Talk About Surprises: How I Ended 2023 With A Ring On My Finger!

There were times in 2020 when it felt like we would never have another "normal" year. Looking ahead feels so indulgent now. Standing on top of Lousberg with Lena and Conor, two of my very best friends in life, at midnight January 1, I therefore just thought "come at me, 2023!"; I was empty with expectation,  surrounded by all the love I needed - and thought I'd ever have. I had no idea what to expect: life felt volatile, prone - but too boring to - change. In a way, I was open to a year that would change things but had given up on anticipating it would. Besides, things were good, everything staying the same seemed positive. Within six weeks of that date, I was in love, Lena was pregnant - and now life seems like it will literally never be "the same again". 

    Glad I gave up on love eh?    

2023 will always be the year I started single but ended engaged. One week before meeting my future husband, I had given up! What sounds dramatic didn't really bother me all that much. Patricia and I were having a glass of wine next to my leftover Christmas tree in late January when I became the lady that had to give up on love to find it. "I think, I just don't really believe it anymore", I said when Patricia said, enthusiastically, 2023 would be the year we both meet the lids to our pots (and like usually, mamma was right!). So many years of being open to love - like the real kind - and never finding it just had me believe my idea of what it would be like was wrong. I had dated very nice people, but none of them seemed better than my own company. Skepticism was really the most reasonable choice: I wanted a healthy man that was able to see I am the golden ticket that I am - or nothing! And until Feb 3, I had never met such a man. 

I am not the most romantic person, but even I have to question the intervention of fate when I tell people the story of how I met Francois. It wasn't even supposed to happen. I was planning to stay in Berlin, all cooped up in my house all of February, but decided to spontaneously go see a friend for a wine weekend. Then, when already there, she canceled, and I went alone. I needed lunch, so I googled "restaurant" and just went to the highest rated one (which is what tourists should simply do when they don't know a place, always works!). I left that restaurant with a phone number and texted him on my way out as I noticed I had already dropped the piece of paper he wrote it on (imagine I lost it...). There were so many ways we could have not met. And only one of how we did. 

Looking back at all my years, it's easy to realize now how unhealthy I was for some of them. A confused, unaware younger Sina would have missed that this handsome man looking me deeply in the eyes while talking was really showing me that he was available... emotionally. She would have laughed off his flirting, felt flattered, and went on with her blind life. But not this time: He knew who he was, and he was ready to share it. Without fear, he naively pursued us. Although he's has admitted to not knowing what he was doing, the end product is a little magical: we neither had the chance to, nor did we want to, take is slow and see where it goes. We did marriage bootcamp, stripping down to our soul and seeing if the other was up for it. It was rough - but it worked! Thankfully, two fairly broken paths were able to come together and appear to become a pretty solid unit. 

                        These faces heal me!                        

With love came a lot of healing for me. It brought me perspective on how I wanted to conduct my future - unlike the past: focusing on love, family and personal fulfilment over a career that is not respected by anyone but me. The year started out professionally with my company pursuing a little corporate douchebaggery (aka layoffs) which suddenly had me wondering if I was keeping my job and then, more surprisingly, if I wanted to keep it. In economic hardship, companies do a realignment: they focus less on employees, and suddenly more on cold, bold capitalism. My realignment was a direct response to that: since they didn't care about my development, I didn't care much about trying for that extra 10% (in reality, I tell ya, as soon as I was told my pay raise would be 3% during the tenth consecutive month of 10% inflation, my desire to focus on my career came to a abrupt halt!). 

I might be premature in saying this but I am no longer "becoming", but have reached a state of arrival. Six years ago, I was at my high school reunion and saw my old head teacher, now principal. The first time we met I was 14, he was probably around 30, married to my French teacher. A really nice dude, we had a very good relationship, resulting in a feeling of pride when I told him 10 years after graduation what I had achieved. "Do you ever feel like... you arrived?", he asked me that day. I asked what he meant. "I married my wife after uni, we have a house and we love our jobs, our kids are happy. We are where we need to be," he said. "You are traveling the world, you are doing all these amazing things... but don't you ever feel like you want to come home?". His question made me angry; I thought he had passed judgement on my undoubtedly better life. Mine was so far from being boring. Today, I realize he "arrived" where he wanted to be before me (which is cool, ain't no race!). At the same time, I believe I am more sure than he ever could be that my destination is the right one. 

