsh and arrogant, but that felt important for me: from that day on, I distanced myself from contact with these women. Politely, but firmly. It hurt me because they were kind women who saw me as a friend. But I started prioritizing my own needs and paying closer attention to which conversations left me feeling energized and which ones drained me. I decided not to hold onto every connection out of loneliness.

Instead, I put my phone away completely. I went into my office, dug my watercolor paints out of the closet, and started an extensive painting session. I listened to an entertaining true crime podcast, got lost in my colors, and let my imagination run free on paper.

Afterwards, I made myself a cup of tea, let it cool down, and sat on the couch for eleven minutes to do a guided meditation. Gabrielle Bernstein’s abundance meditation, which focuses on connecting your mindset with prosperity and success.

Gabriele Bernstein Meditation

After slowly sipping my tea, I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down three reminders in big letters:

• Meditate daily

• Money flows easily into my life

• I create my own life - guide your thoughts!

  

From now on, I want to consciously shift my focus away from fear of the future and move more into trust. I don’t want to permanently focus my attention on fear and scarcity. Because I know that we create our own lives, and this will be the first step. A conscious step in a different direction. Because change begins with what we focus on. I can’t control what will happen in the future, but I can consciously decide where I direct my thoughts.

Protecting your peace might begin with protecting your attention first.

Have you noticed something in your own behavior that you would like to change? What would you consciously like to change, and what would be the first step? Feel free to share it in the comments.

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The job is okay.

The relationship is okay.

Your everyday life works.

And that’s exactly why you feel guilty for still being unhappy.

Many people wait until something becomes “bad enough.” Until they truly can’t take it anymore.

Until the job becomes unbearable.
Until the relationship completely falls apart.
Until they simply can’t go on anymore.

Only when people are in real pain do they allow themselves to change something. But the feeling that something wasn’t quite right had usually been there much earlier.

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The dangerous thing about a life that no longer fits you is often that it still functions.

You get up in the morning.
You go to work.
You meet friends.

From the outside, nothing looks dramatic. But inside, it starts to feel more and more distant from who you really are.

Looking back, I know that I noticed much earlier that something no longer felt right.

But I waited until I was truly unhappy.
Until I no longer had the motivation to get out of bed in the morning.
Until I dragged myself into the office every day with stomach aches, internally just wanting to escape. My mood was at rock bottom. And that didn’t only affect my work life, but my private life too.

We often only give meaning to our feelings once they become loud enough to completely exhaust us.

Today, I no longer believe you should wait until everything completely falls apart.

Not every change needs a burnout.
Not every resignation needs a nervous breakdown.
Not every ending has to become unbearable before you’re allowed to take it seriously.

Looking back, there were many small signs in my life that I recognize now, but ignored back then. It’s time to seriously think about change when you

• constantly escape into thoughts of a different life.

• become disproportionately stressed over small things.

• have an everyday life that functions, but exhausts you more than it fulfills you.

• secretly hope that something finally happens that forces you to change.

• feel guilty because you think you should be more grateful for your life.

• keep downplaying and suppressing your dissatisfaction, while deep down knowing it exists.

• feel envy toward people who had the courage to change something.

Maybe you don’t need to radically change your life overnight. But be honest with yourself and pay attention to the subtle signals that you yourself notice best. Because at some point, they become so loud that they can turn unhealthy.

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Nico, my Colombian friend, and I are on a road trip through Colombia for a few days. He lives in Bogotá, and we set off by car toward Medellín.

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Driving along adventurous gravel roads, through picturesque Colombian villages, and occasionally encountering herds of goats crossing the street, we use the many hours in the car for deep conversations.

Nico works remotely, but he is unbelievably unhappy with his job. More than anything, he wants to quit.

“Why don’t you do it, Nico?” I ask him.

“I’m scared of what comes after. That black hole worries me. I just don’t dare. It doesn’t feel safe.”

Meanwhile, I tell him that I had gone on a date with a Peruvian guy in Argentina. We had only seen each other for one evening, but he had left such a lasting impression on me that I was thinking about visiting him in Lima a few days later after the road trip.

“Do you think that’s a crazy idea? Flying to another country for a second date?” I ask hesitantly. I was slightly afraid of being judged because even to me, my plan sounded a little absurd.

“That can either go completely wrong, in which case you’ll just get yourself a hostel for the remaining days and explore Peru,” Nico smirks. “Or it becomes one hell of a romantic love story. The chances are probably about 50:50.”

May 2026:

The door opens, and my friend Nico is standing there with a huge smile, a giant backpack on his back, and his arms stretched out toward me. We happily throw ourselves into each other’s arms. Carefully, he makes sure not to squeeze my small round belly too tightly, the one that can no longer be denied. We had both been looking forward to finally sharing our stories and updates. Since our road trip, we hadn’t seen each other again, and so much had happened.

“It’s so good to see you, Nico!” I keep repeating throughout the evening, happy to see my familiar friend again.

