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Today I met a friend with whom I love spending time. She’s a few years older than me, but we get along very well. We first met exactly two years ago through a local app called nebenan. At the time, I was desperately looking for someone to practice my German with, so I posted an announcement on the platform—and she responded. Since then, we’ve been meeting regularly, having tandem sessions almost every week.
We’ve reached a point now where we manage to talk about fairly complex topics. Our rule is simple: half an hour in English, half an hour in German. We take notes of each other’s mistakes and analyze them at the end of each round.
I don’t want to discuss our tandem strategy today, though. What I want to talk about is a topic that came up during our session and has stayed with me since I left the café where we met.
We spoke about a movie we both watched—Sirāt. I had actually seen it first, and it impacted me so deeply that I recommended it to everyone I know who appreciates my suggestions. The thing about this movie is that I don’t think everyone will understand or appreciate it. It’s very distant from the world most of us live in or are accustomed to. However, if you’ve ever experienced pure freedom, profound bonding, or deep experimentation in any area of life, I think the movie might speak to you in very personal and powerful ways—even if not in the same way it spoke to me.
If you’re planning to watch it, I’d suggest going in without reading anything about it. But if you want to know the premise, highlight the next paragraph with your mouse:
The movie follows a father searching for his daughter, who left home and appears to be enjoying raves somewhere in a North African desert. He’s accompanied by his son, and along the way they encounter a group of ravers who seem to know where she is.
I’m not going to review the movie in this post—perhaps I’ll write another one about it later.
What emerged from our discussion of Sirāt was a memory of a past relationship I once had with someone who pushed me to limits I didn’t know I could reach. With her, I experienced things I never thought I would. But things didn’t last—she was too intense, too unpredictable. And as much as I tried to make it work, at some point I felt compelled to break up with her. I did, though I believe she was unconsciously—or consciously—pushing me to do it. But that’s not the point here.
What matters is the awareness that surfaced from that reflection. I’ve always dreaded breakups. I don’t think anyone sane enjoys them. It breaks my heart to break someone else’s heart, and the feeling of loneliness and emptiness often drives me into another relationship too quickly—which isn’t the healthiest response. Still, I’ve been lucky to share meaningful connections with special souls, aside from a few situations where I regretted starting something serious too soon with clear mismatches.
What I’ve learned through one relationship after another is that I shouldn’t overthink things too much. Of course, it’s important to learn from each experience and take time to heal emotionally and mentally. But there’s no rulebook for life. Things happen, and we have to go with them—trusting both the process and ourselves. For me, that’s still hard, mostly because of my constant need for balance and peace—things I’m still learning how to compromise on.
