01 My Journey – Step 1
It was me I was waiting for
I’m sitting in the back seat. The car isn’t moving. Engine off. Handbrake on. I’m waiting. For my partner. My father. My mother. My therapist. My boss. For anyone who will get behind the wheel and drive off.
Nobody comes. I keep waiting. For a long time now. Maybe years. Maybe my whole life. And I tell myself that waiting is the sensible thing to do.
“When I’m retired, I’ll finally live my dream.”
“When my partner works on himself, things will be good between us.”
“When my family finally understands me, we’ll stop arguing all the time.”
“When I’ve finally lost these damn kilos, I’ll feel comfortable in my own skin.”
“When I’m not so exhausted all the time, I’ll make more of myself.”
“When I’m healthy, I’ll start living.”
“When I have more time. More money. Less stress. Better circumstances.”
When. When. When.
I know these lines. Nearly all of them. Some for so long that they feel like truths. They are not truths. They keep me trapped in the back seat.
Now I look around. For the first time I really notice myself and where I am. What am I doing here? Where am I? No driver in sight. Nowhere. The driver’s seat. Empty. And then something dawns on me, something so simple it hurts:
Nobody can drive this car. Except me.
Not because the others don’t want to. Not because they don’t love me. But because they don’t know this car. Nobody can drive somebody else’s car.
They don’t know where to go. They don’t know how hard to press the accelerator. How the gears work. Where the windscreen wipers are. They don’t even have an ignition key.
My partner can love me. But he can’t feel for me. My therapist can ask me questions. But she can’t change me. My coach can spur me on. But he can’t live for me.
Nobody is going to come and save me.
That is not a tragedy.
That is freedom.
I climb over to the front. Sit down behind the wheel. Feel the steering wheel in my hands. Start the engine.
Road trip. Just me and myself. Where to? Doesn’t matter yet. The road only shows itself once I start driving. Movement.
What I do have is a compass bearing.
That’s where I want to go.
Now I’m driving off.
I want to record what I experience on this road trip. Ideally in a little notebook. Let’s see – do I have one? Otherwise I’ll get myself a nice one. This little book needs a name.
Diary of Disappointments. DoD for short.
What? Why disappointments? I want adventure, fun, freedom. Why disappointment?
I set off. Full of energy. First stop: a small town I’ve always wanted to see. Cosy little lanes. A good meal. Maybe I’ll meet someone. I arrive. It’s drizzling. The lanes are empty. The restaurant is closed. Disappointment.
And then – before midnight – I’m dog-tired. Even though I wanted to drive all night. The heroines in the films always manage it. Disappointment.
But what exactly disappointed me? Not the town. Not my body. My image of it. My expectation. I was fooling myself.
Everything I think I know about myself and the world is right there in that moment – in that flash of irritation. My expectations. My raw nerves. My secret wishes. And that is exactly what I now write in my DoD.
Every disappointment is a window. Into myself.
I can look straight in now.
Something happens inside me when I write about my feelings. Not just anything. Something measurable.
People who regularly write about their feelings have a stronger immune system. Fewer stress hormones in their blood. Better sleep. More clarity. More inner calm.
Not because writing is magic. But because it changes the brain. When I put a feeling into words – when I write “I was angry” or “I was afraid” – the part behind my forehead takes the wheel. The part that thinks and weighs things up. The alarm system powers down. The storm settles.
Giving a feeling a name means taking the fear out of it – but keeping its force. That is not poetry. That is neurobiology.
As long as a disappointment sits inside me unspoken, it occupies my brain. In the background. Permanently. It costs energy – even when I’m thinking about something completely different.
When I write it down, it loses its power. Not right away. But it begins to dissolve. What was heavy and intangible takes on a shape. I can look at it. Make sense of it. Let it go.
This is not therapy. This is hygiene.
Just as I brush my teeth – I clean out my head.
I arrive at the station. Tired. Heavy bag. Long day. I thought he would pick me up. I look around. Once. Twice. Nobody. I text him. No answer. I wait. Five minutes. Ten.
I drag the bag to the tram. Get on. Stand. At every stop there are more people.
On the tram it boils up inside me. I know this heat. Hot head. Tight chest. Thoughts tumbling over each other. He doesn’t think of me. He doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t really love me.
At home, the argument. Short. Loud. Hurtful. “You knew when I was arriving.” “I had an important call.” “You only think of yourself.” “Stop exaggerating like that.” Door shut. Silence.
Later – once the heat has gone out of it – I take my DoD. I write. I was so angry. I felt small. Unimportant. Like the loneliest woman in the world. Racing heart. Hot head. Then damp eyes.
I keep writing.
What did I expect? That he would know when I’d arrive without a message. That true love means: you read my thoughts.
And then – right at the bottom of the page – I write the sentence that hits me: I believe that I’m not important enough to be picked up. There it is. Not my partner. Not the tram. Not the argument.
That is my core belief. Ancient. Buried deep. I AM NOT IMPORTANT! And now it lies in front of me on the paper.
I can look at it. Really look at it for the first time. And I ask myself: is that true? Am I really not important enough? Or have I just believed it for so long that it feels like truth?
The DoD doesn’t show me who is to blame. It shows me who I am.
And I can trust it with who I want to be.
I don’t need a fixed time. No ritual. No candle. I only need a moment when things go quiet. In the evening, once the children are asleep. During my lunch break. On the train home.
I take my DoD. I think about the day. What stirred me up? What made me happy? What surprised me? What annoyed me? I reach for the moment that still echoes inside me. And I write.
Not perfectly. Not completely. Not every day. But regularly enough that I stay alert. That I don’t stop searching. For old patterns. For hidden expectations. For what I believe to be right and wrong.
The DoD is my most faithful travel companion on this road trip.
What exactly do I do with it? What do I write in my DoD?
My feelings. What do I feel? Anger. Grief. Shame. Relief. Fear. It’s all allowed in.
My thoughts. What’s going through my head? Ugly thoughts too.
My body. Where do I feel it? Chest. Stomach. Throat. Hands.
My reaction. How did I react?
Everything that comes up inside me. Unfiltered. Uncensored.
My core belief. What does that tell me I believe about myself? These are the convictions I carry so deep inside me that I’ve long taken them for truths. About myself. About others. About the world.
And I also consider what I want to do differently next time. Not how the other person or the world should behave differently. No, I am the driver. I decide where the journey goes.
What that looks like in practice – I’ve already experienced it. On the train. With the heavy bag. And the argument that wasn’t really one.
Maybe a single sentence would have prevented the argument. “I’m arriving at 18:20 – can you pick me up?” And from the train as well: “I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”
He doesn’t have to guess anything at all. If I want something, I can ask for it. Sounds simple. It is. And it changes everything. Of course it would be lovely if everyone could just guess what I want. Forget it. That will never happen. And they love me anyway.
I stop waiting. I ask. I take care of myself. That doesn’t mean I swallow everything. If I’m treated badly, I set boundaries. Clearly. Without apologising.
And if boundaries are ignored permanently – I’m also allowed to leave. Not every connection is worth holding on to. I decide that. I do. Nobody else.
Freedom is the willingness to be answerable to myself. I take care of my own stuff. I stop complaining. I stop waiting. I start asking. I start opening my windows and looking inside.
“Too many people are too lazy to move themselves – so they point the finger at everyone else.”
I take my little book now. Think about today. About a moment that echoes. What happened? How was I feeling in that moment? How did it feel? How did I react? Who do I want to be next time in this story? That’s all it takes.
In the next step I learn to listen to myself. To stay centred. How I deal with boundaries. How a “no” creates connection.