Tag: Blogs

  • When energy isn’t infinite

    When energy isn’t infinite

    For most of my life, I believed — quietly, unquestioned — that energy was something you could always stretch a little further.

    You get tired, you push.

    You feel overwhelmed, you power through.

    You rest later.

    That belief is everywhere. It’s baked into how we talk about work, productivity, motivation, even self-care. Try harder. Be disciplined. Recharge on the weekend.

    But that story breaks the moment energy becomes finite in a way you can’t negotiate with.

    Recently, someone very close to me was diagnosed with ME/CFS. Watching that diagnosis land was sobering in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Not just because of the illness itself, but because of how invisible it is — and how poorly our everyday systems understand it.

    At the same time, I’ve been learning to better understand myself as a neurodivergent person. And while the experiences are different, something clicked almost immediately:

    the shared reality of limited capacity.

    The myth of “just doing less”

    We often frame energy issues as a matter of balance:

    “Just do a bit less.”

    “Listen to your body.”

    “Prioritise better.”

    That advice assumes a stable baseline. It assumes that if you rest enough, things reset.

    But for many people, that’s not how it works.

    For people with ME/CFS, energy isn’t something you “run low on” — it’s something that can disappear entirely if you cross an invisible line. And the consequences don’t always show up immediately. You can feel “okay” in the moment and pay for it days later.

    For many neurodivergent people, capacity is just as real and just as fragile — but it drains in different ways. Cognitive load. Social masking. Sensory overload. Decision fatigue. You can look functional on the outside while your internal system is already maxed out.

    In both cases, the problem isn’t motivation.

    It’s systems that assume unlimited energy.

    What we’re missing: language for limits

    One of the hardest parts of both chronic illness and neurodivergence isn’t the fatigue itself — it’s the lack of shared language around limits.

    How do you explain to someone that:

    • today’s “no” isn’t emotional, it’s structural?
    • doing one small thing might mean doing nothing tomorrow?
    • rest isn’t a reward, it’s damage control?

    Without language, people default to guilt.

    Without tools, people default to guessing.

    Without understanding, people default to pushing.

    And pushing is often exactly what causes harm.

    I started building something — not to fix, but to notice

    I’m a builder by nature. When I don’t understand something, I try to map it. When something feels chaotic, I try to give it structure.

    I’m working on something right now — quietly, carefully — not because I think technology can solve chronic illness or neurodivergence, but because I think it can help us notice patterns before they hurt us.

    The goal isn’t optimisation.

    It’s permission.

    Permission to stop before things break.

    Permission to treat energy as finite — not failing.

    Permission to say, “This was enough,” without having to justify it.

    I’m building it because I’ve seen how devastating it is when limits are ignored — by systems, by workplaces, by well-meaning people, and by ourselves.

    And I’m building it because I know how hard it is, as a neurodivergent person, to trust your own internal signals when the world keeps telling you they’re wrong.

    This isn’t about doing more gently — it’s about doing less safely

    There’s a subtle but important difference.

    Many tools try to help you do more without burning out.

    What’s missing are tools that help you not burn out in the first place — even if that means doing less.

    That shift matters.

    It reframes rest as strategy.

    It reframes limits as information.

    It reframes “low energy” days as data, not defeat.

    I don’t have all the answers — but I know the problem is real

    I’m not writing this as an expert.

    I’m writing this as someone who’s learning — painfully, slowly — that energy is not universal, and that pretending otherwise causes real harm.

    If this resonates with you, you’re not broken.

    And if it doesn’t, I hope it still plants a seed of curiosity and empathy.

    Some people live in a world where energy refills overnight.

    Others don’t.

    It’s time our tools — and our expectations — reflected that.

  • The Ultrahuman Air Ring and Why I Like It

    The Ultrahuman Air Ring and Why I Like It

    I did not get the Ultrahuman Air Ring because I wanted more data. I already see enough numbers every day. What I wanted was something calm. Something that helps me understand my body without stressing me.

    The ring fits into my life very easily. It does not buzz, vibrate or interrupt me. I wear it, forget about it, and let it do its thing. That alone makes a big difference to me.

    What I like most about the Ultrahuman Air Ring is how it shows information. It does not tell me what to do. It does not push me to be better or more productive. It simply shows patterns. How I slept. How my body recovered. When I might have been more stressed. I look at the data later, when I have time and space for it.

