Returned

Much like the recently popular song, Chicago is for me in many ways the End of Beginning. It was from here I took off to Munich in 2013 for my first international venture. It was here I experienced my first real breakup and heartache. And it was here that I always felt I’d return to at some point in my life – like every good Midwesterner does. Chicago has indeed been a launching point for me over the years.  Returning to the city now, I approach it with a sense of confidence and curiosity that I’m not sure I’ve felt before. I know who I am and what’s important to me, and I think I walk a little taller because of that. At the same time I also wonder where the journey goes from here. If moving to Chicago is the end of my beginning, what will define the next chapter?  Over the years I’ve grown quite accustomed to a life lived in episodes. A couple years here, a couple years there – never fully sesshaft in one place – and yet always feeling that I’d at one point make it back to t...

The move to Long Island may have been my most difficult move yet. When I first came out here over three years ago, I was in a stage of transition – from student life to the working world, from an interesting life overseas to a daily commute on a traffic congested island, from a community of friends and family to yet another place unknown. And while I did look forward to the sense of adventure that comes with new experiences like these, I also felt a good amount of apprehension.  Indeed, at the beginning I was quite frustrated and upset with myself. I questioned my decision to leave Germany and to take a job in the corporate world. I lamented the switch from a place where I could get anywhere I wanted by bicycle or public transit to probably one of the most car dependent, congested, and expensive places to live. I wondered why I returned to the U.S., only to immediately move to a place that was still several hundred miles away from home. For my first six months or so out here I was ...

I like to read a lot of nonfiction. I feel like each book I read leaves me with just an inch more understanding in this world. I suppose fiction would do the same, but I think I just connect with the candor of nonfiction a bit more. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to read between the lines as much. But I digress…  A common theme in quite a few nonfiction books I’ve read is the idea of narrative, and how it shapes our understanding of reality. Moreover, it’s something I’ve felt over and over in my personal life.  Quite simply, human beings are social beings. Whether we admit to it or not, our lives exist in a social as much as a physical space. Our experiences occur in a world of constant communication, wherein we interpret and attribute meaning to everything happening around us, sometimes for the better and sometimes for worse. But it’s in this social context where we determine what matters most in our collective existence and what can be discarded. And we do this through narr...

I’ve started to feel a bit stagnant as of late, like life is sort of happening around me instead of me engaging with it; like I’m less the protagonist and more a spectator of my own life. It’s not a sense of depression or sadness that I’ve felt in the past, but more a feeling that my life has been on autopilot. I suppose in a word; languishing .  I first remember hearing of this concept during the Covid Pandemic, where time seemed to have stood still and flew by all at the same time. Where each day (for me, anyway) sort of felt like a repeat of the last until suddenly I was back where I started, only one year on. Indeed, time will always march on, but what about us? Do we march on? Or do we simply muddle through? It’s a conscious decision to live your life with intent – one that we must make every single day, and I guess lately I’ve felt I’m slipping in that regard.  At the same time I don’t want to get swept up in notions of constant self-improvement (auf Deutsch, der “Selbst...

I’ve been debating this post for a while now. It’s a bit personal, but I feel it’s worth sharing.  One of the things I’ve learned to respect through moving around so much is how much our lives are molded by the time and space we inhabit. For better or worse, we can only really be – physically, mentally, and emotionally – in one place at a time. We all of course still have agency, but that agency is bound by the circumstances of our everyday lives.  And then there’s this thing called love . Love is a force to be reckoned with in its own right. Like circumstance, it gives meaning and shapes the trajectory of our lives in its own way. And as I’ve spent the last 10 years or so hop-scotching around I’ve noticed something: these two forces seem to forever be at odds with each other.  Love – at least in my experience – has no respect for circumstance. It doesn’t care that you already re-signed your contract for another year, or that your visa is going to run out in six months. ...

I recently finished a 500-mile bike ride from NYC to Montreal with a friend. The days were long, hot, and beautiful. We passed scenic forests and historic sites, and got passed by giant semi-trucks nearly running us off the road. We ate, drank, and sweat several times our bodyweight over the course of a week. Upon arrival in Canada we were greeted with several rain showers and some delicious poutine. Somehow, my noble steed survived the return flight to NYC in a frankensteined case of discarded bread boxes.  In the end it was an altogether, hectic, exhausting, monotonous and exhilarating week. And though I wouldn’t repeat this particular bike trip any time soon, I would happily hop on another as soon as I could. For you see – as I’ve discovered – the bike tour neatly encapsulates my approach to life in a much broader sense.  As in life, I have a general timeframe and destination in mind before embarking on a bike trip. I know that it should take me roughly X number of days to ...