My parents shared a deep passion for architecture and landscape design. Before they turned forty, they had already purchased three plots of land in different areas around Aarhus in Denmark. On two of those plots, they built homes — each surrounded by lovingly crafted gardens that reflected their creativity and dedication. The first house they built was a summer home located near the sea at P. Baatrupsvej 52 in Odder south of Aarhus. My parents designed and built both the house and the garden themselves, investing countless hours in every detail. I was told that we spent much of my early childhood there, and I have heard wonderful stories of playing in puddles after rain and feeding the pigeons in the yard. Those simple moments, surrounded by the care and beauty my parents created, were full of warmth and joy. 

Asking my mother why she and my father invested in / bought land, houses, cars, furniture, kitchen appliances and many other things over a relatively short period of time, she explained to me that that was the norm at that time. Everyone did it. House prices and inflation were rising quickly. That created, I understood, a sense of urgency in the minds and hearts of many people. People felt they needed to buy things before prices climbed even higher, fearing they might fall behind if they did not keep up. According to my mother, there was also a powerful social element at play: When neighbors, friends, or relatives purchased something new - whether a set of plates, a car, or living room furniture - others felt compelled to do the same. From the stories that my mother shared with me, I understood that many people were caught in a cycle of comparison. They wanted to impress others by owning bigger, nicer, or more fashionable possessions. Competition subtly shaped everyday life - even within families and circles of friends - as people measured their success by the things they owned. And when matching or surpassing others was not possible, jealousy often crept in - thereby straining relationships and fueling further discontent.

This envy, residing quietly in people’s minds and hearts, often fueled negative emotions that undermined both self-love and compassion for others. Not only did people stop appreciating themselves. Just as importantly, people stopped appreciating people they compared themselves with. As my mother described it, many built their lives on the belief that owning similar or more impressive things than others would elevate their social status. Higher status within their communities was seen as the key to feeling respected, admired, and loved. People assumed that through material success, they would find happiness and peace of mind - that more possessions would lead to more satisfaction, ease, and comfort in life. This narrative, common since the 1950s, shaped an era of relentless striving. There seemed to be no natural boundary to what people wanted or how quickly they wanted to achieve it. Accumulation became a measure of worth, and the faster one acquired, the better life was presumed to be. Beneath the surface, however, that pursuit often left little room for genuine contentment or deeper connection.

When I asked my mother to explain more about why this development had taken place, she told me it was rooted in the experiences of World War II and the years that followed. During and shortly after the war, people owned very little. It was a time marked by scarcity, rationing, and a collective awareness of limitation. Yet, despite - or perhaps because of - these material constraints, communities were exceptionally strong. People connected everywhere - on the streets, in trams, in shops and offices, in factories, at home, in cafeterias, and even at the local dance halls. They talked, shared stories, and helped each other with whatever needed to be done. Daily life was built on mutual support and genuine presence. According to my mother, there was a tangible sense of togetherness and trust that shaped both private and public life. In many neighborhoods, doors were literally open. Even front doors of homes were left unlocked, allowing neighbors and friends to come and go freely. This openness reflected a spirit of ease and belonging - a culture where people felt seen, valued, and safe. My mother remembered it as a time when community was not something people sought out intentionally; it simply existed, woven naturally into everyday life.

Over the years, the open, trusting, and caring cultures my mother remembered gradually transformed. Communities once grounded in togetherness, love, and mutual support slowly gave way to cultures increasingly focused on competition, social status, power, and personal safety. This transition did not happen overnight; it evolved through a series of social and technological changes that subtly reshaped daily life. One such change was mobility. People began travelling alone in their cars instead of sharing trams, buses, or trains with others. Journeys that had once been social - filled with conversation and small acts of kindness — became solitary experiences behind closed doors. At the same time, many families moved from city apartments, where they lived close to a mix of people, into individual houses surrounded by private gardens and fences. New designs for doors, windows, locks, and hedges offered comfort and a sense of security, yet they also created physical and psychological boundaries. What was gained in safety and independence often came at the expense of openness, spontaneity, and togetherness. Gradually, intimacy between neighbors faded. People no longer dropped by unannounced or chatted outside as often as before. The shared rhythms of daily life gave way to privacy, protection, and the pursuit of personal success - reshaping how people related to one another and to their communities.

From the stories I heard, I came to understand that many people born in the 1930s and 1940s carry within them two contrasting ways of living, shaped by the changing times they experienced. On one hand, they learned to value speed and abundance - the post-war belief that acquiring more, and doing so quickly, could lead to a better and more comfortable life. On the other hand, they still hold onto a deep-seated instinct from their childhood years of scarcity: the desire to keep and preserve everything they have. These two mindsets coexist in their minds - often in quiet tension. As a result, many hold on to vast collections of possessions accumulated over a lifetime - things kept “just in case,” or because letting go feels like losing a part of the past. At the same time, they continue to buy new items, now relatively easily available thanks to mass production, robotics, and economies of scale. The outcome is that many homes have gradually turned into small storerooms, filled with objects in cupboards, basements, and attics - physical traces of decades of changing values and needs. Beneath all of this lies a profound question, one that rarely seems to be voiced: What was the purpose? Was it truly about comfort and security - or were peopple searching for something deeper? My understanding is that behind these layers of material abundance lies a longing for meaning, connection, and continuity - something that possessions alone could not fully satisfy.

My mother told me that in 1962, two years after my parents married and eight years before I was born, she thought that she had become pregnant. The reason she thought that she had become pregnant was that a week after that she would normally have her menstruation, she had not yet had her menstruation. At that time, both of my parents had relatively low salaries. My father as well as my mother thought that because of their low salaries, it would not be the right time to have a child. They wanted to wait to have a child until their salaries would increase. As a consequence of this decision, my mother contacted a doctor in Aarhus. The doctor gave her a pill, which she swallowed. The next day, my mother had her menstruation. And when she called the doctor to say that she had had her menstruation, the doctor said that the pill would not work so quickly. It was the doctor's belief, my mother said, that even she had not swallowed the pill, she would have gotten her menstruation anyway. 

Later in the 1960s, as the income of my parents improved, they decided it was the right time to start a family. However, conceiving a child turned out to be unexpectedly difficult. In 1965, both my mother and father underwent medical examinations at a hospital’s gynecology department to understand what might be causing the challenges. The doctors discovered, I learned from my mother, that my father had a relatively low sperm count, which explained the difficulties they had been experiencing. Determined to build a family nonetheless, my parents began exploring alternative paths to parenthood. In 1968, they enrolled with an organization that specialized in facilitating adoptions from Tanzania. Deeply committed to this new chapter, they planned to learn the local language and eventually travel to Tanzania in anticipation of welcoming a child into their lives.

While my parents were in the process of applying for child adoption, they continued to seek advice and support regarding fertility. They consulted various specialists and even reached out to a veterinarian, hoping for a fresh perspective. The veterinarian recommended that both my mother and father increase their intake of vitamins A, B, and C. In particular, he suggested that vitamin A could help improve my father’s sperm count and make my mother’s body more receptive to conception. At the end of December 1969, my parents took a holiday in Las Palmas, on the Spanish island of Gran Canaria. It was during that time that I was conceived. When they returned to Switzerland in early January 1970, they visited their doctor, who confirmed that my mother was pregnant. Filled with joy and relief, my parents promptly contacted the adoption organization to withdraw their application, as they were now expecting a child of their own.