    This is especially helpful for me because I am neurodivergent. When a device gives live feedback, it often creates pressure. I start to worry or try to fix things in the moment. With the ring, I can look back and understand my day instead of judging it.

    The ring also helps me be kinder to myself. When I feel tired or slow, I can see that my sleep was not great or that my body needed more rest. That makes it easier to accept low-energy days instead of fighting them.

    I also like that it is a ring and not a watch. It feels more private. Less visible. I do not feel like I am showing data on my body to the world. It just sits there quietly and blends into my day.

    Just because I like how this AI -Graphic turned out 🤪

    I do not use the Ultrahuman Air Ring to get perfect scores. I use it to notice patterns and to better understand myself. It helps me listen to my body instead of ignoring it.

    For me, good technology is calm technology. It supports me without taking over my attention. The Ultrahuman Air Ring does exactly that, and that is why I like it.

  • Warum ich jedes Jahr Kevin allein in New York schaue

    Warum ich jedes Jahr Kevin allein in New York schaue

    Mit der Zeit verschob sich mein Blick auf den Film. Was mich früher vor allem unterhielt, hat heute eine zweite Ebene. Die Figur der Taubenfrau, die Einsamkeit in der riesigen Stadt und die Wärme der Begegnung lassen sich gut mit der Theorie der narrativen Identität verbinden. Diese besagt, dass Menschen ihre Identität durch Geschichten formen – durch Geschichten, die sie über sich selbst, über andere und über die Welt erzählen. Der Film erzählt eine Grossstadterzählung über Einsamkeit, Hoffnung und Unerwartetheit. Vielleicht sehe ich mich darin wieder, weil auch ich in Städten nicht nur Orte, sondern Spiegel sehe: Resonanzräume, die mich gleichzeitig fordern und stärken.

    Es ist denkbar, dass ich den Film jedes Jahr schaue, weil er mich an meine eigenen inneren Erzählungen erinnert. Vielleicht auch, weil er mir eine symbolische Reise ermöglicht, wenn die Energie fehlt, eine reale zu unternehmen. Oder weil er mich an die Bedeutung ästhetischer Bildung erinnert: an die Einsicht, dass Filme, Bilder und Geschichten nicht nur zur Unterhaltung existieren, sondern als Räume, in denen man sich selbst erkennt.

    Und so ist das jährliche Ansehen zu einem stillen Gruss an mich selbst geworden. An die Seite von mir, die in der filmischen Version von New York Freiheit spürt. An die Seite, die ihre Kraft aus Räumen der Fantasie und der ästhetischen Erfahrung zieht. Und an die Seite, die inmitten der Ruhe des Dezembers ein kleines Stück urbane Weite benötigt, um sich wieder zu ordnen.

  • Walking as a Cognitive Tool

    Walking as a Cognitive Tool

    I started walking more intentionally when I realised that thinking does not happen best when I am still. Sitting at a desk, trying to force clarity, often leads me in circles. Movement, on the other hand, seems to loosen something. Not in a dramatic, inspirational way, but quietly and reliably.

    Once a week, I try to take a walk with my husband. There is no fixed route and no strict purpose. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we walk in near silence, side by side, letting thoughts come and go. What matters is not the distance, but the rhythm. Walking creates a shared tempo, and that tempo does something to the nervous system.

    From a cognitive perspective, movement and thinking are deeply connected. Our brains evolved in motion, not in chairs. Walking activates bilateral stimulation, gently engaging both sides of the body and the brain. This kind of movement supports regulation, especially for people whose thoughts tend to scatter or accelerate under pressure. For me, walking seems to organise attention without demanding it.

    What changes when I walk is not the content of my thoughts, but their behaviour. Problems stop feeling urgent and start feeling sortable. Ideas appear without being summoned. Conversations unfold more naturally because the body is already doing something repetitive and grounding. There is less pressure to perform clarity and more space for it to emerge.

    Walking together adds another layer. Co-regulation is a concept often discussed in psychology and pedagogy: the idea that our nervous systems stabilise through the presence of others. Walking next to my husband, rather than facing each other across a table, removes intensity. There is no eye contact to maintain, no conversational demand to fill silence. Connection happens in parallel, not in confrontation.

    This weekly walk has become a form of maintenance. Not a solution, not a breakthrough ritual, but a small act of care for my cognitive and emotional system. It helps me notice when I am overloaded, when my thinking has become rigid, when I need to slow down rather than push through.

    In a culture that treats movement as exercise and thinking as something that happens only at desks, walking feels almost subversive. It reminds me that regulation does not always require effort. Sometimes it requires permission to move.

