I met many bright minds during my PhD. Some were exceptionally skilled at mathematics or had a keen physical intuition. I looked up to these people. Nonetheless, by becoming an expert in my field, I could initially avoid comparing myself with them. As time progressed, I realized I was less productive than some of my fellow scientists. I needed more time to conduct research, and I authored fewer scientific publications. At first, I was reluctant to interpret these observations. By the time PhD students around me began receiving awards and research grants, there was no denying it anymore. I wasn’t ahead of my peers.

The first signs that my self-image didn’t match reality could have been seen at least a decade earlier. I had just finished secondary school and was looking for studies to enroll in the next year. I didn’t look forward to leaving my parents’ house and living on my own, though. The problem was that the closest university was two hours away, and the prospect of traveling that distance twice a day wasn’t very appealing either. In the end, the distance made me move out. In retrospect, I’m happy I lived in the city where I studied. Otherwise, I couldn’t have taken part in evening activities or built up a social network. Besides, becoming independent would have taken longer. Still, I moved out reluctantly.

During my studies, I had quite a few friends who were older than me. At the time, this made me feel special. I saw having older friends as a sign of my maturity. Looking back, I have a different view. Among friends, I behaved like a little brother relying on the protection and experience of his older siblings. If I had paid attention, I might have noticed another pattern. Despite living on my own, I was still looking up to my father. I’m not blaming anyone for this behavior. You’d be hard-pressed to find a boy who doesn’t think his dad is a superhero. Given the loss of my mother, I also think it’s understandable that I needed my father to be the man who knew and solved everything. But I didn’t outgrow this view until my early thirties.

Clearly, I had trouble seeing that I wasn’t ahead of others. However, I didn’t only believe I was ahead. Paradoxically, I began feeling that I was falling behind as well. Unlike many of my friends, I don’t own a car. I can’t afford a house. I’m not married. And I don’t have children. Even if I am an adult, I haven’t always felt like one. Obviously, the feeling of being behind was at odds with my view that I was ahead. So, I tried to justify my life situation. I traveled the world. I pursued a PhD. I immigrated to another country.

It was a constant strain to uphold the belief that I was ahead of other people and argue against any suggestion of being behind. Still, I didn’t reconsider my self-image until reality forced me to. I only began to see that I wasn’t ahead of my peers when they made it into new positions in academia—and I hadn’t. I had to learn how other adults approached their parents before I realized I wasn’t more mature. Then, I started recognizing past events in which I hadn’t been more developed than others. I didn’t know what to make of my new perspective on the past, though. Other than arguing against it, I didn’t know how to deal with feeling behind either.

It wasn’t until I looked at my childhood that the pieces fell into place. I had come to believe that my knowledge and skills made me better than my classmates. I was convinced I was better than my peers because of my experience with loss and grief. In other words, I equated being ahead of others with being better than them. I fully understand my strategy. My mother had been ill for years. I was devastated by losing her. Thinking I knew more than my peers gave me some relief. Believing that my loss gave me an edge over others provided purpose to an experience that seemed so pointless.

My comparison games kept me afloat. I relied on them for my survival. But do they still make sense? No. When I was young, I threw myself into a few subjects in school, which I may have been more skilled at than average. Today, I’m familiar with thousands of activities that I’m not excelling at. Similarly, loss and grief may have given me experiences other children wouldn’t have until later. But they also interrupted my childhood in ways that are still affecting me. Besides, I don’t see why any idea of being ahead—whether true or not—would make me better than anyone else.

Taking apart the logic behind my childhood’s survival strategy was a helpful, but rather rational step. Ultimately, I benefited more from considering the following question: Does my survival strategy still serve me? And, no, it doesn’t. Comparing myself with you is draining my energy and making me unhappy. After all, I’m not better than you. But I don’t need to be either. I’ve found new ways to deal with my grief.

All the goals I’m not going to pursue anymore

I don’t know when I picked up on this idea. It might have been while doing crafts as a child. Maybe it happened while working on school assignments. It could also have occurred while learning to play an instrument or doing sports. I do know this. I have absorbed the idea that I must finish what I start—and I have disciplined myself with it for decades.

I have been told that children need boundaries as they grow up. I suppose they also need to be taught perseverance and discipline. Admittedly, these traits can go a long way. From my pre-university education, they first led me to a master’s degree and then to a PhD. However, once discipline blends with a sense of obligation, an exhausting dynamic arises.

During each phase of my life, I’ve taken up new hobbies and activities. I thoroughly enjoyed them, but I’ve always had a hard time moving on. For example, I took piano lessons until I went to university. While spending time studying and building a new life, I swayed between wanting and feeling obliged to continue my hobby.

Many years later, I looked back at the research projects I worked on during my PhD. Were they done once I obtained my doctorate? Not in my mind. Despite transitioning to a job in industry, I still wanted to continue these projects. Similarly, I’ve spent countless hours computer programming. I have published some of the resulting software. Nonetheless, most projects never went beyond ideation or being a useful tool for me. They’re still lingering in my mind, though.

Life goes on. One life phase succeeds another. Activities come and activities go. But I’m still clinging to them. My discipline still wants me to improve my long-gone skills. I keep feeling obliged to bring my past projects to some dreamed-of endpoint. But I can’t. I don’t have the time. I don’t have enough energy. My list of goals is exhausting me and taking away my joy.

