Dandelion

I’m sitting on my moss green couch, wrapped in a tweed throw, listening to Ólafur Arnalds’ improvisation. A couple of months ago, I was told I couldn’t continue renting this apartment in the new year. I waited for the familiar feeling of devastation to descend, but it never came. I wondered if my brain was handling the uncertainty in some twisted way. But no—I’ve simply reached a state of okayness with change. Losing my apartment feels like losing a lateral root. It’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t destabilize my entire system. I’ve enjoyed every single day in this little apartment, and I’m happy to move on.

**

What do we mean when we say somewhere feels like home? Home isn’t just a physical space, though it’s a form we can all relate to. For me, it’s always been tied to safety—a place to let my guard down and feel protected.

When I first moved into this apartment, I was exhausted by Berlin’s infamous rental situation. I craved a sense of safety. This place came unfurnished, with no guarantee of a long-term stay, but I was determined to make it feel like home. I went on secondhand furniture hunts and poured energy into designing a space that reflected my habits and tastes. So began my year of homemaking.

Parallel to my exploration of domestic bliss, I also started building my website. My presence on the internet had followed a similar pattern to my homes in the physical world. For years, I kept hopping from one website builder to another, never truly settling. But this year, I took a different approach. I built a site with Astro JS, skipping the usual overthinking and design rabbit holes. My goal was to build a home on the internet—a place to share my thoughts and who I am, rather than just a portfolio to showcase my work.

I consider building my digital home the second layer of homemaking, perhaps for the very reason that it transcends the physical space. My website is a reflection and extension of me, a key part of my online identity. I found myself returning to Laurel Schwulst’s essay on websites. The value I gained from creating mine is well captured in this piece:

There are endless possibilities as to what a website could be. What kind of room is a website? Or is a website more like a house? A boat? A cloud? A garden? A puddle? Whatever it is, there’s potential for a self-reflexive feedback loop: when you put energy into a website, in turn the website helps form your own identity.

In the past, I didn’t cherish my physical and digital spaces because they felt temporary. Investing in stuff felt like a waste for an apartment I might leave, and my past websites were made by manipulating premade layouts. The lack of effort and commitment enabled me to avoid the work of deciding what I really wanted. Or maybe, subconsciously, I didn’t want to discover how little I actually knew myself.

The layout and design of my website has changed at least twelve times, each version reflecting hours of work. At some point, I wondered if constantly changing things was simply what felt right to me. But the changes eventually slowed, following the curve of diminishing returns: steep and frequent at first, then tapering off as I edged closer to what felt right.

Building these two homes was an act of self-discovery and agency, which helped strengthen my sense of safety. The intentional effort is what made these spaces truly feel like mine. With every iteration and decision, I was crafting safety with my own hands—rooting myself and transforming into something more like a dandelion.

**

I spent some time this year trying to understand why certain changes felt existentially threatening, a theme I’ve revisited over the years. But the more I dug, the less the ‘why’ mattered. I realized I’d been giving too much power to the past by compulsively searching for answers in it. At some point, you just need to accept it for what it was and turn the page. Refocusing on connecting with my present self has helped me move forward.

Before this shift, I was like a plant with surface-level roots, vulnerable to disruption. My sense of safety was overly reliant on external things—my physical home, a significant partner, or my close relationships. This dependence made any external change destabilizing, which sometimes put pressure on the people I loved.

Now, I identify more with a dandelion—resilient and hard to uproot. Dandelions have a taproot that grows deep into the soil, anchoring the plant and allowing it to access nutrients even during droughts. Developing this inner taproot—a deeper connection to myself—has made me more steady and self-sufficient during times of change. This is my internal home.

The most valuable thing I gained from this inner taproot is energy. I waste significantly less of it on overthinking or worrying about things I can’t control. Instead, I have more to expend on things that are more meaningful.

When I moved to Berlin, I felt ready to lay down permanent roots in this city. I’m not sure if that needs to be true anymore—but for now, Berlin is home.

**

Links

improvisation by Ólafur Arnalds

The soundtrack to this piece. Originally recorded on tour in 2022, Ólafur released a solo piano version this year.

My website is a shifting house next to a river of knowledge by Laurel Schwulst

A must-read for anyone looking to create a website and those who don’t see the value in having one. Having your own website is good for the long-term health of the web.

Untitled Thought Project by Catherine Lacey

This is one of my favourite discoveries of this year. Each essay is 144 words long.

what’s good commitment? by Nix

An unused reference that I want to share: “[T]he mark of overall healthiness in spirit is being able and willing to make healthy commitments. Knowing instinctually what to commit to and what to let go of.”

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron

Self-therapy for the hidden artist. Morning pages has become part of my routine.