    I do not walk to be productive. I walk to stay connected — to my thoughts, to my body, and to the person next to me. And week by week, that seems to be enough.

  • ADHD Medication, Wellbeing, and the Weight of Stigma

    ADHD Medication, Wellbeing, and the Weight of Stigma

    Writing about medication still feels exposed. Not because it is controversial in a medical sense, but because it touches something deeply personal: the idea that needing support somehow reflects a personal failure.

    I want to start clearly and responsibly. I am not a doctor, not a psychiatrist and not a medical professional. This is not medical advice. What follows is simply my lived experience, shaped together with healthcare professionals.

    My path to medication was not linear. Before finding something that helped, I tried Ritalin, different forms of Methylphenidate and other options. Each attempt came with hope, curiosity and eventually disappointment. Some medications helped with focus but flattened my emotions. Others made my body feel alert while my mind felt strangely disconnected. None of them were inherently wrong. They were just not right for me.

    I am currently taking Elvanse, 50 mg. Writing that down still feels oddly intimate, because numbers invite judgement. I want to be clear: this is not a recommendation, just a factual part of my story. Elvanse did not remove my ADHD. I still struggle with distraction, overwhelm and fatigue. What changed was something subtler. Friction decreased. Starting tasks stopped feeling like pushing against an invisible wall. My thoughts did not become slow or silent, but they became usable.

    Alongside Elvanse, I also take Wellbutrin. Not to optimise productivity, not to chase happiness, but to support my overall wellbeing. For me, it helps stabilise my emotional baseline. It smooths out some of the sharp edges that made everyday life feel heavier than it needed to be. This combination works for me, at least right now. That does not make it universal, and it does not make it permanent.

    One of the most important realisations for me was this: medication does not create motivation. It creates access. Access to focus, to follow-through, to choice. I still need structure, rest, boundaries and compassion. Medication did not replace those needs. It made meeting them possible.

    There is grief in this process. Grief for how hard things were before. Grief for the years spent believing that my struggles were moral failures rather than neurological realities. But there is also relief. Relief in understanding that needing help does not mean something is wrong with me.

    And yet, medication is rarely allowed to be neutral. ADHD medication is often framed as cheating. Antidepressants are framed as weakness. Both carry a strange moral weight, as if using medical support somehow diminishes authenticity. This stigma often hides behind concern. “Are you sure you need that?” “Have you tried just pushing through?” “But you seem fine.” These questions sound caring, but they quietly imply that medication is excessive or suspicious.

    What bothers me most is how often medication is judged based on output. ADHD medication is tolerated if it makes someone more productive. Antidepressants are accepted if they make someone easier to deal with. Rarely are these tools discussed in terms of sustainability, dignity or quality of life.

    We do not apply this logic to glasses, hearing aids or insulin. We do not ask people to prove they are struggling enough to deserve support when the need is visible. When it comes to the brain, however, support is treated like a confession.

    Medication is not a personality replacement. It does not erase complexity or pain. It does not fix everything. It simply removes some barriers. For some people, that removal is life-changing. For others, it is not worth the side effects. Both outcomes are valid.

    For me, Elvanse and Wellbutrin are part of a larger system: therapy, self-designed tools, pacing, creative work and learning to respect my limits. Medication did not give me a new self. It gave me a bit more space inside the one I already had.

    And sometimes, that space is not about becoming better. It is about finally being able to breathe.

  • ADHS-Medikation, Wohlbefinden und das Gewicht von Stigma

    ADHS-Medikation, Wohlbefinden und das Gewicht von Stigma

    Über Medikamente zu schreiben fühlt sich immer noch verletzlich an. Nicht, weil das Thema medizinisch besonders kontrovers wäre, sondern weil es etwas sehr Persönliches berührt: die Vorstellung, dass Unterstützung zu brauchen irgendwie ein persönliches Versagen sein könnte.

    Ich möchte das klar und verantwortungsvoll festhalten: Ich bin kein Arzt, kein Psychiater und keine medizinische Fachperson. Das ist keine medizinische Beratung. Was folgt, ist ausschliesslich meine persönliche Erfahrung, entstanden in Begleitung von medizinischen Fachpersonen.