Nico is visiting me in my home in Lima. He meets my boyfriend Adrian, and the two of them instantly get along. I cooked delicious roasted vegetables, and while the cutlery clinks and we enjoy our food, we can’t stop talking. Within the last 16 months, so much had changed in our lives:

Back then, I had traveled to Lima, spent five days with Adrian, and then decided to come back two months later and move in with him. I gave up my backpacker nomad life, found a remote job, and started building a completely new life for myself in Lima. I sealed my settling-down phase with an Aussie puppy who moved in with Adrian and me in February 2026. And the cherry on top: I was five months pregnant.

Nico, on the other hand, had gone through the opposite transformation. From a settled employee, he had turned into a backpacker. He had finally taken the leap and quit his job. Afterwards, he traveled to Brazil, focused on his hobby of climbing and mountaineering, and had just fallen in love.

“I know it sounds cheesy, but I think she’s the woman of my life,” he confides shyly. I smile and nod. “I know that feeling. And I don’t think it’s cheesy or unrealistic at all,” I reply, gently stroking my belly.

A day later, we go out for dinner in the evening. I picked a restaurant that serves excellent Peruvian cuisine and is therefore not exactly cheap. Nico had suggested inviting me to dinner to thank me for letting him stay with me.

Nico and I always have deep conversations that make you think. We talk about love, about when we knew we loved our partners, about what had changed in my personality and perception since becoming pregnant, or what changes once you acknowledge your desire to have children and say it out loud.

Sixteen months earlier, we had had very similar conversations. About the topics that occupied our minds. About the questions that had stuck in our heads like glue back then.

In only 16 months, life had completely changed for both of us. Were we prepared for it? - Definitely not.

Had we already known the answers to the questions that were giving us headaches?
- Absolutely not.

So how were we able to deal with all this change? How could we prepare ourselves for it? - We couldn’t. We made our decisions first and only afterwards started figuring out the rest.

I had no idea what it would feel like to put my backpack into a closet and live in a place tens of thousands of kilometers away from my home and my family. I didn’t know what it would feel like to organize my entire daily life around a puppy, to the point where I couldn’t leave the house alone for weeks.

Sometimes it wasn’t easy, but it was all manageable.

Nico and I hold our stomachs laughing. The food had been incredible. When the waiter brings the bill, Nico is already pulling out his wallet. But as fast as lightning, I hold my card against the machine and quickly say, “Ten percent tip, all together!” Nico looks at me in confusion. “But… but I wanted to pay!” he stammers.

“I have a rule,” I explain while folding the receipt and slipping it into my bag. “Friends who quit their jobs and travel the world with a backpack, just like I did, get invited by me. Because I want to give back what I once received. So many kind people invited me without hesitation during my travels. Now that I have a more settled life, I can finally give that back.”

Everything comes in its own time.

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“Ugghhh…. Mission failed”, I mumble. He simply still doesn’t understand that I want him to stay on the blanket. Frustrated, I sit down at the kitchen table. Why doesn’t he just get it?

Later that evening, when my boyfriend comes home and Ani runs excitedly toward him and jumps up on him, the first thing I snap at my boyfriend is, “Ignore him! He’s not allowed to do that!” because I don’t want him jumping on people. My boyfriend tries to get Ani to sit on the floor, and I notice that after his long workday, he simply wants to play with the dog a little and cuddle him instead of strictly correcting him.

During dinner, I complain to my boyfriend that Ani still doesn’t understand that he’s supposed to stay on the blanket. He’s not fully house-trained yet either, and at this rate we’ll never teach him to stop jumping. My boyfriend gently takes my hand and squeezes it. “I understand that you have high expectations, but don’t forget, he’s still a baby! He’s only six months old. He still has so much to learn. Give him time to learn things slowly. I know you’d like it differently, but he’s not going to be the perfect dog right from the start. He needs practice. Like everything in life.” I take a deep breath and nod. He’s so right.

Sometimes, my expectations make me forget what I’ve already achieved. My dog is simply holding up a mirror to me, in a way. I forget that he comes back immediately when I call him outside, that he waits for my permission before eating even when a full bowl is right in front of him. That he already walks pretty well beside me, especially in a chaotic city like Lima, where a hundred distractions are waiting around every corner.

And in the same way, I often forget what I myself have achieved because I focus too much on my ambitious goals. I’m searching for a better-paying job and criticize myself for not researching enough. But I forget that I already managed to leave behind a stable job in Germany and now work remotely while fully financing my life this way. I rarely acknowledge that this is something many people dream of.

Instead of focusing on what I’m lacking and what I want to improve, I should take more time to recognize what I’ve already accomplished.
For example, I found a remote job that keeps me financially afloat. As an English teacher for Germans, I found a niche that is in demand and, most importantly, something I genuinely enjoy. I can organize my own schedule and take time off whenever I want.

On top of that, I now speak three languages fluently. Besides my native language, German, I can express myself very well in English and Spanish too. That’s a gift. Recently, when I called an airline and was waiting in the German queue, they offered me the option to switch to the English line because it was faster. Without hesitation, I accepted and switched to English, because I feel comfortable in both languages.

I learned how to dance salsa and bachata, even though for years I claimed I couldn’t move my body. By now, I can easily keep up with advanced hobby dancers on the dance floor.

But that process took a few years. It didn’t happen within six months.

Maybe Ani really isn’t the only one who learns slowly.