This year told me the meaning of all these words: "roots", "home", "arrival". It wasn't just a person that did that, it was years of seeking to learn. I finally know who I am, what I want, and what it was all for. It was for this: It was for the anticipation I am feeling right now sitting in my wonderful home I worked on for, basically, my whole life that this coming year I will be dancing to "This Year's Love" at my wedding. The roots of who I truly am, who I truly want to be, are secure in the soil of where I am standing and they are ready to be shared with someone who, hopefully, will find my soil equally rich to build some shit on. I am on the right path and I am no longer scared it's the wrong one. The future makes me excited, not scared. And for once it's not "anything can happen" or "bring it", but "I want this particular thing to happen this year and I will not rest until it does". If, for some reason, next year's note does not start with "it happened", I am probably drunk in a ditch. The way I am not scared of failing is everything I need to know. 

Reflections Of A Girl That Is About To Move In With Her Boyfriend

My first room in the house I grew up in did not change until I was 14 years old and my mom and I left my dad. It was 12m2 and at age 9, I got to pick a new wallpaper, choosing a white one with glitter which remains in that room until this day. I then had a lot of rooms. A lot. The longest time I inhabited a room from the age of 14 was two years. The life I lived came with a lot of moving, sometimes rooms, sometimes countries. After my London landlady stole my shit during an absence - a custom I was used to after myriad landlords from hell in Egypt - I decided buying debt so I could own an apartment was the reasonable choice. At least, if it was filthy, it would be my fault. So coming to Berlin, for the first time in my life, I had more than just a room for my life: I had 62m2 to myself. No furniture still, but good start, eh? The next upgrade is about to happen but since my dad is neither alive nor rich, it's not a house and never will be. But yeah, so, my boyfriend is moving in...

I have shared my life with many a kickass roommates. Tarryn, the ultimate roommate, became my flipping sister during our time in a shared house in Camden during the pandemic. We shared that rundown shithole with three men, all called Neil. Or, well, Neal, and Neel. No joke! Whoever lived with me in Victoria Road in Cambridge has a lifetime invitation to my wedding and technically I did not meet Miriam living with her, but I did eventually. I've been a lucky son of a bitch with the 36 people I shared houses with. Only two rotten eggs, but they weren't even that bad (one starved a cat in our flat but this is how I got my cat). But never have I ever moved in with a man - never mind moved in with them into an apartment I own. What is mine, will be his in 10 days. Crazy thought - good, right? 

It's been a year and a half since someone was here, in this place, for longer than a few hours. I have some plants that I got that month, they were cuttings at the time and are now giving me shade on my tiny balcony. This place is a proper home, it took me months to make one and it's still not done. Everything here is mine and I made most of it, only bought a couch and a TV, the first one in my life, the rest was bought on ebay and restored. Never mind the soft wood floor I sanded with my own bare hands and ruined my back in the process. And now it's not going to be just mine. Or is it? Because it was literally bought with two in mind  - it just took a little longer to get a second person in here. I love this place, so sharing it makes me feel like the only way to love it more. 

I've built a friendship with these four walls and quite a lot of people who live in the same neighborhood. I am a village girl so anyone I cannot walk to cannot be my friend. The fact I will be coming home to my hottest friend sitting on the couch already is new though. There are the obvious thoughts of thinking I will never get to watch Diagnosis:Murder ever again. I am watching every episode for the 60th time right now because I know my boyfriend, or anyone, won't indulge me on that. I see the shower curtain finally becoming a problem because, well, I make do with what is there but I know a beefcake will have his problems. And of course there is the fact I have three pillows but like hugging all of them at various times in the night. Speaking of night, I sleep through it. But when there is another person, the smallest movement will have me on my feet - and once I'm up, I'm up. 