    Mein Weg zur Medikation war nicht geradlinig. Bevor ich etwas gefunden habe, das mir hilft, habe ich Ritalin ausprobiert, verschiedene Formen von Methylphenidat und weitere Optionen. Jede neue Medikation brachte Hoffnung mit sich, manchmal auch Neugier, oft aber auch Ernüchterung . Manche Mittel halfen bei der Konzentration, machten mich emotional aber flach. Andere aktivierten meinen Körper, während sich mein Kopf seltsam abgekoppelt anfühlte. Keine dieser Erfahrungen war grundsätzlich falsch. Sie waren einfach nicht passend für mich.

    Aktuell nehme ich Elvanse, 50 mg. Diese Zahl aufzuschreiben fühlt sich erstaunlich intim an, weil Zahlen schnell bewertet werden. Deshalb auch hier ganz klar: Das ist keine Empfehlung, sondern nur ein Teil meiner Geschichte. Elvanse hat mein ADHS nicht verschwinden lassen. Ich bin immer noch ablenkbar, überfordert und manchmal erschöpft. Was sich verändert hat, ist etwas Feineres. Die Reibung wurde weniger. Dinge zu beginnen fühlt sich nicht mehr an wie gegen eine unsichtbare Wand zu drücken. Meine Gedanken sind nicht langsam geworden, aber nutzbarer.

    Zusätzlich zu Elvanse nehme ich auch Wellbutrin. Nicht, um produktiver zu sein oder dauerhaft glücklich zu funktionieren, sondern um mein allgemeines Wohlbefinden zu stabilisieren. Für mich unterstützt es meine emotionale Grundlinie. Es nimmt etwas von den scharfen Kanten, die den Alltag früher schwerer gemacht haben, als er sein müsste. Diese Kombination funktioniert für mich im Moment. Das macht sie weder universell noch endgültig.

    Eine der wichtigsten Erkenntnisse für mich war: Medikation erzeugt keine Motivation. Sie schafft Zugang. Zugang zu Fokus, zu Durchhaltevermögen, zu Wahlmöglichkeiten. Ich brauche weiterhin Struktur, Pausen, Grenzen und Mitgefühl mit mir selbst. Medikamente haben diese Dinge nicht ersetzt. Sie haben sie erst möglich gemacht.

    In diesem Prozess steckt auch Trauer. Trauer über die Jahre, in denen alles so viel schwerer war. Trauer über die Zeit, in der ich meine Schwierigkeiten als moralisches Versagen verstanden habe und nicht als neurologische Realität. Gleichzeitig ist da auch Erleichterung. Die Erleichterung zu begreifen, dass Unterstützung zu brauchen nichts über meinen Wert aussagt.

    Und trotzdem dürfen Medikamente selten neutral sein. ADHS-Medikamente gelten oft als Schummeln. Antidepressiva als Zeichen von Schwäche. Beides trägt eine merkwürdige moralische Last. Diese zeigt sich oft in Form von vermeintlicher Sorge: „Bist du sicher, dass du das brauchst?“ „Hast du schon versucht, dich einfach mehr zusammenzureissen?“ „Aber du wirkst doch ganz normal.“ Diese Fragen klingen fürsorglich, transportieren aber unterschwellig Zweifel und Misstrauen.

    Was mich besonders stört, ist wie stark Medikamente nach Leistung bewertet werden. ADHS-Medikation wird akzeptiert, wenn sie Produktivität steigert. Antidepressiva werden toleriert, wenn sie jemanden für andere angenehmer machen. Selten geht es um Nachhaltigkeit, Würde oder Lebensqualität.

    Bei Brillen, Hörgeräten oder Insulin stellen wir diese Fragen nicht. Niemensch muss beweisen, dass er genug leidet, um Unterstützung zu verdienen, wenn der Bedarf sichtbar ist. Beim Gehirn hingegen wird Hilfe schnell zur Rechtfertigung.

    Medikation ist kein Ersatz für eine Persönlichkeit. Sie nimmt niemandem Tiefe oder Komplexität. Sie löst nicht alles. Sie entfernt lediglich einige Hindernisse. Für manche Menschen ist genau das lebensverändernd. Für andere überwiegen die Nebenwirkungen. Beides ist legitim.

    Für mich sind Elvanse und Wellbutrin Teil eines grösseren Systems: Therapie, selbst entwickelte Werkzeuge, bewusste Pausen, kreative Arbeit und das Lernen, meine Grenzen ernst zu nehmen. Medikamente haben mir kein neues Ich gegeben. Sie haben mir etwas mehr Raum in dem Ich verschafft, das schon da war.