Maybe I simply expect too much from both of us sometimes.

Maybe I’m not the only one who forgets to look back sometimes.

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I was still lying in bed, but I immediately started a video call. While it was ringing, I prayed that my gut feeling was wrong. My mother picked up. I wasn’t wrong.

“Something terrible has happened.” Her eyes were red. She had been crying.

“David has died.” My cousin, who had grown up with us like a brother. Ten years older than me, has a daughter who is seven years old, never touched alcohol, lived a healthy life, an artist living in Berlin.

“They suspect cardiac arrest. He was found dead in his bed. The biopsy will explain everything in a few days.”

I couldn’t hear anything after that. I had suddenly sat upright in bed. My breathing became fast and heavy, yet I felt like I couldn’t get any air. My vision blurred as tears ran down my face and dripped onto the bedsheet.

My mother kept talking, explaining things, mentioning my uncle and aunt, but I couldn’t hear her anymore. A dark fog began to surround me, settling heavily on my body. Since the exact cause of death was still unclear, she promised to keep me updated. I hang up.

Since my boyfriend doesn’t understand a word of German, he hadn’t understood anything from the conversation. But he opened his arms, pulled me close, and held me. “What happened?” he whispered into my ear. I buried my head deep into his arms, my body shaking with sobs.

My mind was empty. Suddenly, memories flickered in front of my eyes. David and I in a restaurant, the adults deep in conversation, while he patiently drew with me on a piece of paper. I must have been six.
Christmas a few years ago, when my brother and sister had decided to celebrate on their own with their small families, and David and I insisted on keeping the tradition alive and doing “everything as always.” Which meant the two of us driving to the holiday house for lunch and cooking the pea soup we didn’t even like, but it was part of Christmas. As it always was.

My brother and David were a complete comedy show. The two of them entertained the whole family. Especially as kids, they spent a lot of time together, and every time they met, they brought those stories back to life.

David is gone now. How can that be? We are the same generation. We grow old together. Our parents go before us. That’s the order. It never once crossed my mind, not even in my wildest imagination, that I would have to say goodbye to him so early.

My boyfriend gently stroked me. Between my sobs, I tried to explain in simple words what had happened. It felt like my Spanish vocabulary had disappeared.

He held me tight. We stayed silent. The tears kept falling.

Throughout the day, I spoke on the phone with my sister. With my brother. With my father. No one could believe it. At times, we could barely understand each other because our voices kept breaking.

In moments like this, I curse the distance. I just want to be home. Surrounded by my family, who can understand this grief. It feels like a part of my childhood has been torn away. Memories that never faded because my cousin and my brother kept retelling them will now slowly begin to blur. Fading into the past for good.

Again and again, I run my hand over my belly. Every now and then, I can feel this little being inside me. Like a butterfly fluttering in my stomach.

We come into this world only to leave it again. No one knows when that time will come. This hit me very hard again. Sometimes I forget about it.

Even a day later, I still haven’t fully understood what has happened. Everything still feels like a dream. A bad dream. I keep looking at pictures of my cousin, trying to make sense of it.

I’m tempted to book a flight home. Even though my budget wasn’t meant for it, since I’ll be flying in three months anyway. But I can’t bring myself to miss the funeral. On one hand, because I want to say goodbye myself. Maybe my mind will only understand that he is truly gone if I go through this ceremony. On the other hand, I want to be there for my uncle and my aunt, who are suffering the most in this situation. A family has to stick together and be there for each other.

Sometimes I feel like I can’t fully live up to that, because I live so far away.

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I never reached that point.

Somehow, I just never did.

On Tuesday, I celebrated my 37th birthday. That morning, I sat on the couch with a cup of tea and reflected a little on the past few years. I definitely didn’t have any kind of master plan during that time. If someone had told me on my 30th birthday, “In two years, you’ll quit your job, give up your dream of working at BMW, pack your backpack, and spend four years traveling through South America. In the end, you’ll fall in love with Peru, settle there, and start a family,” I would have laughed out loud and said, “You’re crazy!”

I would have never imagined giving up my apartment in Germany, selling my car, and taking on the craziest jobs just to make good money quickly. I would have never thought that I would plant around 60,000 trees in the forests of Canada, sell about 2,500 liters of beer at Oktoberfest, or work as a waitress in a remote hut in the Swiss mountains that could only be reached on foot or by helicopter.

Did I ever imagine my life would look like this? Definitely not.

Was I happy with these decisions? Hell yeah. They were the most beautiful and intense years of my life so far. I have never felt so happy, so free, and so completely myself.

The most important thing I learned from all of this is:

Most people only start moving once they know where they’re going.

I started moving and figured it out along the way.

Back then, I didn’t quit my job because I was brave. I quit because I couldn’t go on like that anymore. Every day, I dragged myself to work feeling more and more unhappy. I had no motivation left. The days passed slowly, and it felt like I had to force myself into the office every single day. When my male colleague received his second promotion and I was still waiting for mine, and he eventually became my boss, I pulled the plug. I couldn’t keep working like that. I stood up for myself and handed in my resignation that same day.

And from that moment on, there was no plan anymore. I packed my backpack and started my travel adventure through South America.

