Welcome, Visitor
Thank you for landing on this page.
"The Unpublished" is a safe space dedicated to sharing unpublished, deeply personal writings that are free from judgment or evaluation.
If you feel inspired to contribute, you’re welcome to reach out to me. Whether you prefer to publish anonymously or under a fictional name, I’d be happy to help share your voice.
My whole life, I have been struggling with feeling different, confused, under- or overstimulated through ADHD and depressive episodes. While my deep passion fires up around nature, sustainability transformation, and justice, I oftentimes don’t know what I feel or need. However, my research and my work in sustainability have always been a core stability and structure for me, hile my outer world was never consistent or stable, always moving.
In 2022, I asked all of my close friends for my birthday to gift me something special. Nothing material, but a painting, a letter, something that would help me find consistency and stability, something that would make me feel held. I asked them to symbolize what safety and being held mean to them, how they visualize it, and how they find it in their lives. I received the most beautiful gifts that still help me to this day.
In 2023, I took one year to ask all of my male friends how they deal with anxiety and fear. Surprisingly to me, no matter their nationality or phase in life, almost all of them said the same: the things they cannot control, they simply stop worrying about. By nature, anxiety is bound up with the future, the uncontrollable. Rarely is it truly real and life-threatening in the moment. Our brain makes it up. While I often thought that men, from a societal and cultural perspective, were taught to suppress their emotions and not work on themselves, I found that what they told me held profound value: to be happier and lighter in life, let go of the things you cannot control. Do not waste your energy on them. That is what I learned, and what I now try to practice.
While happiness is multi-faceted (Arthur Brooks, Harvard), embracing one’s suffering is part of it. However, over the last years, depending on how stable and stimulating my external environment was, my own suffering has sometimes grown quite bad.
While my flame, my deep passion, is burning when I give speeches or present at conferences, people began approaching me in the summer of 2025, saying they feel my energy is fading, and this scared me a lot. I took it as a warning signal.
In Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s book Die Physiker, there is one paragraph that reminds me of this situation: one of the scientists draws a circle around himself and refuses to leave it until he has solved the problem. This is when one’s suffering and self-embrace become harmful.
Today, I feel I need to let go of the seriousness and instead feel light, embracing a relaxed, simple life. But it is hard, especially in academia: Our job ultimately leads to an unbound ego between the self and the work-self. There is no boundary around that. Your ego is what you work, stand for, and get feedback on; it is all you. There is no healthy distance by default; no building or institution allows you to walk away from your work for the night.
While it is a gift to make your passion your profession, it can often lead to a self-centered perspective, of being too self-centered.
Moving out of this space is what I am longing for.
... August 2025
When the whole world around you feels like it’s breaking apart—
Crises hit deeper than headlines.
Wars unfold with eerie distance and unbearable nearness.
Universities have to shut down.
And uncertainty is a feeling you carry in your chest.
Where do you go?
Where do you belong?
Where do you build something that matters?
After years of being entirely sure I AM NOT AN ACADEMIC
I then, despite all odds, chose academia because I believed it was the place to make an impact.
To step back, make sense, offer clarity.
To build a new language for a broken system.
To give others the tools I wish I had when I first started trying to fix things.
But right now, I feel far away from everything that once made me come alive.
I used to know people in every room that mattered.
I walked through the halls of the European Parliament.
Shared space with change-makers at Davos.
I was plugged into the heartbeat of the climate movement—
connecting people, building bridges, turning sparks into fire.
Now, sometimes, I just sit in an office or on Zoom,
writing papers that take years to see the light of day.
I ask myself: Did I give up my network?
Did I trade action for abstraction?
Did I make the right choice?
Being 30 should feel powerful—
but instead, it feels like being suspended between worlds.
Too old to be wide-eyed, too young to be jaded.
Still searching for a safe space
in a world that rarely makes room for softness, for questioning, for starting over.
But I want to believe, the fire in me hasn’t gone out.
Not entirely.
Maybe it’s quieter now.
Not exploding, but smoldering.
A different kind of heat—steady, deliberate.
Maybe I’m not lost?
Maybe I’m just pausing?
Maybe I’m composting.
Letting the past decompose so that something new can grow.
I came to academia to transform the system.
Maybe the system is transforming me first.
Maybe this is what real change feels like:
Lonely. Slow.
But no less sacred.
To everyone who’s grieving the version of themselves they had to let go—
I see you.