    Und manchmal geht es bei diesem Raum nicht darum, besser zu werden. Sondern darum, endlich wieder atmen zu können.

  • Why I Watch Home Alone 2: Lost in New York Every Year

    Why I Watch Home Alone 2: Lost in New York Every Year

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    At first glance, it may seem banal to watch the same film again every year. But rituals rarely arise by accident. They serve functions deeply rooted in human needs: orientation, identity, and anchoring oneself within one’s own biographical space. Home Alone 2: Lost in New York has become exactly such a ritual for me—interestingly, only in young adulthood, when I discovered my love for New York and the film became more than mere entertainment.

    In this context, New York stands less for the actual city and more as a symbol: density, possibility, restlessness, and at the same time a peculiar sense of comfort within chaos. In pedagogy, one speaks of aesthetic experience—the moment when an external impression triggers an inner resonance and becomes a kind of encounter with oneself. This is precisely the resonance I feel when the film presents its exaggerated, almost fairy-tale version of the city: the Plaza Hotel, Rockefeller Center, the night streets full of lights. It is not reality, but an aesthetic condensation that speaks to a particular part of me.

    December is not a hectic time for me, but an energetically fragile one. As the year draws to a close, inner batteries weaken, external stimuli grow louder, and one’s own processing slows down. In such moments, rituals have a stabilizing effect. One might use the term ritualized self-care here—a concept that is gaining increasing importance in educational and social pedagogy. It describes actions that are not merely habits, but that enable self-regulation. Home Alone 2 is one of these stabilizing points: a constant that remains the same, demanding no performance from me, but instead returning me to a familiar aesthetic space.

    Over time, my perspective on the film has shifted. What once primarily entertained me now holds a second layer. The character of the Pigeon Lady, the loneliness within the vast city, and the warmth of human encounter can be closely linked to the theory of narrative identity. This theory suggests that people shape their identity through stories—through the stories they tell about themselves, about others, and about the world. The film tells a big-city story of loneliness, hope, and the unexpected. Perhaps I recognize myself in it because, in cities, I do not see merely places, but mirrors: spaces of resonance that challenge and strengthen me at the same time.

    It is conceivable that I watch the film every year because it reminds me of my own inner narratives. Perhaps also because it allows me a symbolic journey when I lack the energy to take a real one. Or because it reminds me of the importance of aesthetic education: the insight that films, images, and stories exist not only for entertainment, but as spaces in which one can recognize oneself.

    And so, the annual viewing has become a quiet greeting to myself. To the part of me that feels freedom in the cinematic version of New York. To the part that draws strength from spaces of imagination and aesthetic experience. And to the part that, amid the stillness of December, needs a small piece of urban vastness in order to realign itself.

  • Bern, Biel und die Welt auf zwei Rädern

    Ich und Velofahren? Niemals! Wenn schon, dann im Subscription-Modell, zum Beispiel mit dem Publibike.

    Nun, das war ich. Bis vor kurzem…

    Letzte Woche schaffte es mein Schatz endlich, mich zu einer Velotour zu überreden.

    Dank Rent-A-Bike konnten wir uns 2 Flyer E-Bikes reservieren, die wir in Bern abholten und in Biel zurückgeben konnten.

    So machten wir uns an einem schönen Sommertag auf den Weg von A nach B – oder besser gesagt von B nach B.

    Ich war überrascht, wie lange ich fahren mochte. Das letzte dass ich lange auf einem Velo unterwegs war, muss einige Jahre her sein. 10km, 20km, 30km… Ab und zu streng, aber meistens sehr angenehm. Ein konstantes Tempo von 25 km/h. Schöne Landschaft und kühler Gegenwind.

    Bevor ich nun weitererzähle – vor dem grossen Finale – noch eine Präzisierung: Ich war nie GEGEN ein eigenes Velo. Nur gegen die körperliche Anstrengung, die mich jedes Mal davon abhielt, ein Velo auch nach 1 Woche noch zu fahren.

    Die Velotour bestärkte mich, in der Annahme, dass ein E-Bike die Lösung sein könnte. Alle schönen Aspekte des Velofahrens ohne die unnötigen Anstrengungen. Oder nur mit ganz wenigen…

    Lange Rede, kurzer Sinn: Ich kann mir in ein paar Tagen mein E-Bike abholen!

    Ich freue mich bereits, diesen Sommer noch die eine oder andere Velotour alleine oder zusammen mit meinem Partner zu machen.