Looking back now, everything feels simple. As if one thing had naturally led to the next. But it didn’t. I felt uncertain. I didn’t know where to place my thoughts when I tried to imagine the months ahead. I simply couldn’t answer the question, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” I didn’t even know where I saw myself in two months.

I had ideas, thought them through, and then decided whether to follow them or not. There was no plan. There was only one constant: if something didn’t feel right or didn’t sit well with me, I didn’t stay.

I learned to stand up for myself and set boundaries. I didn’t feel comfortable in the hut in Switzerland, I didn’t like the work environment. Instead of pushing through, like I would have done in the past, I decided to leave a month earlier than planned.

I didn’t plan to live in Peru. And I would have never imagined this life for myself. It didn’t come from clarity. It came from decisions I made even when I couldn’t explain them.

You don’t need a plan.
You just need to stop choosing what you already know doesn’t fit.

There’s probably a quiet voice that has been telling you for a long time what no longer feels right in your life. The real question is: how much longer do you want to stay there?

All my love,
your Alemana

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“It’s a BOY!”

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Beaming with joy, everyone came up to me and my boyfriend, hugging us and congratulating us. My legs were shaking, tears were streaming down my face.

“Thank you!”

I kept stammering over and over again. People came up to hug me, smiling at me, telling me how happy they were for us. I was only half listening. In my other ear, I heard a mix of German voices. My family, on the other side of the world, was connected to us live through a video call. They were all talking at once, starting to guess names and laughing loudly.

I hugged people, laughed, let them gently touch my small bump, and kept whispering softly into my AirPod, explaining what was happening, who was with me, or what had just been said.

Even though I found it difficult to be fully present with the guests in Peru while also giving my full attention to my family in my ear, it was still a heartwarming feeling to be able to share this special moment with both sides of the family. Thousands of kilometers apart, in completely different time zones, yet emotionally just as present as if they were standing right next to me.

After the reveal, my boyfriend and I were supposed to say a few words to the guests. Suddenly, my heart was pounding in my throat. I don’t like speaking in front of many people, and certainly not in Spanish, my weakest of the three languages I speak. I took a deep breath, and the words came out of my mouth without much thought:

“I don’t even know what to say because I’m completely overwhelmed. Not only by the fact that we’re having a baby boy, but also by how I’ve been welcomed here like family. I’ve received so much warmth and love today, so many kind words, tight hugs, and genuine tears of joy.”

I had to pause for a moment and swallow. The emotions had left me with a lump in my throat. Quietly, tears of emotion rolled down my cheeks. I cleared my throat and quickly finished my speech:

“Having my own family here through a live video call meant so much to me. But realizing that I don’t just have one family in Germany, but now also one here in Peru, makes me incredibly happy. And this doesn’t only matter to me. I’m especially happy because this isn’t just true for me, but also for my little son, who will have two very different families on two different continents, both ready to welcome him with open arms and love him deeply.”

I raised my glass to symbolically toast with everyone and managed to say only, “Gracias! THANK YOU!”

For a long time, I have been wondering whether it was possible to have two families. Whether one might eventually replace the other, simply because it was closer and more involved. But on that day, I realized that I would never have to choose between them. They wouldn’t compete with each other, but instead complement each other in a very special way.

People were still talking to me, hugging me, celebrating. And in my ear, my family was still there too. Laughing. Talking. Trying to be part of a moment happening thousands of kilometers away.

For a moment, it didn’t feel like two separate worlds.

It just felt like mine.

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In any case, I’m now incredibly happy that I no longer have to keep my secret to myself. Finally, I can talk about it. Who guessed it right?

With love,

Yours,
Alemana

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“I’m allowed to work from home for three months. That means we can actually go to Germany for the birth!” His words were almost tumbling over each other, that’s how excited he was.

For weeks now, if we’re honest, actually from the moment we held the positive pregnancy test in our hands, we had been racking our brains about where we should have the baby. Germany was an attractive option for us because of the medical care, the lower costs of giving birth, and above all the emotional support from my family.

In Peru, I eventually found a clinic that I like and that offers top standards, but of course, you have to pay for that level of service. Giving birth here would cost us several thousand euros. Things like midwives hardly exist. Prenatal classes or postnatal recovery programs are something very exclusive and, above all, expensive.

When my boyfriend called today, I should have felt a weight lift off my shoulders. Instead, my heart sank. I’m working so hard to make Peru my home and then I go back to Germany to have my child just because it’s more convenient and feels safer?

There’s a lump in my throat, as if I were betraying my new home, Peru, with an old flame. Building a life in another country is hard. With the decision to go to Germany for four months to give birth, it feels like a step backward. Like escaping back into safety. Into the warm embrace of my family, who will of course welcome us with open arms.

But what also creeps in is the fear that I might slip back into the “old version” of myself, the one who left Germany almost five years ago. Since leaving my old home, I’ve gone through a personal transformation.

I’m not the same person anymore, and I don’t want to be!