To those building in silence, unsure if it will matter—
I hear you.
To those burning with purpose but unsure where to place the flame—
You’re not alone.
We’re still in this.
Still searching.
Still fighting.
Still here.
May 2025
April 2025
Picture from: https://www.smcgov.org/probation/youth-services-center-juvenile-hall
Today, I sat in a room with eight young men, teenagers, each of them carrying a story that most of us can’t even imagine living through, let alone surviving. Most of them had taken a life. Yes, you read that right. Some were barely older than 15.
I was invited into that space by Eugene Jackson, my (boxing) coach and life mentor, who works as a juvenile justice worker for Live in Peace. If you had told me even a year ago that this would be part of my path—walking into juvenile halls, holding conversations about pain and possibility—I wouldn’t have believed you. But then I met Eugene at the beginning of 2024. And the trajectory of my life has quietly, radically shifted. I am constantly growing, being challenged, and invited to contribute to the community with whatever expertise or impact I can. I try.
And so I was here to speak with these young men about purpose. I have never been to a prison or juvenile hall before. In healing circles, I had met people through Eugene who had killed someone or committed other crimes, it was the first time that I met such young humans who were locked up.
The hours we spent together were raw. They listened with an intensity that told me they rarely get to talk about purpose. We spoke about unexpected life happenings, how we often don’t choose our circumstances, but we still get to choose what happens next. I told them about some of my own winding roads. And they opened up, slowly, cautiously. One said he wanted to become a father that his kid could be proud of.
I was overwhelmed by the depth of their sadness, their clarity, their wisdom. And yet what I felt even more strongly was respect. Deep respect for their stories. For their survival. For their vulnerability. For Eugene, who trusted me enough to invite me into this sacred space. I saw how much he means to them. How much they believe in him. And I felt the immense responsibility of being someone who gets to be there, even briefly.
I walked out a little quieter. A little humbler. Changed, again.
There’s no clear career description for where I’m heading. But moments like this are teaching me more than any job title ever could.
We think we choose our purpose. Sometimes, purpose finds us in the most unexpected rooms, with the most unexpected people.
Thank you, Eugene, the world needs more of you.
My Life on the Move
I’ve been on the move for as long as I can remember—23 moves in total so far, to be exact. It started early, even back in high school when I moved to New Zealand for an exchange year. From there, I bounced around the United States, Portugal, and a couple of towns and cities across Germany. There has not been one single flat I have lived in for longer than 1.5 years. I’d pack up, say my goodbyes, and head for somewhere new. Some people call it wanderlust or being on the run; for me, it was simply life.
There’s something undeniably exciting about landing in a new place and absorbing its rhythms. Whether it’s navigating public transport or finding my go-to café, the initial thrill never wears off. But behind that excitement is the harsh reality of deposits, moving costs, and visas—plus the emotional strain of leaving friends and routines behind. With each new beginning comes a wave of exhilaration tempered by the awareness that nothing is truly permanent. It is exhausting, and sometimes feels loinely, the time to adapt and recalibrate is time that I miss elsewhere, not everyone understands and sees this.
What keeps me sane through all these upheavals are the small, consistent habits I rely on, no matter where I am. My morning routine might look simple—breathing exercises, a cup of hot lemon water, maybe a quick journaling session—but it creates a sense of stability I can count on every day. Exercise is another anchor: whether I’m jogging through a rainy German park or practicing pilates near a sunlit New Zealand shore, moving my body centers my mind. And I never underestimate the power of a balanced diet—even if the cuisine around me changes, I stick to the basics that make me feel my best.
Just as important are the people I carry with me in my heart. My significant others (and closest friends) are always a phone call or video chat away. Time zones might complicate things, but hearing a familiar voice whenever I need it keeps me from feeling truly alone. It’s like having a safety net, woven by the bonds I’ve formed in every corner of the world.
Years of living among different cultures and religions have taught me to see beyond stereotypes and embrace the human being underneath. I’ve developed the invaluable habit of setting aside preconceived notions. Each time I settle into a new city, it’s a chance to learn about local traditions, witness how families gather, and taste regional specialties. When I meet people, I strive to greet them with curiosity rather than judgment. By focusing on who they truly are—instead of who I might expect them to be—I’ve grown my global circle of friends.
Despite the fatigue, I wouldn’t trade my nomadic years for anything. My worldview has broadened more than I ever thought possible, and I have lifelong friends scattered across continents. Whenever I travel, there’s someone I can grab coffee with or stay up all night swapping stories.