It’s time to get real. I began pursuing other interests. I’ve steered my career in a different direction. I’m focusing on new projects. For all practical purposes, I’ve left behind most of my ideas, plans, and projects. But I still need to break through my sense of obligation toward my past pursuits, consciously say goodbye to my goals, and strike them off my mental to-do list. That’s what I’ll attempt to do here.

Personal

Playing the piano

I took piano lessons from when I was about eight years old until I left secondary school. I wouldn’t say I was particularly talented, but after a decade of practicing, I was playing Mozart’s sonatas. When I went to university, I had neither a piano nor a keyboard at hand. Practicing at most once every few weeks, I quickly had trouble keeping up my musical skills.

A few years later, I had more regular access to a piano for a while. Sometimes, I’d practice my dexterity. I mostly tended to pieces I once liked a lot and could still play relatively easily, though. As time passed, I could still play these pieces by muscle memory, but I couldn’t read the sheet music at my playing speed anymore. My ability to play the piano had clearly begun to deteriorate.

I thought it was a shame to lose my skills and felt I should have kept practicing my hobby all along. Spending my time on other activities, I never truly invested in playing the piano again, though. My deficit approach wasn’t inviting me to do so either. I mostly saw that I wasn’t playing as well anymore. Focusing on what I hadn’t learned, like sight-reading or improvizing, I also lacked the confidence to play with others.

I haven’t seriously played the piano in years. My skills have eroded to the point where I’d need serious practice to get back into it. I might do so someday. Yet, any renewed interest in playing the piano would have to come from playfulness and joy. Otherwise, I’d only be compensating for what I’ve lost. At the moment, I don’t see any potential joy overcoming my compensation drive. Besides, I’m investing my time in other activities. So, I’ll let my electric piano sit decoratively in the corner of my living room for now.

Dancing

While I was growing up, a skatepark opened in my hometown. As I had inline skates and the park was close to my home, I often visited it. I wasn’t a very courageous boy, though. I once tried to roll down a ramp, fell hard, and never tried again. Still, I thought it was cool to watch the skaters and BMX riders show off their tricks.

Once, during a special event, there were breakdancers at the skatepark as well. Shy as I was, my stepmother encouraged me to take a look, and I was instantly captivated. While we were watching the b-girls and b-boys perform, a man came up to us and invited me to a trial class. I wasn’t able to attend the first session, but I kept going afterward.

We were training at a local youth center when smoking was still allowed in some public buildings. I hated coming home smelling of cigarettes, but learning to b-boy felt really cool. However, after about a year, we moved to another town where I couldn’t continue taking breakdance classes.

Four years later, I moved to the university city of Groningen. After trying out a fraternity-style rowing club—which wasn’t my thing at all—I discovered the city’s vibrant hip-hop scene. Before long, I also found the dance school next to the city’s central square that was offering breakdance classes. I kept training there throughout my studies. In my prime, I’d practice two to three times a week. Those were arguably the fittest years of my life.

After returning to Groningen for my PhD, I picked up breakdancing again, but I wasn’t as enthusiastic about it as before. The dance school had moved from its prime location to the back room of a gym and limited the training hours. Many of the people I had previously met, including my teachers, had left. When a few colleagues introduced me to dancing salsa, I happily traded one breakdance session a week for a salsa class.

With only one regular session remaining, I could maintain neither my physique nor my breakdance moves. Besides, breakdancing had always been hard on my knees. I decided to quit. I occasionally showed off my moves at weddings and other parties. Yet, by the time I obtained my doctorate and a friend suggested that I participate in Dance Your Ph.D., my skills were so rusty that I passed on the idea.

I really enjoyed dancing salsa, though. Eventually, I spent five hours at the dance school each week, learning both salsa and other Latin dance styles. After moving to Germany, I found new salsa teachers. I missed the great atmosphere of the dance school in Groningen, though. When the pandemic started, I dropped out, and I haven’t taken dance classes since.

Of all my past hobbies, I’m most inclined to pick up dancing again. I wouldn’t feel obliged to if it didn’t fit my schedule, though. Enjoyment and self-expression should be the central goals.

Singing

Despite playing the piano for many years, I didn’t really engage in singing until after completing my bachelor’s degree. That summer, a few of my friends invited me on a trip to Taizé, France. This small, peaceful town in southern Burgundy hosts a large religious community. While there, my friends encouraged me to join the singing practice. Admittedly, I couldn’t sing very well initially, but I threw myself into it enthusiastically.

A year later, following my second visit to Taizé, I joined a symphony choir and gained my first experience with giving concerts. When returning to Groningen for my PhD, I again joined this choir. After a while, I managed to get into the chamber choir of the same association. I also became involved with a small choir that organized local services in the style of Taizé. Supported by singing lessons, I eventually sang solos there.

I hoped I’d one day be able to sight-sing, that is, sing choral music directly from paper while seeing it for the first time. I wasn’t nearly as skilled as some of my fellow singers, however, and I had to work hard to keep up with the chamber choir. I felt insecure about making mistakes as well. By the time our harsh conductor made stress prevail over joy, I dropped out of that choir but maintained the other two.

After moving to Germany, I considered picking up singing again. Loving their repertoire, I was specifically interested in chamber choirs. I ended up joining a more casual choir, though. Although I didn’t always enjoy the music we sang, that decision had a clear advantage: I didn’t have to practice so much. I stayed in this choir for several years, enjoying the social atmosphere and highlights like the first concert after the pandemic.