Of course, Germany is still the embodiment of safety for me. It starts with the language, which I speak effortlessly, without thinking. It continues with traditional foods like Weißwurst, which in Bavaria you eat with sweet mustard, a pretzel, and a light wheat beer on a Sunday morning, and it ends with the bureaucratic structures that no one really likes, but at least I understand them. My entire family lives in Germany, more or less in the same place. That makes this small town my safe harbor. It’s the town where I grew up. Where, as a little girl, I raced through the streets on my bike, had my first kiss as a teenager, and went swimming in the lake at night with my long-time school friends. Since becoming pregnant, I’ve been longing so much for a walk by that very lake, because for me, there is no safer or calmer place in the world.

But Peru is my adventure. The loud city where the constant honking of cars fills the air. You’re always hearing some megaphone, calling out with a loud “Moo!” to sell fresh cow’s milk, or a rattling motorbike with a little shop attached to the front, selling strawberries or grapes and loudly advertising them. From the street vendors, loud salsa or reggaeton music fills the air. The people are friendly and, above all, curious. Always up for a little chat, always interested in where I’m from, because I don’t exactly look Peruvian.

In Peru, I see the courage I had to start over. I see the determination with which I quit my 9-to-6 job and started to truly live life. I’ve so often preached how important it is to leave security behind and move forward with courage.

And now - here I am, facing a decision that somehow feels so contradictory. Germany, the old love, suddenly becoming attractive again, winking at me in a tempting way.

Does this sudden desire for safety mean I’m taking a step backward in my new life? Can I feel at home in two countries at the same time? And the big question that keeps circling in my mind: am I passing this inner conflict on to my child, who will always live between two worlds? Half German, half Latino, two such different cultures and ways of life that are there from the very beginning.

An intercultural relationship will probably never be easy. And this conflict will likely never be fully resolved. I thought I had already chosen a new life, but it seems that this decision is never as simple as I once believed.

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Who else knows this feeling of being torn between two worlds? Feel free to share your story in the comments.

With love,

Yours,
Alemana

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My boyfriend and I had agreed that we would forward the results to a close friend, who would organize a gender reveal party. We both love surprises and thought, it would be a cute event. But apparently, I was still a bit sleepy after my nap that I tapped so clumsily on the screen that the email opened right away.

My eyes fell on two lines. The first said that our baby was completely healthy. First, a wave of relief. Then I stared for a split second at line two.

There it was, in bold: the sex.

Startled, I squeezed my eyes shut, as if I could still shield myself from the unwanted information. My heart was pounding in my throat. This moment had been planned differently. In two weeks, there was supposed to be a big celebration in the park, with friends and family. My boyfriend and I were meant to experience the surprise together, at the same time as everyone else.

I wanted to share this important moment instead of experiencing it alone. And now the worst part: I have to carry this secret with me for two (!) weeks. After all, I don’t want to take that surprise away from my boyfriend. It was enough that I had already ruined this moment for myself.

Sitting alone with this news overwhelmed me. Even though I didn’t have a preference when it came to the sex, I had been absolutely convinced it would be the other one. That made the surprise even bigger. I would have loved to share my astonishment immediately, to let out a loud scream and throw myself into my boyfriend’s arms, laughing.

Instead, I now have to bite my tongue with every word. Every sentence I exchange with him about the baby has to be chosen carefully, so I don’t give anything away with a “he” or “she.” Every time something slipped out that could be interpreted, a wave of heat rushed through my body and I hoped he hadn’t noticed anything.

I forwarded the email to our friend as planned and didn’t mention a single word about having already opened it. She was so excited and fully immersed in organizing everything. I didn’t want to take that joy away from her.

Now, whenever someone asks me, “So, do you already know what it’s going to be?”, I have to put on a poker face and smile as I lie: “No, we’ll find out in two weeks!” Inside, I’m twisting, wanting to scream. I’m not good at lying.

Carrying this big secret on my own weighs on me. I had imagined this moment as something legendary for both of us. My boyfriend and I standing side by side, hand in hand, mouths open in surprise. We would look at each other and burst into joy. But now, it feels like I’m betraying that moment. Acting it out. Dishonest. Fake.

Maybe it’s not a moment you’re meant to experience alone. Or have I lost myself in the idea of the perfect moment? I always thought these moments were meant to be shared. But for now, it’s just my own moment.

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The only beautiful thing about this situation is that my connection to the little being in my belly has deepened even more. Ever since I know who is in there, I feel an even stronger bond. My thoughts drift into the future, I already find myself picking out clothes and picturing our little family in my mind. I can hardly wait to finally share these moments in my head with my boyfriend.

7 more days!

The countdown is on. And wish me luck that I can keep my mouth shut.

All my love,

Yours,
Alemana

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But no one had warned me how hard it is to start over in a new country. No one could tell me how difficult it would be to feel at home in such a foreign place the way I was used to feeling in my own country.

I had imagined it to be incredibly romantic. After four years on the road, I had finally found my prince and was ready to settle down with him. We skipped the cautious getting-to-know-each-other phase, and I moved straight into his apartment in Lima. We were both ready to invest in a relationship that had potential for the future. We both longed for a family of our own and stability in a partnership, and we found the perfect match in each other.

Full of euphoria, I stepped into my new life in Peru. Finally, I could join a yoga studio, sign up for a gym, and take regular dance classes. I expected that within a short time I would have built a social circle, found my routines, and that I wouldn’t miss Germany at all, just like I usually haven’t missed it when I was traveling.

