A Grey Hair

English translation of the German song "Ein graues Haar" of the band Pur:

Just a moment ago I was playing Indians, the kindergarten teacher I adored so much. Then riding my moped in circles, first kiss, first crisis – how fast time flies. And now I’m standing in front of the mirror, quarter to eight, the party will be great, my birthday. All those who like me thought of me. But what do I see? Well, what? A grey hair. Another year goes by. All the best, thank you, sure – still a reason to celebrate.

Even when I was younger, I loved this song. It reminded me that it doesn’t really matter how old you become. Life can always be beautiful — and light. And life can always be celebrated.

When I first heard this song, grey hair was still a distant thought. A few days ago, I turned 37. Inside, I often still feel like I’m in my mid-twenties. And yet, it’s becoming harder to deny that I’m now closer to 40 than to 30 — and my body is slowly beginning to show it. A few grey strands are finding their place. Despite daily yoga, cellulite is spreading a little. And the first fine lines are starting to appear — not only when I laugh.

And yet, I am so much more at peace with my body — and with my life — than I was at 14, or honestly, even a few years ago. I constantly wanted to change something, improve something, optimize something. I still do, yes — but alongside that, I have grown deeply grateful for the home of my soul.

My body has carried me through so many adventures. It let me run a half marathon, carried me through the Himalayas and the Andes, over countless altitude meters, without ever suffering from altitude sickness. It carried me through my yoga teacher training and through all the small and big challenges in between.

Once again, it’s time to be grateful. Not only for my body, but for so much more. My personal happiness barometer — despite a few lows — has clearly risen with age. Even though I don’t really like the saying “life is like good wine” (and it doesn’t quite fit, especially since I barely drink alcohol anymore), there is some truth to it.

I genuinely look forward to what the coming years will bring. Even to the years when I might cruise through the city with a walker, still marveling at life’s small and big wonders. Sitting with a cappuccino, still feeling sadness, anger, despair, or tension — or maybe, by then, having learned not to take everything so seriously. Perhaps I’ll lean back, watch the younger generations pass by, smile quietly to myself, and feel grateful for my colorful life — for all the stories and people who turned it into shades of rainbow again and again.

I usually take my birthday as an opportunity to reflect on the past year and to become clear about what I wish for the next one. Last year, on my birthday, I thought: If this year turns out like today, it will be colorful. I could never have imagined how true that would become.

The year began very quietly. In my parents’ house, surrounded by snow and the Alpine foothills, I wrote my book. Page by page, day by day — without knowing whether anyone would ever want to read it. But the idea wouldn’t let go of me. I didn’t want to give up. By mid-February, I was finished. Then began the search for a publisher. Thanks to my unshakable optimism, I was convinced I’d find one. There were personal contacts — and yet, for an extremely impatient person, everything took far too long.

Then came the next project close to my heart: my podcast. And shortly after, I found myself facing that familiar question again: India — yes or no? Or rather: where am I actually going in my life?

A familiar voice from my inner team spoke up, adjusted her glasses, and said: Kathrin, wouldn’t it be time to finally choose a place, stay, and start bringing your projects into the world? Friends echoed that voice and gently reminded me.

I still vividly remember the moment in March when I canceled my flight to India. The Indigo Airlines employee asked me:“Madam, are you sure you want to cancel the flight?” My heart screamed no, and I heard myself say: Yes, please.

Afterwards, I felt something like heartbreak. Once again, I hadn’t listened to my heart, but to what seemed logically right. And yet, I knew no more than before. I didn’t want to stay in my hometown. And no other place or city really felt right either. So once again, I held on to my nomadic life.

I had promised a friend I would move into an apartment in Lisbon. It seemed like a possibility. And yet, if I was truly honest with myself, my heart was once again drawn to India. Despite initial difficulties due to the conflict between India and Pakistan, despite multiple flight cancellations, I finally landed in Dharamshala in early May.

When I stepped out of the airport, plunged into the chaos of Delhi, and breathed in the scent of India through the bus window, I knew: this was the right decision. It felt like coming home. Sitting in my beloved chai shop in Dharamkot, with a paratha and chai in front of me, I knew: this is where I belong. Maybe not forever but for this particular time of the year. Even if I surprised — and perhaps unsettled — people once again. Even if I once again wasn’t living the safe, settled life I had announced.

My plan had been to write my second book in Dharamshala. But life had other plans. In just two months, I experienced so many stories that I seriously considered writing about them. Deep, special friendships formed in the shortest time. The separation from my Indian partner. Meeting a new love. And in between — so much love in so many different forms.