After moving again, I participated in several one-off choral projects, but I haven’t committed to a choir since. Meanwhile, I’m not nearly at the level I was once at. I can’t read or sing music as well anymore, and my voice seems to have become hoarse. I might enjoy singing again, but I’d have to let go of the high expectations I had previously. I’d also have to overcome the fear of making mistakes. Otherwise, I’d be fighting a constant battle instead of engaging in a potentially enjoyable hobby.

Languages

In secondary school, I followed courses in Dutch, English, French, German, Latin, and Greek. Despite the sheer number of language classes, I was more interested in the natural sciences. I only took the compulsory introductory-level French and German. I dropped Greek in favor of philosophy and mostly followed Latin to obtain a Dutch gymnasium degree, which adds a classical curriculum to the general pre-university education.

Years later, after pursuing degrees in physics and mathematics, my stance on languages had changed: I thought it’d be fascinating to become a polyglot. Next to my native tongue, Dutch, and the other language I spoke fluently, English, I wanted to learn Spanish and Italian. I also wanted to expand my rudimentary knowledge of French and German to become fluent in all these languages. I spent some time studying Spanish before going on a hike to Santiago de Compostela, and I learned some words along the way as well. Trekking through France for about two months, I also got to brush up on my French.

By now, my French has become so rusty that I have trouble ordering food at a restaurant. Understanding ads and signs is as far as I get in Italy and Spain. Having lived in Germany for over seven years, I do speak German fluently. My goal to become a polyglot proved to be too ambitious, though. Even while immersed in German, I needed years to—remotely—approach the native-speaker level. And I haven’t been able to master any languages on the side. But I don’t need to either, do I? I’ll stick to the languages I regularly use and enjoy the few foreign words I pick up when traveling.

Contacts

During my studies in physics and my subsequent PhD at the same university, I met thousands of people. In some semesters, I’d interact with hundreds of people each week. Obviously, I didn’t engage with each person, but I was staying in touch with dozens of people simultaneously. Even when more and more of my fellow students finished their studies and took up jobs elsewhere, I met new people through singing and dancing.

Several developments drastically reduced my social circle. First, my partner and I moved to a different country. We still visited friends and family back home, but at most ten people visited us more than once over the five years we lived in central Germany. Secondly, the pandemic hit, which at least partly explains the previous point. I also took up a new job, which made me less flexible in planning trips and visits. Finally, my partner and I became more focused on ourselves and our lives.

On the one hand, I thoroughly enjoyed the busy years in which I interacted with many people. On the other, I appreciated the quiet of the pandemic. However, my mind didn’t adapt to the changes in my life very quickly. Although the pandemic and distance made it difficult to meet friends, I tried to stay in touch with them. Without face-to-face contact, that was hard. Over time, answering calls, emails, and messages became an ever stronger obligation.

On a Friday afternoon at the beginning of this year, I suddenly had enough. I looked at an inbox full of emails I once wanted to follow up on and started archiving them. I occasionally replied to an email or carried out a practical task. But I mostly set myself free from having to reply to conversations that, in many cases, had been dormant for more than a year and, in other cases, were up to five years old. The next day, I cleaned up my other email accounts and combed through my instant messaging and social apps. After two days of work, only a handful of messages that I wanted to answer remained.

I felt so relieved. I hadn’t only cleaned up my emails and messages, but I had finally broken through the obligation to answer every message I received as well. That’s not to say I intend to break off contact with the people I haven’t answered. However, when I get in touch with them, I want to do so from a place of enthusiasm, interest, and joy, not of being behind.

Blog

Last year, I needed approximately six months to go from the idea of setting up a blog to sharing my first story. During that time, I alternated writing with creating my personal blog platform. Once it went live, I thought I’d manage to post a new piece every week. Initially, I did, but I quickly realized I wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace. I then adjusted my goal to release two posts per month. Spending most of my free time writing, I reached this goal during the remainder of 2025.

Although I’ve really enjoyed seeing the results of my efforts, I can’t realistically maintain this tempo this year. I simply don’t have enough time for it. Besides, I’m planning to write a few longer stories. Therefore, I’m now aiming to post to my blog once a month. As you can hear, I’ve lowered the bar, but I’m still setting a target. When will I allow myself the freedom to share a story whenever I finish one—even if it takes longer than desired? With its wide scope, the present piece may very well bring me to that point faster than expected.

Science

Studies

During my studies, I followed dozens of courses in physics and mathematics. I aimed for high grades and diligently worked on my assignments. As a result, I built up a good foundation in my fields of study. Many of the more advanced courses expanded upon and helped me practice the earlier ones. Similarly, by supporting younger students as a teaching assistant, I stayed fresh on the basics. That wasn’t enough for me, though. I believed I needed to retain everything I had learned.

In contrast to most of my fellow students, I didn’t immediately sell my textbooks after passing exams. Instead, I kept the books and intended to study them again. In practice, it was hard to follow up on this intention. New courses demanded time, and I wanted to spend time with friends as well. Consequently, I kept holding on to my textbooks after graduating, convinced I’d revisit them someday. Again, that expectation was unrealistic. During my PhD, I returned to a few books, but I didn’t touch the others.

By now, I have—reluctantly—sold or given away most of my textbooks. To let go of the remaining ones, I need to look back critically. Were my studies really aimed at making me remember every possible skill, technique, and method? Did they strive to take me to some ultimate level of knowledge? No. I couldn’t have learned everything there is to know about physics and mathematics in five years. As I experienced during my PhD, I’d have to take a deeper dive for any specialization.

The goal of my studies was to develop a broad set of problem-solving skills. I could later select and expand upon any method I’d need. In other words, I never needed to stay fresh on every skill I’d learned. I can brush up on whatever knowledge I require whenever the time comes. I might as well do away with the remaining textbooks from my studies, then.