I had longed so much for the feeling of finally arriving.
But instead of relief, something entirely different appeared: loneliness.

I felt terribly lonely in a big city that seemed very foreign to me. My boyfriend was at work all day, and I was on my own the entire time.

While traveling, I found foreign cultures and different ways of life exciting and fascinating. The moment they started to affect my everyday life, they became exhausting. For example, I didn’t understand the bus system in Lima, so I either had to walk, which slowed me down, or take an Uber, which became expensive.

As a backpacker, it was easy for me to find like-minded people. In hostels, I quickly connected with new people, we teamed up, and spontaneously traveled small parts of our journey together. But now I was no longer a backpacker. Going to a hostel just to meet people who would leave again in four days didn’t make much sense. That brought me to my biggest challenge: I found it really hard to make friends.

The realization that I had been searching for stability, and now first had to learn that I needed to redefine and rebuild everything that gave me a sense of grounding, really got to me. Slowly, I began to understand a few things that hadn’t turned out the way I had imagined:

To find stability in this foreign country, I had to make compromises.

The traffic in Lima is terrible. I actually love driving, but in this chaos I don’t dare to get behind the wheel. Having your own means of transport is, for me, the essence of freedom: quickly driving to the store, heading to the beach, going dancing in the evening. None of that was possible. At first, it paralyzed me, until I accepted it and started looking for solutions. I invested in an expensive bike. It wasn’t quite as ideal as a car, but it was faster than walking and cheaper than taking a taxi. Even if, as a cyclist, you have to pay just as much attention to traffic as a driver.

I had to learn and accept being alone, at least for a while.

Making friends is a long process that can’t really be planned. With this new beginning, I was on my own at first. Instead of missing what I didn’t have, I started to actively use the extra “me time” I suddenly had. I painted a lot again, meditated, and explored the city on long walks by myself.

Patience. Settling in a new country takes time.

To get used to all the new routines and rules in a place as foreign as Peru, you need time. Expecting to feel at home within a short period only hurt me. I allowed myself to take the process slowly. Peru and Germany are fundamentally different. When I made plans with someone and they showed up 45 minutes late, I took it personally at first. But I had to understand and gradually internalize these cultural differences. No one here is on time. If I insist on my German punctuality, I will always be the one waiting. I can like that or not, but I have to accept it. And that process takes time. Time I need to give myself.

When I put my clothes into my boyfriend’s closet and proudly closed the door, I thought, “Now I’ve finally arrived.” But I had to learn that arriving is a long process, one that will still take some time.

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Have you ever felt like you arrived somewhere… but not really?
I’d love to hear your experience and read you in a comment.

I’m still figuring this out.
Maybe you are too.

Love,
Your Alemana

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Since 5 a.m., this little puppy has been keeping me on my toes. I would have loved to stay in bed, cuddle up to my partner and enjoy the day off. Instead, I was out in the early morning streets, shouting every few meters: “Leave it!”, “Drop it!”, “Come here!”. Ani, our five-month-old Aussie, passionately eats everything he can find. In a dirty city like Lima, that’s a real challenge. I regularly pull things like paper clips, chocolate bar wrappers, dead birds or old burgers out of his mouth.

Today, my patience was paper-thin. Ani started barking loudly in the apartment and I couldn’t calm him down. No breakfast, four months pregnant, nerves as thin as dental floss. It didn’t take much before I stood in the kitchen, sobbing. What had I gotten myself into with this desire to have a child AND a dog? Now I couldn’t handle the dog alone.

In the afternoon, my boyfriend suggested we go for a little stroll to the boulevard in Miraflores. We wanted to take a sunset walk. For Ani, car rides are new territory. He’s afraid to get in on his own and is clearly uncomfortable and nervous during the ride. I held him in my arms, calmed him down and after 20 minutes of soothing and petting, we reached the other part of the city. The walk turned out to be a lovely experience for all three of us. We strolled along the boulevard, admired the orange-red fireball slowly disappearing into the ocean, and explained to about 300 people what breed Ani is, this “beautiful and incredibly cute dog.”

On the way home, Ani was quiet. Too quiet. I didn’t like this stillness, and I was right not to. After ten minutes, a wave of his stomach contents poured over my lap and the gear shift. Apart from the fact that I have a phobia of vomit, I’ve developed a “super nose” during my pregnancy and am extremely sensitive to smells. Once again, tears rolled down my cheeks. If Ani couldn’t handle car rides, I wouldn’t be able to leave the house at all anymore.

One thought kept coming back to me: I am no longer free. I have limited my life. And the worst part was, this was only the beginning. After all, in half a year I would have a tiny little being who would restrict my life even more.

Have I already lost the nine months of freedom I still had in my first pregnancy because of a puppy? Can a backpacker be happy if she becomes tied to one place within just a year? Is this still me?

Ani’s nausea triggered an avalanche of doubts and fears in me. I felt like I no longer knew how my life was supposed to continue. How will I earn money if I have to stop working for several months as a self-employed teacher? Will I lose my students if I take a longer break? Will I be happy in Lima with a child or will I miss the feeling of bare feet in fresh grass every single day?