It was simply a magnificent time — or as my neighbor once said: Kathrin, we’re basically living in Disneyland for adults.

But it wasn’t only about living fully. I also learned that home truly begins within ourselves — not in a place. That we can feel at home with another person. That love has many faces and forms. That it’s rarely black and white, but often made up of countless shades.

After India came Tenerife, followed by a short — and mostly cold-ridden — stay in Germany. Then visiting a dear friend in Marseille by the sea. A brief stay in a French monastery. And once again, my life felt like it had shattered into a thousand pieces.

Then came the spontaneous decision to walk the Camino de Santiago. So many decisions, so many changes in such a short time. So different from what I had planned. Learning that not everything aligns with my expectations — and yet unfolds exactly as I had felt and manifested it — was deeply astonishing to me.

The encounters and insights along the way, and everything that followed, still feel like a small miracle. I learned that letting go and acceptance mean truly embracing life. And that everything arrives in its own time — the long-awaited publisher, and the man.

My time in Sicily, with its incredible food and pure dolce vita, now feels far away. And yet, it was like stepping into another world.

Then back to France. A few days by the sea to sense what might come next. Strolling along the Atlantic with a croissant — and two days later, I was already on a bus to Toulouse to live and volunteer at a Buddhist institute. Living in a community was new territory for me. Much like on the Camino, it challenged me to set boundaries, to drop roles, and to truly be myself — even when no one around me spoke English.

I loved the surroundings there, close to the Pyrenees. When I first arrived at the end of August, the place already felt magical — and once again, that time became something very special. At the same time, I found myself back in my old and new professions: HR, writing, recording my podcast — and, of course, coaching.

Shortly before my birthday, I traveled to Valencia to see whether it could be a place to stay longer. I loved the atmosphere, the Spanish lightness — and yet, it didn’t feel like home. Unlike places such as Ubud, Amsterdam, Dharamshala, or Munich.

Places that simply feel like home — regardless of who is there.

Now I’m sitting in a small café in Kolkata, India, with a chai in my hands, Tibetan prayer flags, Christmas decorations, and the scent of jasmine incense in the air, reflecting on the question:

What have I learned this year?

• Love takes time. Love is sometimes different from how we imagine it. And when we truly allow ourselves to open to it, it becomes the most beautiful thing in the world. Today I understand why so many songs, films, and books are about love — and why we are willing to risk so much for it. But real love also means not losing ourselves. It means fully loving ourselves first. Only then is unconditional, free love for others possible. Only then do we stop feeling small.

• I’ve learned to follow the flow of life and to trust that we are guided. That things need time to unfold — time to grow. And that our desired timing rarely aligns with the moment something is truly ripe.

• I’ve learned not to question everything all the time. To know that I am in the right place — and that what I am meant to learn will reveal itself.

• I’ve learned not to dim my own light anymore. Not to fear my own greatness. Not to wait for perfection in order to move forward. Often, what we need is experience — and that deep inner knowing: I am on the right path.

• Critical voices aren’t wrong. They invite reflection. But when that quiet inner voice still whispers, Keep going. Stay with it, we can trust it. I’ve learned to trust that voice by becoming still. Because in the noise of everyday life, in constant thinking, we easily lose it. That’s why I go into nature, sit in cafés, write in my journal — and listen. Fully present.

  It’s worth it. Even when that voice challenges us. Because what if it holds miracles for us — miracles we never dared to believe in?

  
  

And so here I am again, in India, a country so far removed from my own culture, and yet the moment I step off the plane, it feels like home. Like coming back. Like arriving. And once again, that deep knowing that home is not tied to a place, but begins deep within us.

Other people can feel like home, too. When they are there, I feel at home.

Sometimes, yes, it would be nice to no longer live out of a backpack. To have a wardrobe, a place where all my books live. And yet, none of that is truly necessary — because my home, my base, lives inside me.

Honestly, I do need a café where I can work. My routines — yoga and meditation — help me. And above all, being surrounded by people who touch my heart deeply. And if they’re not physically close, then knowing they exist in my life — even from thousands of kilometers away.

Now I let the past year pass through my thoughts — with gratitude, and also a touch of wistfulness.

A year full of confetti and tears.

A year of growth.

A year in which so much has changed. 

What is my wish for the year ahead?

To live life with full intensity and an open heart — and at the same time to give myself the gift of slowness: moments of doing nothing, of simply being.

Cheers to life