Norooz marks the arrival of spring and the beginning of a new year. For thousands of years, it has reminded us that after even the longest winter, life returns, hope rises again, and change is always possible.

After 47 years of injustice and horror, the voice of our people continues to rise with courage and resilience. And now, for the first time in almost 5 decades, it feels as if those voices have finally been heard by two powerful leaders who chose to listen.

I wish my people strength, hope, and brighter days ahead.

And to the brave souls who are not here this year to celebrate, those who gave their lives demanding freedom and dignity, taken by the brutality of the Islamic regime, you are never forgotten. Your courage lives on in the hearts of millions, and your memory and your names continue to light the path toward a freer future.

We honor you.

Javid Shah

Norooz Mobarak xx

Perhaps it is because freedom mattered so much that, as a child in Iran, I found my own version of it in the quiet darkness of my room.

I don’t remember my parents reading to me before bed. My mom says she did. Maybe she did when I was very young. But I don’t remember the sound of pages turning, or her voice drifting softly through the room in the dark.

I also don’t remember reading many books.

What I do remember is this:

I told myself stories. And honestly, I still don’t know where those ideas or that imagination came from.

Every single night, I couldn’t wait to go to bed. Not because I was tired, but because that was when my real life began.

Under my blanket, in the quiet darkness, I became free.

No one could hear my thoughts.
No one could see what I was thinking.
No one could correct me.
No one could ask why I imagined what I imagined.
No one could tell me I shouldn’t think like that.

In that small bed, I could be anyone.

I could travel to faraway lands.
I could run through forests.
I could climb mountains and jump across rivers.
I could go on adventures no one else even knew existed.
I always somehow found myself racing the boys, and I always won.

They weren’t about fantasy princess worlds.
They were about freedom.

I didn’t want a castle.
I wanted the open road.
I didn’t want to be rescued.
I wanted to be unstoppable, and the one doing the rescuing.

In real life, I was not the kind of little girl who played quietly with dolls. I didn’t want tea sets or pretend kitchens.

I wanted to be outside.
I wanted to run until my lungs burned.
I wanted scraped knees and messy hair.
I wanted to build things, climb things, and compete.

My family was not religious, but I grew up in a society that forcefully was. A place that was far harder on girls than on boys. And for as long as I can remember, I hated that imbalance.

I hated feeling limited. I hated the invisible rules about how a girl should sit, speak, behave, and dream. That feeling of being boxed in, told what I could or couldn’t do. But that’s another story for another time.

At night, though, in my bed, none of those rules applied. I could imagine my life exactly how I wanted it. No rules. No judgment. No punishments. Just me and the stories in my head.

The blanket became my shield.
The darkness became my stage.

Some nights I started new stories. Some nights, I continued the ones from the night before, whispering to myself, “to be continued” as my eyes grew heavy. Some stories lasted for weeks. Some were short. Some I retold again and again, editing scenes and details, changing endings, going back to fix something that didn’t feel right.

When I was little, the stories were about adventures, about me out in the world, playing, discovering, running wild. I climbed, jumped, and explored. I was always the cool girl who could do everything better than the boys.

As I grew older, the stories didn’t change, but something else became important too. Puberty softened some edges and sharpened others. I was still the cool, adventurous girl, but now I was also desired. Loved. Wanted.

Some stories became deeply romantic. Some dramatic. Some heartbreakingly sad. Occasionally, they turned darker, a mix of horror and love, especially if I had watched a scary film or heard unsettling news.

My mind could twist anything into a story.

And then, one day, I stopped.

We had moved to Sweden by then. I don’t remember when it ended.

There was no final chapter. No goodbye.
The stories just faded.

By the time I was eighteen, the nights were quieter.

Those stories were part of me. They were my secret world. The nights were my most creative hours. My imagination was alive and fearless.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had never stopped telling myself stories all these years.

Who would I be today?

Would my life have shaped itself differently around that wild imagination?

I never told anyone about this.

I thought people would think I was strange. Maybe even crazy. After all, I had never heard anyone else say they told themselves stories at night. So I kept it to myself.

This is the first time I’m saying it out loud.

I still talk to myself. I still have full conversations in my head. I imagine scenarios and replay moments, like scenes from a movie, but they’re not stories anymore. Not like before.

They don’t feel magical.

Sometimes, when I think of that little girl under the blanket, I feel:

Sadness.

Because she always felt different. Slightly misplaced. Like she had been handed a script that didn’t quite fit.

But I also feel proud of her.

She never stopped imagining something bigger.
She never accepted the limits quietly.
She created a world where she could exist fully, even if only in the dark.