I’ve become a chameleon of sorts, soaking up cultural norms and social cues, trying to fit in while still honoring who I am. It’s not always seamless. Sometimes I trip over new phrases, or fumble with unfamiliar payment systems. But each slip-up has taught me resilience, humility, and the importance of open-mindedness.
After so many moves, I’m finally planning to settle in New Zealand since September 2024. “Settling” might be an overstatement—I’ll still travel a lot for work and pleasure—but it’s a conscious choice to have a stable base. Home will no longer be just a pit stop; it’ll be a place to truly ground myself and carry on with the micro-routines that keep me balanced.
I’m a nomad at heart, and that will never fully change. (Funnily enough, it might relate to my heritage, a quarter of my DNA is Sinti and Roma, a whole tribe constantly on the move.) Yet, this new chapter—one that includes a real home base—feels right. By anchoring myself through daily habits, staying in touch with my loved ones, and meeting each person with openness, I’ve learned to appreciate every chapter I write along the way. No matter how many times I pack my bags, the one thing I always bring along is the understanding that home is not a single place, but a mosaic sum of all the people and experiences that shape me.
April 2025
Skip to content? No. That’s kind of the whole point.
I’ve always been all over the place.
Since I was little, my world has been a swirl of motion and sensation—running, climbing, flipping, thinking, feeling, asking why? and what if? constantly. Nature was my refuge. Movement, my language. Sports were my outlet—soccer, running, tennis, anything that let my body move as fast as my brain. And learning? I loved it. But only when it felt like discovery, not discipline.
School was strange. I could hyper-focus for hours if I was fascinated—and completely check out if I wasn’t. Teachers would say I had enormous “potential” if only I could “just sit still” or “stay on task.” My grades and degrees always above the mark, outstanding, following my clear purps. My brain could function if I wanted it to. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I just lived in a world where a million ideas fired at once, and time didn’t move linearly. My brain never stopped.
As I grew older, I learned to adapt. To perform “functionality.” To organize chaos well enough to succeed. I became the girl who “had it all together”—but behind the scenes, it took so much energy. Alarms, lists, routines, adrenaline, masking. And later, medication.
The ADHD diagnosis helped make sense of things. So did the meds—at least for a while. They gave me structure. A buffer. A little more access to the version of me the world wanted. But I was still masking. Still grinding through environments not built for brains like mine.
So I started redesigning my life.
In 2022, I stopped drinking alcohol. Not dramatically, just quietly—because I realized I didn’t need the noise anymore. I was already plant-based, since childhood. But I also cut out sugar, processed foods, anything that made my mind feel foggy or fake. I started taking cold showers every morning. At first it was a shock—but then it became something deeper. A ritual of choosing discomfort, presence, clarity.
And then in August 2024, I made another big decision: I stopped taking my ADHD medication.
Not because I think it’s wrong—not at all. Medication helped me through some critical years. But I realized I wanted to feel what it’s like to live fully as myself again. To find a rhythm that works with my brain, not against it.
It’s been a huge phase of readjustment.
I’ve had to relearn how to work, how to rest, how to self-regulate.
I crash more in the afternoons. I leave meetings when I’m overwhelmed. My focus can flicker—but my creativity is electric. I notice things again. I feel more… me. Unfiltered. Messy. Alive.
Academia often praises curiosity, creativity, and drive. These are my strengths. They’ve carried me through long nights of writing, spontaneous collaborations across disciplines and time zones, and more serendipitous breakthroughs than I can count. But they come with a shadow side. With restlessness. With over-promising because everything sounds interesting. With forgetting to eat, losing track of time, and zoning out when structure suffocates the spark.
I live between thoughts. In bursts. In waves. In moments of hyper-focus and moments of fog. I yawn a lot. I walk during meetings. I say yes too quickly. I crash hard. And I care—deeply—about the work I do and the people I do it with.
Neurodivergence is not a flaw—it’s a different operating system.
One that overloads or lags or jumps tracks.
But also one that sees patterns others miss.
One that connects across disciplines, cultures, timelines.
One that makes sense of complexity—and turns it into beauty.
So if you’re working with me, know this:
I might need to stand or pace or take a break.
I might talk fast or leap between ideas that aren’t fully formed yet.
I might need to leave the room—not because I’m disinterested, but because I’m trying not to burn out.