PhD

Aiming to improve predictions of the behavior of turbulent fluid flows, I spent the larger part of my PhD developing and evaluating so-called turbulence models. Turbulence models are designed to capture flow features that are too costly to compute in simulations while maintaining accurate flow predictions. At the beginning of my PhD, I became very interested in a specific class of turbulence models: nonlinear models based on the velocity gradient of fluid flows. I analyzed these models in detail and wondered how I could create new ones.

Subsequently, I developed a framework of constraints for modeling turbulent flows. I presented the first version of this framework in a well-cited journal publication. While writing my PhD thesis, I refined and added several modeling constraints. Originally, I intended to publish these new results in a journal as well, but I haven’t done so thus far. Since I obtained my PhD degree over five years ago, I will most likely not get around to it anymore.

In a project springing from a summer program at Stanford University, I applied the modeling framework to study rotating turbulent flows. After collecting the project’s results, I prepared a preprint and submitted it to one of the most prestigious journals in the field. Devastated about the manuscript’s rejection, I turned to assembling my dissertation. I’ve never improved or submitted the preprint to another journal. By now, my co-authors probably don’t expect me to anymore.

While writing my dissertation, I was again gripped by nonlinear turbulence models, and continued to examine how the velocity gradient could characterize fluid behavior. I included the results of this project in my thesis, but didn’t submit them elsewhere. For several years, I aimed to follow up on this work and forge it into a scientific publication. Next to my work and other activities, I haven’t made much headway on that task, though.

Software and programming played an essential role throughout my PhD. I applied and extended simulation software to study the behavior of turbulent fluid flows. I developed a computational toolbox to analyze the properties of turbulence models. I also wrote numerous scripts to process and visualize simulation data. I hoped I’d one day find the time to modernize and optimize the software I was using. I also wanted to open-source the resulting code. However, the emphasis of my PhD projects was on producing research findings rather than software. In the end, I’ve only published the turbulence modeling toolbox.

I’d love to continue doing research. In fact, since receiving my doctorate, I have made several attempts to revive my scientific projects. For example, I’ve started creating a few new research software packages. However, I haven’t been able to combine that work with my career in industry and other activities. I graduated over five years ago. I’m in a different field of work now. Everyone who was involved at the time will long have given up the desire to see the open ends of my research finished. It’s time for me to let go of all the work I think is unfinished as well.

Programming

Hobby projects

While writing my PhD thesis, I became interested in board games. Initially, I frequently played Boggle, a word game in which you need to find words in a grid of letters. While playing, I often wondered how many words were hiding in a given grid or how I could find the longest word. I began developing a command-line program to answer these questions. Later, I set out to create a web-based Boggle solver as well. I’d still say that developing such a solver makes for a nice hobby project with ample opportunity for extension. But I’m not going to devote my time to it anymore.

After my PhD, I created a web scraper that used Google Scholar, ResearchGate, and other sources to determine how often my scientific publications had been cited. I planned to extend this application so it would automatically extract metadata of any referring articles. I also intended to make my citation scraper publicly available. However, I haven’t worked on this project for almost four years, and I won’t touch it again.

Educational projects

Instead of studying computer science, I opted for physics. Hence, I encountered many new concepts in my first job as a software engineer. I worked with a host of new applications and tools. I came across data types and structures. I read books on design principles and patterns. I learned about various computer algorithms.

To practice and expand my newly acquired skills, I set up several tutorials explaining programming-related tools. I also created custom implementations of commonly used algorithms, design patterns, and data types and structures. I showcased some of my work in an online project portfolio.

In my portfolio, I initially applied the programming language I was also using at work. I intended to expand my tutorials and practice projects to multiple languages, however. That goal proved to be too ambitious. I didn’t manage to cover different programming languages. In fact, I didn’t post more than a handful of tutorials and explanations of computer science concepts.

I haven’t looked at my practice projects in a long time, and I no longer aim to. So, I might as well leave these projects be and archive them.

Courses

In my first software engineering job, I bumped into a new online platform for learning programming. The high quality of its theory sections surprised me, and I liked the quizzes and programming assignments. Most importantly, the platform offered a plethora of practical, step-by-step projects. When I left my job, I didn’t feel skilled enough to enter another one right away. Instead, I threw myself into this learning platform.

I first took a fundamental course in computer algorithms and data structures. Next, I spent three months finishing several very extensive programming courses. All the time, I felt like I had to complete more courses. I wanted to sharpen the skills I had acquired thus far and expand my knowledge of other programming languages and fields, most notably in back-end web development.

I love learning and developing my programming skills. I would love to follow more programming courses. However, I’ve been working as a full-stack web developer for some time now and learned a lot on the job. So, I won’t finish those lengthy courses on back-end development anymore. In fact, I’d like to avoid spending any unpaid time pursuing programming certificates. My professional experience has sufficed to find new jobs so far, and I’d surmise this will be increasingly so in the future.

More projects

With a Dutch world champion, darts was a very popular sport when I was young. It wasn’t until decades later that I began following the end-of-the-year championships, though. Obviously, darts isn’t a very physical sport. Still, I find watching people attempting to hit fields as narrow as eight millimeters from almost two meters distance surprisingly entertaining. I’ve also been impressed by the speedy mental arithmetic required to calculate scores and remaining points.