But overall, at 34 years old, it's a welcome lesson - one I think is actually harder to learn WITH age, as I have a lot (!!!) of experience living alone. Never fully alone, but at least the bed was usually empty. Many people, in fact, probably every German, thinks it's too fast with 4 months of dating but, well, what can I tell them, I have even less experience taking it slow than I have with moving in together. None, to be exact. I move fast and I like it. Sharing my life with that guy after such a short time, by Christmas I will probably have a good idea if we are going to do this forever. I know, very un-German of me. Don't tell anyone, but we are also monogamous, silly us. Unsurprisingly, I have a long list of German exes (the total counts zero, ZERO!). Time for another lesson, but fast please, I am busy living an amazing life and time is literally all I need for that. 

What I already know is that this will change my life drastically, but thankfully I like change. I understand that nothing good comes from being idle. There is no way to upgrade my rooms without actually allowing someone else to be part of it. The years of flatsharing came to an end, and I remember my first full night in my own apartment, knowing I would be alone in these four walls during a pandemic, scared me. And now? Pah! It's been awesome, completely freaking awesome. The amount of times I have sat on my couch with a glass of wine, looking at my Christmas tree or the jungle of plants I am nursing, knowing I made this all happen for myself, remembering the luck I had going from the glitter wall paper to one bedroom with a balcony, have had a profound impact on my happiness. And now I get to share that with another. Luck is a funny thing... 

"Making A Scandal": I Think I'm Too Nice

I cannot believe that I am a person that learns how to be myself through pop music but last week, it happened: Shakira and Miley Cyrus of all people gave me a "shattering glass" moment (thanks, Robin Scherbatsky): I am terrible at breakups. Have I actually really ever broken up with anyone? It's a fair question given I still talk to all of my exes. Maybe it's the patriarchy teaching me to be "nice" in ladylike fashion but maybe it's just me never being mad at anyone... hold on, that just didn't sound right. I hear this too: everyone gets mad sometimes! So, well, something is up here. Maybe the reason I am friends with all of my exes is not the effect of "them being really nice guys" but me never getting the lessons Shakira and Miley got. Let me explain...

I was the person that felt like the worst you could do to a guy that hurt you was the silent treatment, show them you "don't care". The revenge bone isn't a strong one in my body. And then, even worse, I just wasn't angry, even when one of them cheated then lied about it for a year, one fucked his friend's sister in our bed during a break and one casually slipped some heroin. And while I whole-heartedly do not give a shit, it somehow feels unnatural to just be silent if someone mistreated you. My attitude was that the fact they were no longer dating me was bad enough; I still liked them as people. That part is very hard to turn off when you regarded someone in a positive light for a long time; it FEELS like they are still good people. But I am no longer sure they were. 

When my ex told me he cheated on me, it took three days for me to scream at him. I screamed in his face "you cheated on me!" during an argument, and I honestly think he probably was relieved to hear it. He knew he blew it. My reaction of, well, not reacting to the news had given him the feeling he still had a shot. He believed that for a very long time because I was nice to him. We remained friends. In fact, we kinda stayed together because we were at that point living together. I knew the trust for the future was gone through the cheating, but I still liked him as a person. Retrospectively, I am not sure this was a good way to handle that. He cheated on me. After everything he knew about me. That's not cool. That's not just a mistake, that's horrible. I should have called Bizzarap immediately and I definitely should have told him to bite it. 

I struggle with this on every level. Last year, a friend I really appreciated really hurt my feelings, details irrelevant. When it was happening, he was sitting on my balcony sipping coffee. So absurd. In my house. I was taken aback by the experience of this person I felt like was a nice human being turning out to be an insensitive, disappointing coward within just a few minutes. He asked me how I was feeling about what we had discussed. I told him I would probably need a few days to think about that. I couldn't fathom I had been so wrong about him. And he probably still doesn't know to this day that his behavior was really hurtful because I stayed nice. Because he doesn't have to care. I even thought if it was my fault. Because his intentions...were good? It took a few days for me to realize I was hurt, mad, and most importantly, not interested in being friends with someone like that. Too late to get mad now. I regret not doing it when it was appropriate. 

