Berlin wasn't waiting for me. It never had been.
Returning to Berlin
The city opened up like an old photo album: familiar scenes, a few new snapshots tucked in.
Freshly landed, I took it all in: the echo of the trains, trams, and buses bounced off the graffiti-lined streets; the smells of currywurst, Döner, and trash; the cool, damp air stepping out of the U-Bahn; and fragments of German, English, and Turkish swirling everywhere.
Ah, Berlin, it's been awhile. Eleven years, in fact. But this time felt different. And it was.
Letting go to get there
I got rid of everything non-essential in my life, save for a few mementos like framed degrees and important paperwork.
It was a five- or six-month process, starting the moment I decided to move. I couldn't just carry my broken life with me into a different city; I had to purge what was weighing me down.
I did what I do best: I made lists. Everything in my life would either be sold, kept, donated, stored, or destroyed.
Not just possessions. I took inventory of my habits, friendships, and commitments. I hired a coach, learned about myself and my potential, and set about doing the work.
On the train back home after selling my car, I felt both the freedom I thought I was losing and the promise of something greater on the other side. My stomach turned a bit, as my body tried to make sense of what I had done.
As I shed more of what didn't matter, space begin opening up inside of me, too. I had to know what I had to know what I was missing.
Deciding to go: France
Sitting in a Parisian park with my friend—the first international trip I'd taken in the last decade—I heard what I needed to hear.
The sun warmed me, and the shade cooled me. Watching dogs prance by and glimpsing the titles of strangers' books made me feel like I was part of a quiet Parisian ritual of observation.
Surrounded by a chorus of languages, I was struck by a burning love I had been ignoring.
In that moment, I realized I'd turned my back on what mattered most, trading it for the dullest version of life imaginable.
That afternoon in Paris reawakened the boy inside me. In an instant, I knew I had to return to Berlin — the last place I'd felt him alive, the last place I felt his burning love.
The feeling of being alive
Eleven years earlier, studying abroad in Berlin was the highlight of my life. Passionate, full of energy, open to everything. I had all that I wanted and felt close to meaning and purpose. Of course, I didn't realize it at the time.
But somewhere after, I lost that thread. Maybe it was when I started chasing a stable career and living the way I thought I was supposed to. The way most people do. I uprooted my love for languages and planted a big, ugly, weed-infested garden of sadness in its place.
The empty greeting
I walked the Berlin streets like I was waiting for a reunion that never came.
The Spätis still sold beer and cigarettes, bikes still cut through sidewalks with their sharp bells, and the air still carried a mix of damp stone, food, and sewage. Berlin was unchanged, but I wasn't.
The friends I'd known were gone. The university was just another building. The boy I'd been didn't live here anymore.
Then the language started seeping back in. On the U-Bahn, I caught fragments of conversation, words that once felt sharp, but now slipped back like a familiar rhythm. I felt it in my chest, as if the city was reminding me: you're not here to stay, you're here to keep moving.
And now
Nearly a year later, that first week still lingers. I can close my eyes and hear the brakes screeching into Friedrichstraße, the murmur of voices spilling out onto the platform.
Berlin hadn't been waiting for me. It never had been. But in its indifference, I finally saw myself more clearly — no longer searching for a reunion on a past life, but ready to move forward with renewed force.