Shortly after I started watching darts, I found myself wondering how many ways there are to finish a game’s leg. Then, in the wake of my PhD, I set out to develop a program to determine how many of these so-called checkouts there are. At the time, I didn’t finish the project, but I came back to the idea a few years later. I then built a command-line-based checkout calculator, practicing design patterns and other aspects from the courses I had followed. I also set up an extended set of tests to verify the validity of the program’s output.

When my darts calculator was finished, I released it as an open-source project with detailed documentation. I also generated and published a dozen pages with comprehensive checkout tables for different types of darts games. Initially, I occasionally supplied my program with software updates. I also planned to create a web version of it. I don’t anymore, and I won’t maintain the command-line application any longer either.

P.S.

As I was writing this blog, I experienced that letting go of ambitions is hard work. Still, I’ll abandon one more endeavor. However aspirational my intention for this blog may have been, I will not finish the list of goals I’m leaving behind.

I can partly understand these norms. Our neighbors weren’t thrilled to find the products of my nasal excavations on their couch. Still, I wonder whether anyone asked why I picked my nose or was so nervous. I was only told it wasn’t okay. So, instead of resolving my tics and habits, I suppressed them. I tried to keep my eyes open longer than felt natural. I told myself it was bad to pick my nose. I adjusted my genitals from my pockets. I pounded my shoulders with my fists when they went up and down erratically.

Soon, I found a better way to hide my nervousness. I discovered mental compulsions as an alternative to physical habits. Our neighbors told me about a friend who was skilled at reversing words. I admired that feat and threw myself into learning to read and say words—even complete sentences—in reverse. People found it funny to hear words backward, but my mind automatically engaged in reversing words when I was alone as well.

Another mental pattern emerged not long after. A friend and I watched a violent movie that wasn’t appropriate for our age. In the movie, a spy had to understand a terrorist and was trained to scan rooms by counting all objects in them. Encouraged by my friend, I started doing the same. I counted the number of shelves in my closet, the panels on our ceiling, the tiles across our kitchen, and the bricks in the walls. Then, I repeated that.

Although I often spent time counting, tilings drew my attention even more. I looked for patterns in carpets, floors, curtains, and walls, and traced paths in them with my eyes. I also played games traversing grids, starting from a corner and bouncing off the edges, to see where I’d end up. In a similar way, my eyes followed, or my fingers drew the outline of brand names, logos, and objects in my vicinity.

My tics have faded into the background. Yet, however much I would have liked to get rid of certain habits and compulsions, I’m still engaging in them today, three decades later. I’ve found that cleaning my nose in the morning helps me not to pick it during the day. When I feel stressed on the road or at work, I still occasionally do so, though. When lying in bed on a Saturday morning, not being quite ready to get up yet, I count the folds in our pleated blinds. Sitting on our balcony, my eyes will invariably trace paths on the brick wall. I also often catch my mind replaying words backward or my fingers drawing logo outlines.

Recently, I learned that repetitive behaviors can actually serve a purpose. They can be a coping mechanism. Looking back, I can see they were for me. By blinking, I didn’t need to focus on my ill mother. While picking my nose, I didn’t have to worry about her declining health. My shoulders’ erratic movements served as stress relief in a life full of medical setbacks. My compulsions helped me withdraw into a mental world, where I didn’t have to notice how terrible I felt.

I’m slowly realizing that I don’t need to condemn myself for having developed tics, habits, and compulsions. I did what I could to survive a situation I was too young to handle. Do I still need this survival strategy today? Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, I just want to escape the deep pain I’m still experiencing. I’ve become better at navigating my feelings, however. My shoulders have become broader. Further growth might obviate the need for my patterns.

Will I be able to completely let go of my tics, habits, and compulsions? Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve engaged in some repetitive behaviors for over thirty years. Some mental pathways may be so deeply ingrained that I can’t unlearn them anymore. I think I could forgive myself if that was the case, though. If anything, any remaining nervousness could be my daily reminder to stop running away from my feelings.

The right or the permission to be?

Being Dutch and having been taught English from a young age, I find it fascinating to live in Germany and learn German. The more I learn about the language, the more similarities I see with Dutch and English. Sometimes, people teasingly say that Dutch is just a mix of English and German, and I suppose there is some truth to that idea. Take the compound noun tuning fork, for example. The verb to tune translates to stemmen in Dutch and stimmen in German. The Dutch word for fork is the similar-sounding vork, whereas its German counterpart is Gabel. We thus end up with the words tuning fork, stemvork, and Stimmgabel.

The similarities between Dutch, English, and German extend beyond words. Dutch and German have a similar system of verbs, with a past tense that is formed analogously. Although used in slightly different contexts, both the formal and informal forms of address carry over from German to Dutch. Dutch has at most a few remnants of the case system that is in use in German, however. As a consequence, Dutch prepositions behave like their English relatives. Interestingly, Dutch has the same three grammatical genders as German, but uses only one article for words that are grammatically female or male. Therefore, creating gender-neutral language isn’t as hotly debated in the Netherlands as in Germany, but it isn’t as simple as in English.

Obviously, more parallels can be drawn between these three languages. However, any reader will immediately notice one distinguishing feature: word length. In English, compound nouns are generally separated by spaces. The Dutch and Germans chain their nouns. I’ve never used this Dutch word in practice, but we owe one of the longest palindromes, koortsmeetsysteemstrook (fever measuring system strip), to this feature. Still, I’d say that German speakers in particular love long words. Soon after moving to Germany, I was confronted with words like Haftpflichtversicherung (liability insurance), Einkommensteuererklärung (income tax return), Steueridentifikationsnummer (tax identification number), and acronyms for even longer words.

