Switching to the company in Mannheim wasn’t an act of courage. It wasn’t because I had understood any of my patterns.It happened simply because my favorite coworker quit, and by sheer luck, the place he was going to was looking for two new people at once. Covid made the transition easy. The company was based in Mannheim. I had no idea where Mannheim even was, but it didn’t matter anyway—I didn’t have to show up at an office. We were the company’s first full-remote employees. For the first few months, we barely existed outside of our own project.

The first time we actually went to Mannheim was for a free vaccine.

was my very first thought. But after just a few hours, I really liked it. So much diversity. We ate by the harbor and sat in a small café that sadly doesn't exist anymore. When we finally walked into the agency’s office later that day, the managing director looked at us and asked: “Who are you guys? Are you new here?” We just looked at each other. We had already been working there for six months.

We headed back home right after the shot. But patterns travel with you. It doesn’t matter what city you go to. It doesn’t matter what company you sign with. It doesn’t matter how far you try to run from yourself.

Eventually, the first signs of burnout came creeping back. I couldn't concentrate. Everything distracted me. I got lost in trivial little things and found it harder and harder to actually get work done. Around that time, we drank a lot. We smoked a lot of weed. It was just so much easier than confronting what was actually going on inside of me. The panic attacks grew more frequent.

At some point, the panic attacks had completely taken over, and my mind started linking every single episode to the sterile, lifeless apartment I was trapped in. But before I even packed a box, I entered this strange, agonizing phase of performative happiness. I desperately tried to project to the outside world that I had it all figured out, that I was thriving and finally happy. I rehearsed the smile, forced the optimism, and put on an exhausting show—mostly because I wanted to trick myself into believing it was real. If I could just convince everyone else, maybe the lie would eventually become my reality.

Around that time, I met a friend. We talked constantly, dissecting everything for hours. But she saw right through the act.One day, she held up the mirror and said it straight to my face:

She was right. It wasn't. Having that facade shattered in front of someone hurt, but it was also the first honest crack in the wall.

That was the turning point where I realized I couldn't just keep playing a character in that sterile box. I needed a complete,physical break. I decided to pack everything up and move down south—not directly into Mannheim itself, but into a quiet little village outside the city.

Right after arriving, I went on vacation. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I was actually having fun. It wasn't a performance. I did things I genuinely enjoyed, spent real time with myself, sat in the sun, and started mapping out what my life could look like. The physical tension dropped, and that endless buzzing in my chest went quiet. For a brief moment, it felt like I was finally building solid ground beneath my feet.

When I got back, the momentum seemed to carry over at first: at work, they offered me a management role on a trial basis to see if I could lead. I had the quiet village, the reset from the trip, and real validation in my career.

But vacations end. You always have to return to reality. And when you do, it doesn't matter how great the trip was, how good the weather felt, or how much you enjoyed the people around you in those fleeting days. None of it holds up on its own. Because eventually, the suitcase is unpacked, the noise fades, and you're back in the exact same reality you tried to escape.