Pregnancy forces you to confront your values in a very intense way. Things I had never really thought about before suddenly become present. What kind of future do I want for my child? How should it grow up? What did I value about my own childhood, what would I like to recreate and what would I do differently?

After sitting with all these thoughts for a few days, the waves are slowly beginning to calm. I can gradually push aside my fear of having lost my freedom. Everything new is scary. Every ending brings discomfort, but every ending is also a new beginning.

I would be the last person to want a linear life. Everything comes in its own time. For now, I won’t focus on traveling the world and discovering the most remote places. For now, I will focus on giving a small child the safety and stability that I needed in order to explore the world later on. I was only able to take those trips because I knew my parents would always give me a roof over my head. That I could always come home and that I always had emotional support. It’s time to build that stability so that “Mini A” can one day explore the world too.

There are two things children should receive from their parents: roots and wings.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Who can relate to these fears you go through during pregnancy? To all the moms out there, feel free to leave me a comment. I’d love to hear from you.

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Whether you’re a parent or a backpacker, settled or caught in routines. Thank you for reading. It feels so good to put these thoughts onto paper.

All my love,

Yours,
Alemana

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It was different with friends who are close to me. Isn’t it interesting how well you know your friends, that you expect a certain reaction? That there are people you tell immediately and others you’d rather wait a bit longer before telling?

The first person I wanted to tell was Rose. She already has two children herself and would be incredibly happy about the news.

Then came my closest friend, Marlene. With her, I’ve had the most adventurous trips. Together we’ve climbed the highest mountain peaks, dived into the depths of the oceans, hiked for days through the Swedish wilderness with nothing but a tent and a backpack or slept on lonely mountain summits under the stars on warm summer nights. Marlene is the embodiment of freedom. Since we tell each other everything, I told her about this life event as well. Her reaction was even a bit more drastic than expected: “Oh SHIT!”….. for her, children represent the ultimate restriction of her freedom.

After that, my friend Lisa called me. I had tried to postpone talking to her for as long as possible, because I knew this news would sting. She’s in a complicated situation: she would like to have children, but her partner “is not ready yet.” Unfortunately, she’s not sure if he ever will be. She’s stuck in this paralyzing situation where she doesn’t see a way out…. Stay? Hope that he changes his mind? Break up? Then find a new partner with whom she can imagine starting a family? And all of this under time pressure, because she’s already 37.
When I spoke to Lisa on the phone, she was clearly happy for me, but I could sense a dim veil settling over her. A veil of contemplation.

At my last ultrasound, I was suddenly moved from week 10 to week 12. That damn 12th week had been hanging over me like a sword of Damocles. They say that after week 12 you can finally breathe a little easier, because the risk of miscarriage drops significantly. So I had been anxiously waiting for that moment and suddenly, just like that, it arrived two weeks earlier than expected. Now I can actually share my secret openly. Since there’s no visible bump yet (only if you know me really well and know about it) the whole situation still feels somewhat unreal. That’s why I still find it a bit difficult to communicate it openly. But since my boyfriend and I agreed that once we reach week 12, we would start making plans about where to have the baby (in Germany or Peru), it’s really time now to face the serious questions and fully realize the situation.

I’m putting together a pros and cons list for Peru or Germany. Maybe you can think of a decisive argument that I’ve missed. I’m grateful for any help:

Peru:

• My boyfriend can get a maximum of two months off. However, we would need to stay in Germany for at least three, if not four months. That means I would be alone for about three weeks before and after the birth, while he stays in Peru. I don’t want to exclude him or take away that time with me and the newborn.

• Peru is our center of life. We could immediately establish a routine here and stick to it.

• My parents have already offered to come for six weeks once the baby is born.

• We could spend two relaxed months in Germany over Christmas and be together the entire time.

Germany:

• I would be insured. In Peru, I would most likely have to pay for the birth myself, and that’s at least €4000 (if everything runs smoothly. I don’t want to imagine any complications…)

• I would have my family around me—not just my parents, but also my sister, nieces, aunt, uncle, etc.

• There are midwives. That doesn’t really exist in Peru. Overall, the support during childbirth in Germany seems much more intensive and secure to me.

• I can speak in my native language—which I imagine would be very helpful in such an exceptional situation as giving birth. On the other hand, my boyfriend wouldn’t understand anything, since he doesn’t speak German and only a little English.

I find this decision incredibly difficult, and it will probably take me quite some time. If anyone has a helpful addition, I’d be very happy to read your comment.

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Thank you so much for reading! Have a wonderful day and see you soon,

Love,

La Alemana

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Now I’m settling down on the other side of the world, in a relationship, with a four-month-old puppy in the house AND I’m pregnant. Boom.

My father asked me today how I felt. And to be honest, that was a very good question, one that is still echoing in my mind. I will try to explain what’s going on in my mind:

Two or three years ago, I was roaming through South America like a vagabond, lingering in cities like Cali, Colombia and Buenos Aires, Argentina. I felt free of responsibility, unattached and able to do whatever I felt like. They were the lightest and happiest years of my life.