Shifting gears, I’d like to discuss a question I am struggling with, which hides behind the German word Daseinsberechtigung. This word could be translated as the right to be or the right to exist. Do I have the right to be, or do I live by the grace of others? My doubts regarding this fundamental question have several practical ramifications. When in a public space like a bus, train, or square, I don’t feel comfortable taking up physical space. Similarly, while moving about a room, I’ll invariably make noises and wonder whether I’m disturbing the others present.

In conversations with others, I’m often cautious and quick to interpret questions as demands to justify my choices. Usually, I’ll be brief as well. I answer questions with at most a few lines, usually concluding with a return question. Afterward, I’ll feel embarrassed about not speaking up. On the other hand, I’m bound to feel guilty about being too present when talking more than other people. Interactions in which I’m not asked a question and others keep talking are worse, though. Instead of intervening, I’ll assume the other person isn’t interested in me—and withdraw into myself. There, I’ll conclude there is no place for me in this situation or relationship. On some days, I’ll even doubt whether there is a place for me at all.

The idea that there is no place for me hurts like hell, and I haven’t found an antidote for it yet. I do see that my reactions have changed over time. Just a few years ago, the slightest suggestion that my presence disturbed others would have been almost unbearable for me. Now, I roughly know which situations trigger my self-doubt, and I recognize my thoughts in them. In a reasonably safe setting, I won’t immediately withdraw anymore, but express my—still raw—emotions. I’m slowly unpacking my pain, and my self-esteem is growing. But I’m not there yet. So, do I have the right to be? Is there a place for me on this planet? You tell me, because I don’t know yet.

I was on a tight schedule. On the one hand, I couldn’t submit a grant application until I obtained formal approval of my PhD thesis. On the other hand, I couldn’t wait too long. I had already moved to the city of the university I wanted to join, which was in a different country. As a consequence, strict deadlines applied to my eligibility for funding. But there were several other complicating factors. I was told that I wouldn’t stand a chance of obtaining a competitive grant without a solid academic CV with strong publications. Although I had plenty of ideas for papers, I hadn’t published many yet. So, next to working on my PhD thesis and a grant application, I planned to conduct research for and write several new articles. I was also running computer simulations using a newly developed code to make a compelling case for my research proposal.

Normally, I am a good sleeper. I fall asleep quickly and hardly ever wake up during the night. Back then, I often woke up, mulling over everything I had to do and in what order. During the day, I made some headway with my tasks, but not nearly as much as I thought I needed to. At night, I again agonized over achieving my goals. No matter how hard I worked, I seemed to inch forward and always felt like I was behind schedule. My decision to stop pursuing the research grant was a great relief. Yet, I still had a PhD thesis to write and desired to publish several research papers. The funding deadline no longer loomed over me, but, in my mind, I kept being behind.

Several years later, I had given up on my dream of working in academia. In fact, I had recently quit my first job as a software developer and was considering alternatives. I didn’t feel ready to take up a new job, though. I was just getting the ropes of a new programming language and aimed to expand my knowledge of it. But I also wanted to sharpen my programming skills in general. I followed—and finished—a handful of online coding courses. However, that achievement didn’t satisfy me. I believed I needed to apply what I had learned and aimed to create a portfolio of real-life projects.

I had once started developing a program to solve the puzzle game Boggle, which I set out to turn into a web version. I also began building a software library to follow up on my PhD research. Combining several interests, I published a tool to determine all the ways to finish a game of darts. I then modernized my website, showcasing some of my projects. As my knowledge grew, so did the list of programming languages I wanted to excel at and the number of projects I intended to create. All the time, I was convinced I hadn’t yet accomplished what I should have. Again, I was always behind.

Earlier this year, I went through a similar experience. Up to that point, generative artificial intelligence had only marginally impacted my work as a software engineer. Then, a colleague eagerly began experimenting with AI to generate new source code. Before long, they were producing so much material that I spent all my time on code reviews. Still, I could not keep up with my colleague. I felt like lagging in other ways, though. My experience didn’t suffice to understand all the generated code. Additionally, I didn’t see how I could quickly catch up with the latest trends in building software using AI.

As you might expect, the experience of being behind extends to my personal life. For example, I have dozens of ideas for new blogs. In practice, I don’t finalize more than two per month, though. Similarly, I want to stay in touch with my friends and loved ones. But how often do I call them or send them a message? The number of unanswered messages on my phone provides a sobering answer. Beyond these examples, I have a long list of recurring and occasional to-dos.

Whatever I do isn’t a task well done. Instead, it is only one less liability to worry about—until the next to-do pops up. In other words, it doesn’t matter what I do or how hard I work. With my sky-high standards and expectations, I will always be behind. And that’s a crucial point. I am demanding the impossible of myself. It is time to start questioning my uncompromising attitude toward myself. Hopefully, I won’t see that step as another assignment I can be behind on.

This is what writing my PhD thesis was like. Chapter after chapter. Section after section. Each time, I felt like I had to start from scratch. Writing was such a struggle. Today, the words flow out of my fingers almost effortlessly. I have more ideas for blogs than time to write them. It is a joy to express myself through writing. How could it have been such a struggle once?