I might crash after a high-focus stretch.
I might come back with three new ideas.
I might need help slowing down or zooming out.
And sometimes, I’ll need you to just sit with the mess for a moment while I make sense of it.
This is me now. Raw. Recalibrating.
Still figuring it out. Still running, still asking why?
But finally, more at peace with the fact that my mind isn’t broken—
It just moves differently.
April 2025
Lately, I’ve been grappling with a question I never thought I’d have to ask: Have I lost my North Star? The passion that once burned so fiercely for sustainability, for making a real impact—has it dimmed?
As I fully step into an academic career, I can’t help but feel the weight of what that means. In our field, as qualitative social scientists, a single paper can take anywhere from three to six years from inception to (hopefully) publication. It’s a slow, painstaking process, and I’ve committed a significant part of my life to it. But in doing so, have I lost the very drive that led me here in the first place?
I think back to the eight-year-old me—fighting against climate change, consumed by a deep sense of justice, believing that real change was possible. Over the years, I’ve embedded myself deeply in the European and U.S. sustainability landscapes, from political discussions to working with C-level executives. And then I look at where I am now, I find myself wondering: Am I still making a difference? Or have I simply redefined my purpose without realizing it?
I worry about getting lost in the Elfenbeinturm—the ivory tower of academia. Over the years, as anyone deeply engaged in sustainability knows, hope erodes. Frustration builds. Does that mean I care less than I once did? Maybe. Maybe not. I know the science. I understand the bigger picture. But I also know the contradictions in my own life. I travel more than ever before—for conferences, for global collaborations—leaving behind a carbon footprint I once swore to minimize. What kind of role model does that make me? The one I once wanted to be?
People on the outside often tell me that everything I touch turns to gold. But it doesn’t. It really doesn’t. Some days, I wonder if I should have become an engineer, a politician, a manager—someone who could do something tangible, something immediate. Time feels finite, the 30,000 days we get to make a difference slipping away.
And yet, I feel something real here in New Zealand. The Māori culture, the Indigenous value systems, and the projects I’m working on—they ground me. They remind me that sustainability isn’t just about theories and publications; it’s about people, about place, about relationships.
Does publishing another paper change anything? I don’t know. Maybe this is just the inevitable existential crisis of every early-career researcher. But I do know this: if I ever lose the feeling—the deep connection to why I started—I will need to find my way back.
February 2025
There Will Always Be Light
With you, and everyone around you.
In my last week at Stanford, one of my professors gave me an excerpt from a book about passion and purpose in life. As she handed it to me, she explained why she thought people loved working with me—something my little imposter syndrome had always struggled to believe.
Then, she shared something deeply vulnerable: there had been a suicide, and she asked if I knew of any helpful resources or advice she could share. Tears filled my eyes as I expressed my gratitude for her openness and trust. Later, I sent her some websites and resources, hoping they might help.
This kind of moment is not rare—not in academia, and not in life.
The reason she reached out to me traces back to my first week at Stanford. A few months earlier, she had noticed my semicolon tattoo.
Over the years, others in academia had complimented it, often admiring its symbolism, but this time was different. She told me she had seen this tattoo on many students—too many.
I sighed deeply and shared parts of my story with her, explaining the meaning behind Project Semicolon and its mission to raise mental health awareness. While I’m often seen as the deeply motivated, joyful person I strive to be, I also carry the reality of battling depression—a struggle I’ve faced since childhood.
Most people with a deep passion and purpose in life have endured dark days. They’ve seen the void, wrestled with meaninglessness, and emerged with a choice: to turn the page toward life because nothing else feels as meaningful as giving it everything they’ve got.
I’ve been fortunate to experience extraordinary support and safety networks in both my personal and professional life. Across all the universities, research groups, supervisors, and colleagues I’ve worked with, I’ve always felt I could be myself—sometimes more vulnerable, sometimes less, but always authentic.
This experience has taught me something vital: to ask, to notice, to care. If you sense someone is struggling, reach out. Ask how they are. Offer a hug, a word of kindness, or just your presence. Sometimes, it’s those small moments of connection that can make all the difference—before it’s too late.
In academia, and many other high-pressure environments, the weight of expectations can be crushing. Suicide is often an unspoken, omnipresent reality.
But there is hope. There is light. And it starts with us—choosing to see each other, to be there for one another, and to remind each other that no one has to face their struggles alone.
Be the light to someone on their darkest day
November 2024