During the summer, I would find a job where I could (and had to) work a lot and earn good money quickly. I didn’t hesitate to take on two jobs at once, sometimes working 16 hours a day for at least four days a week. After all, I always had one goal in mind: to soon return to my carefree vagabond life and keep enjoying it.

And then my boyfriend entered the stage of my life. And I decided to replace my big backpack with three even bigger suitcases and dragged my entire wardrobe from Germany to Lima.

Lima hasn’t become my dream city yet. If it were only about me, I wouldn’t stay here. But now it’s not just about me - it’s also about my partner. He can’t just pack up and leave overnight, because he is deeply rooted here. On top of that, there’s the language barrier (he only speaks Spanish) which definitely makes an international job search more difficult.

So for now, the plan is to stay here. And how do I feel about that? I have mixed feelings. I definitely miss having friends. There’s no one here I would call just to spend time together. Since I’m in a rather dissatisfied place myself, I seem to attract people who are also struggling with a lot of problems and worries. So far, I haven’t really clicked with anyone.

On top of that, the thought of the future naturally intimidates me. I’m in my 10th week of pregnancy. In just seven months, I’ll be holding a tiny little being in my arms who depends on me. And then I won’t be able to work for a while. As a self-employed teacher, that’s a very scary thought, especially since I’ve always been financially independent. This break makes me dependent on my boyfriend, who, with his Peruvian salary, can’t exactly work miracles either. We’ll survive, but I don’t want to live hand to mouth.

Since then, I’ve been thinking intensely about how to change my money mindset.

How do I get myself to truly believe that everything will be okay and that I will be financially successful? Does anyone have advice? What would you recommend?

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I’m looking forward to your responses in the comments and grateful for every suggestion.

Thanks for reading! With love,

Your Alemana

For years, I wrote in my diary every single day. It was my evening ritual. I have boxes full of notebooks, filled with my thoughts, secret wishes and everyday experiences. I started when I was 11 years old.

About three ago, I slowly began to fall out of the habit of writing. I tried to catch up on all the days once a week. It started to feel like something I had to do, no longer something I wanted to do. Now I write a small page every few months. When something very special happens.

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I couldn’t say that my life has become less exciting. Quite the opposite I think. Right now, such groundbreaking, life-changing things are happening that I absolutely want to start writing a diary again. Substack gave me the spark of an idea. Why not share my diary? Turn it into a ritual? Maybe it will give me the motivation to write regularly again if a community supports me.

The next tricky question that arises is: where do I start? There are a million things I would love to share beforehand. I want to explain who I am, what I do, what I’m working on and what lies ahead. But since you normally don’t give your diary a long introduction about yourself and just start writing into it, the beginning here will probably also be a little chaotic.

Still, here comes an overview in a far-too-fast format that doesn’t even come close to giving justice to the events of the past few years. But somehow I want to pick you up along the way:

• I’m from Germany, I’m 36 years old, 1.73 meters tall and shoe size 39 (okay, too much information — I’ll try to stick to the essentials).

• In 2021 I quit my job as an event manager and set off on a backpacking trip. It was supposed to last three months and somehow turned into several years.

• I never returned to my original job.

• I traveled alone through Central and South America for several years, spending a lot of time in Colombia and Argentina.

• I discovered salsa and bachata dancing and, with it, a completely new side of myself. I not only found my self-confidence but also a new awareness of my body, and I would say that dancing turned me into a different person.

• All my life I didn’t have much luck with men. It was a frustrating topic. Until I decided to change my pattern and stop looking for the bad boys. I faced my biggest fears - and so it happened that:

• I met a Peruvian man in Argentina. We went on exactly one date. Two months later, I decided to visit him in Peru for five days “while passing through”. Two months after that, I stood in front of his door in Lima with my backpack and asked if he could maybe make a little space in his closet. I moved in.

• Since then, I’ve been living in Lima. That was exactly a year ago. My wild journey is coming to an end and I’m settling down. A strange and beautiful feeling at the same time. Depending on the day, my feelings about it change.

• I had always wanted to have a dog. As soon as I could write, I started asking Santa Claus to please bring me a dog. Sadly, he never granted my wish. My parents probably didn’t put in a good word for me. So I finally had to fulfill my childhood dream myself. Almost three weeks ago now, Ani moved in with us. A four-month-old Australian Shepherd puppy. He turns everything upside down, chews on everything and wants lots of love. A little baby, basically. Speaking of that. Last but not least:

• A little over a month ago, I held a positive pregnancy test in my hands. We had consciously started letting it happen if it happened, but because of my gynecological history I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.

  Here we go: week 9. I’m dealing with the usual first-trimester symptoms: paralyzing fatigue that feels like sleeping illness, sudden loud gagging when a smell reaches my nose that I find disgusting (and there are surprisingly many of those. Even my own perfume!). On the bright side, my breasts are finally growing. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this B-cup! More boobs and no belly yet! Hooray!

I would love it if you joined me on my journey. As I said, it will be a chaotic start. If something is unclear along the way, leave me a comment and I’ll explain it in more detail.

And one last thing: please don’t tell anyone that I’m pregnant. It’s still a secret ;)

Thank you for reading! Thank you for joining my ride.

Love,

Your Alemana.