Did I have writer’s block while working on my PhD thesis? Since I had such difficulties creating new sections, it surely sounds like it. Writer’s block is more of a description than an explanation of my experience, however. Besides, I produced a 250-page thesis in addition to several articles. So, I wasn’t blocked all the time. What about the fact that I wrote all day back then, whereas I casually write whenever I have time and ideas now? The lack of variation certainly did not expedite my writing. Additionally, the pressure I put on myself to fill new pages was debilitating at times. With a lot of time on my hands, I steadily continued writing, though. Did I lack inspiration, then? Again, the amount of material I produced suggests the contrary.

Of course, these aspects may have contributed to my difficulties with writing. Yet, I believe the central issue lies elsewhere, and the way I organized my writing points to it. I knew I had to write thousands of lines of text. To not lose sight of the big picture, I kept the chapters of my thesis in separate files. However, even the chapters would have a substantial length. Therefore, I didn’t want them to be cluttered with ideas, comments, or outdated text. As a result, I entered a very restrictive writing mode. I wanted to write full sentences that fit perfectly with any existing text in one go. Ideally, they would even smoothly introduce the lines I had yet to write. You can guess how often a satisfactory sentence popped into my mind. Hence, I shot down most ideas I came up with.

I went through the same struggle with creating new content hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Yet, I didn’t even begin to see that perfectionism was blocking me. I just pressed on with only one goal in mind: finishing my thesis. During the final stages of my PhD, I started to realize that brainstorming requires space. I set up my thesis’s summaries in separate documents, where I collected ideas and considered variations of each line and paragraph. Still, I experienced a lot of pressure to create perfectly flowing text.

Eventually, I finished my PhD thesis. I was—and still am—very satisfied with the final result. Next to my thesis, I published a well-cited first-author article in a peer-reviewed scientific journal and contributed to several other publications. I also authored a handful of conference papers, several scientific preprints, and a popular science article. I do not regret writing any of them. As time passed, I did begin to wonder: Could writing have been less of a struggle? Could I have produced more articles if I hadn’t spent so much time pursuing the perfect text?

A few years after obtaining my PhD, I was applying for a new job and again considered these questions. To renew my professional profile, I followed up on the idea that brainstorming requires space. Ensuingly, I dedicated different documents to my values, interests, competencies, goals, and personality. I also summarized my professional experience by looking at my past responsibilities, achievements, and skills. I took ample time and space before compiling a new CV and updating my online job profiles. However, in the end, I had so many brainstorming and selection files that I lost the overview. As I had written out all sentence alternatives I considered, the documents had quickly grown in size as well. It became hard to make improvements while keeping all the material in sync. What originated as an idea to make writing more flexible turned rigid again.

Earlier this year, when I started setting up this blog, I found a new writing mode. I use one brainstorm file per blog. In that file, I record any idea I have. I refrain from reviewing or criticizing ideas as long as they keep coming. To prevent losing the overview, I no longer write out sentence alternatives. Instead, I focus on words and phrases. After some time, I mark the phrases I like best and have an automatic script assemble them into paragraphs. Then, I iteratively extend and improve the text until I am satisfied.

It works even better for me to begin with grocery-list-style brainstorming. I open the notes app on my phone and add a checklist. There, I jot down all ideas, without paying attention to grammar, punctuation, or the level of detail. Next, I transfer these ideas to my computer and continue the process there. Even with this method, writing continues to take time. Similarly, pressure or high expectations can still block me. I may not even produce more material than previously. But writing isn’t the struggle it used to be. On the contrary, expressing myself through writing has become a joy.

I have come to see creativity as a flow. Criticism and premature reviews interrupt and stifle it. They are like pruning a rose bud because it isn’t a beautiful flower yet. Like the bud, ideas need to grow. So, put down those words. Write half a sentence. Extend it, add alternatives, and iterate from there. This process will take time. But so does watering a rose.

What happens when you don’t agree with me or express an opinion that doesn’t match mine? I will feel that I didn’t do it right. Or rather, in most cases, I won’t consciously feel that way. Instead, my first line of defense kicks in, which makes me want to shout: “What do you mean, I didn’t do it right? You didn’t do it right!” When I acknowledge my feelings and do not automatically slip into my primary reaction of pointing the finger at you, I realize what purpose my defense mechanism serves. It protects me from feeling that I made a mistake. But why do I want to be protected from that feeling?

The mere suggestion that I did something wrong terrifies me. It directly relates to my belief that I can’t do it right—I can never do it right. Experiencing that belief feels awful. Seeing that belief confirmed is even worse. I would rather become frustrated and angry with you. I would rather shout and point the finger at you than be confronted with my belief that I can’t do it right. Why does the idea that I can’t do anything right feel so bad? Can’t I see it is an illusion? I am doing some things right, right?

Believing that I can’t do it right is just a diversion. There is a layer behind it, which whispers I am not good enough. Not feeling good enough is even more distressing than believing that I can’t do anything right. So, when you give me the slightest reason to think I made a mistake, feeling that I did something wrong isn’t the core issue. The idea that I can’t do anything right isn’t what is truly bothering me. No, I feel like I am the problem. I feel inadequate and insufficient. I feel like I am not good enough. That is a feeling I want to avoid at all costs.

As you might expect, I do not often consciously feel inadequate. My defense mechanism of blaming you filters out most threatening situations. Behind this trench stands the belief that I can’t do it right. Even if going there feels terrible, I prefer it over feeling that I am not good enough. But we are not quite there yet.

I can see a layer behind feeling insufficient that I practically never reach in daily life. Even when I get there, I barely touch it. That layer, which I currently perceive as my core belief, goes by the name “I am no good.” The idea that I am not good enough still allows for improvements. There is no nuance in being no good, however. At this level, I feel inherently bad. I do not feel loved, and I am convinced I am not worthy of love. I even believe I am not lovable. So, when we seemingly disagree with each other, a chain reaction starts in me. Most of the time, it won’t penetrate all the layers of my psyche. During vulnerable moments, it will, and I will feel very bad about myself.