I went the silent route, duh! Easiest when you don't like someone. My desire for retribution for people who hurt me is clearly broken. It's enough for me to know that this hurtful behavior was a mistake on his part, I don't need him to know. But I was still struggling to accept that this guy had actually fooled me. He wasn't nice. Nice people don't act the way he did. He sucked and I was hurt, do we really need to know anything else? Like who's fault it was (definitely not mine!). I refrained from even saying anything. Worse even, for a few weeks after I MISSED being friends. Because it's not easy realizing people you appreciate are not worth that. And so you think: am I overreacting?

If I'm hurt, the answer should be no. That's it. I am terrible at this. So bad. I keep making excuses for these people who hurt me because deep down, I don't want to cut them out. I seem to think that cutting out doesn't achieve anything. It's the times when I was younger where I was accused of making a scene when I got mad that were in my head. What's wrong with making a scene? It's better than being the one who does the hurting. Because I never got to say my part while I was breaking up with people, because I hadn't realized I was mad yet, I became one of those letter writers. A few times, I didn't send them off because I thought of myself as dramatic. I made the wrong decision. There is no expiration date on anger; one day mine will erupt out of me like a volcano.

I wish I had been Shakira a lot more often. What an absolute queen if the rumors are true and she has put a mannequin in her window pointing at her mother-in-law's house. And sure, my exes are not Gerard Pique, who sucks, but did I mention cheating? Birthdays, Christmas, random Tuesdays, I stayed "friends". One has now stopped sending me cute animal videos because, I am guessing, he has satisfied what he got out of talking to me, which was selfish, of course, because I'm sure there is a new girl now to send cute animal video to. That makes me mad. It makes me really angry. Because it was never about staying the nice guy, it was about staying the nice guy as long as it served him. I think I have reason to be mad about that. But what can I do now? It's too late. The time for a scene has passed... 

My friend Patricia calls this "making a scandal". She recently broke up with her boyfriend and was telling me how she went over to his house to "make a scandal". This is probably a term in Portuguese (she's Brazilian!) but I was high-fiving her. She was mad, she got it out of her system. Although I don't know what she said, I don't even care if it was fair to him. It doesn't matter if he deserved it. As her boyfriend, his job is to prevent her from feeling the need for a scandal. He failed. So her emotions are valid. And if she wants to get loud about them, I envy her ability to do it. One of my former lovers told me just THIS WEEK he was never frightened of me. This is terrible news. He should have been. I should definitely have tried to kill him (instead, here I am texting him "get well soon" to his hospital bed.... pfff). 

I blame my father...

My father was a very weak man who did pretty shit things. He was pathetic, really. And my mom was never mad at him. I never heard her scream. I wish she had. He didn't deserve for her to be nice, give him chances. It's hard to criticize a person for being loving but I am mad at my mother for not teaching me that when men do you wrong, you show them consequences. You express how you feel, you hold them accountable. If that's a revenge song released on your ex-husband's birthday, go Miley. I wasn't taught that. Being at an all-girls school certainly didn't teach me. As a result, I dated a lot of weak guys who I was very nice to. And being weak is not an inherent vice, but the shit they pulled on me is. But because they were so weak, so seemingly lovely, I didn't want to become the monster that freaked out on them.

But I've learned very important lessons, and it might have taken me longer than the average person but action and intentions are two completely different things. If actions hurt me, the intentions don't matter. We say the same about racism and sexism. When I am discriminated against by an old, white guy, does it matter he meant well? Of course not. So why am I still calling my exes, who lied, cheated, took drugs, undermined me, gaslit me, you name it, nice people? Stupid is as stupid does, clearly people who do bad things at least qualify as bad men in a way. It's not hard to become a bad man. But you know what's easier: being a good guy. It's really easy. I managed to be a good woman. I didn't hurt any of them. So I think I should practice my "scandals" a bit more.