Looking outward for an escape from this feeling, I want you to agree with me. I need you to confirm my opinions and support the decisions I made. I am begging you to tell me I didn’t do anything wrong. Because my deep-seated beliefs will probably prevent me from believing you, I want you to take another step and say I am good enough. Ultimately, I would like you to tell me I am okay, I am good.

It’s quite unlikely that I will accept what you say, though. It is your word against mine. Your efforts face the brick wall of my beliefs. So, can I propose another solution? Let’s agree that you do not overtly disagree with me. Let me believe that we agree with each other. Allow me to think we have a similar view of life. Please, do not challenge or provoke me. But that won’t work either, will it? You and I aren’t alone. Asking you to agree with me is one thing. Expecting everyone else to do the same is another.

Rather than looking at you, wanting you to soothe my pain, I will look inward and continue the digging that has brought me here. You can support me, though. Please disagree with me, even if I might become angry with you. Please challenge me, realizing I will sometimes hurt. Please give me as much of an opportunity to change, heal, and grow as you and I can handle.

A week later, I called the company and learned I wasn’t among the first interviewees. That message was a setback, but I was happy I didn’t receive a rejection right away. I could see it coming, though, and a few weeks later I received the final verdict. I wasn’t going to be invited for an interview. I was really disappointed. I hadn’t been this excited about a vacancy in years. Besides, my educational and professional background seemed perfect for the job. But it wasn’t enough.

I was told not to take the rejection personally and to move on. I would find another job. I would meet an employer who appreciated my experience and expertise. However, as encouraging as those words might have been, I found it very hard to let the rejection slide off me. For days, I felt awful. I saw myself as a complete fraud with a stupid CV full of holes. All at once, my experience seemed utterly irrelevant. How would anyone give me a chance and invite me for an interview? How would I ever find a job I loved?

Slowly, my primal reaction faded away, and I started thinking. Had it been a bad idea to condense my CV into one page? Did I remove essential elements? Was my cover letter too short? Should I have focused on other topics? Would I have made a better impression by contacting the company more often? Before I knew it, I started compensating for my doubts. I would fix my CV. I would emphasize my relevant experience and expand it. I would show the company that I would have been an excellent candidate for the job. Still in this mindset, I spent weeks creating a detailed portfolio of the projects I worked on.

Finally, I became angry. I became angry with the company for not inviting me and not giving me a chance. I also felt angry with myself. I missed an opportunity and blamed myself for it. As time passed, my intense feelings subsided. I also realized I couldn’t change the situation and admitted my defeat. The company hadn’t hired me—and wouldn’t anytime soon. Maybe other candidates had a better CV, or I didn’t match the company that well after all. I will never know.

I do know this. It may not have been optimal to shorten my CV. I might have made a better impression with a different cover letter. But I didn’t make a mistake per se. I simply expressed my enthusiasm for a job I wasn’t hired for. I also learned that taking circumstances personally isn’t necessarily a bad thing. In fact, I am happy I didn’t move on right after my rejected application. Otherwise, how would I have discovered my disappointment, self-doubt, and anger? Going through these feelings wasn’t catastrophic, either. They were temporary and, if anything, showed me how much the vacancy appealed to me. Next time, I intend to acknowledge my feelings earlier and skip the compensation game, though.

At the time, DeepL had not yet introduced its present writing feature, which suggests text improvements in a language of choice. To get the text I was satisfied with, I let the translator make several round trips from Dutch or English to German and back, making changes on the go. When I started working for a German company, I wrote messages to colleagues that way.

Over time, translating entire messages became too tedious and time-consuming for me. Besides, my German was improving. I stopped using DeepL to write instant messages and emails—unless they were critical. I still looked up phrases, had my use of verbs corrected, or checked the tone of messages in a language more familiar to me. After a while, I also gave up those checks.

Then, an interesting learning phase began. Despite knowing it was far from perfect, I became confident enough to write German on my own. I inevitably made mistakes, but I didn’t care as long as I didn’t notice. I also realized that my colleagues mostly understood me. Making mistakes didn’t seem such a big deal anymore. Yet, as my German improved, I learned to recognize more mistakes and persisted in correcting them.

Finally, it dawned on me. I would never speak, write, or understand German like a native speaker. Disappointing as that thought may seem, a weight fell off my shoulders. I am not a native speaker. Why would I have to sound and write like one? Why would my German have to be perfect?

As an experiment, I stopped correcting my messages to colleagues. Initially, I felt uncomfortable. What would they think of me? Then, I began to feel profoundly human. I am a human. Why would I hold myself to a superhuman standard of perfection?

The advent of generative artificial intelligence has only strengthened this reasoning. In contrast to perfectly written, polished texts, mistakes show that I’m a human. They show that I wrote this blog. Who would have thought that making mistakes would one day become a virtue?

The little candle is my gift to you. With it, I am sharing my light, offering it to you and others. I am also sharing myself with you.

You could blow out my candle as I am presenting it to you. You might even trample on or destroy it. I won’t feel hurt or rejected. I won’t regret offering you my candle.

There is a candle in my heart. I could relight the little candle with it. Otherwise, the candle inside would produce a new candle I could again offer to you and others.

I am offering my little candle to you. I am sharing myself with you.