Maybe I’ve always been chasing that same feeling.

Freedom.

It just looks different now.

And maybe writing this, sharing it publicly for the first time, is my way of lifting the blanket again.

Of finding that little girl.
Of remembering that the wild, imaginative, slightly different child never really disappeared.

She just grew up.

And maybe tonight, when the lights go out, I’ll let her tell me a story again.

Did you ever tell yourself stories in bed at night?

With a remembering smile
GOO:DMOO:DISM

There are little things in someone’s life that feel important to one person, but might mean nothing, or much less, to someone else.

Anyone who knows me knows I love nuts and seeds, but nut and seed butters? Oh, that’s a whole other level of love. You name it, I love it.

My love for nuts and seeds started very early.

Born to Iranian parents, nuts and seeds have always been an essential part of our diet, especially walnuts, pistachios, sesame, hazelnuts, and almonds.

Usually, they are eaten whole, but my mom had a little magic trick. She’d grind them into a mix, and most mornings she gave us a full tablespoon of this powerful blend. Healthy, filling, nutritious, and secretly delicious.

I swear that spoonful could start a day like nothing else.

But my real love affair with these creamy butters began at 19, when I went to the US as an international student. That’s when I met peanut butter for the first time.

Yes, peanuts are technically legumes, but shh, let’s not ruin romance.

It was love at first spoon.

Peanut butter and jelly became my ultimate comfort. Peanut butter on its own, peanut butter with chocolate, peanut butter in ice cream, peanut butter in anything. I ate it all, with the kind of joy that feels a little naughty and very indulgent.

Back then, it was the only butter I knew, but oh, what a perfect start.

My adventure with other nut and seed butters began after I moved to Germany. They weren’t everywhere at the time, and I don’t remember seeing peanut butter in every supermarket. But gradually, they appeared more and more.

At some point, I discovered 100% pure peanut butter at local organic stores. No additives, no sugar, no palm oil, just peanuts in their most honest form. And since then, I stayed loyal to peanut butter, simple and pure.

From there, my exploration of other nut and seed butters truly began.

I’ve tried almost every kind I know exists, but every now and then, a little surprise shows up, like a tiny gift from the universe.

And on my birthday this year in early February, that happened again.

I was browsing Amazon with the gift cards I received from my loved ones and decided to order some organic peanut butter for my nightly ritual: one banana, one generous spoon of peanut butter, and a pinch of Himalayan salt.

And then I froze.

I spotted something magical: pine nut butter in creamy and crunchy form, and pecan butter too.

My heart did a little happy dance.

Yes, really. You can’t imagine the joy I felt just looking at the pictures.

It might sound silly, but these tiny pleasures, discovering a new flavor, imagining how it might taste, are pure joy for me. It’s happiness in my mouth and in my heart at the same time.

For me, trying a new nut butter or sipping a perfect cup of coffee in the morning are two simple, almost insignificant joys that feel enormous.

At first, I decided to order them one at a time, giving each my full attention instead of rushing and spooning everything at once. No multitasking here, just me, a spoon, and the magic of a new taste waiting to happen.

But when I read the reviews, I became a little skeptical. Some said heavenly taste, others said horrible. I didn’t want to spend a ridiculous price of twenty euros on a tiny 170-gram jar and feel deeply disappointed.

So I checked if one of my absolute favorite brands, KoRo, carried them too.

I’m not advertising, I just can’t help but admire their quality. Every jar feels like a little promise of indulgence: rich, creamy, pure nut goodness. Sure, they’re a touch pricier than some other brands in Germany, but for me, every spoonful is worth it. The taste, the texture, the simple joy. They’re unmatched.

And yes! My heart did a soft little giggle. They had both. My happiness returned instantly.

They offered 100% nut butter in 500-gram jars: pine nut butter for a jaw-dropping price of thirty-one euros, and pecan butter for a modestly shocking price of seventeen euros.

Just seeing them there felt like tiny treasures, patiently waiting to be unwrapped.

But unfortunately, the pine nut butter was out of stock. I won’t lie, I felt genuinely sad. Still, I clicked the notification button, so the moment it’s back, I’ll know.

Instead, I ordered pecan butter and black sesame tahini (both new to me), along with walnut and macadamia butter, which I’ve tried before but not from KoRo. I ended up spending seventy euros on nut butter. :D

And honestly?

Zero regrets.

My delivery arrived on Valentine’s Day.

My perfect Valentine.

A delicious gift to myself.

Six days later, I finally opened 2 of the jars.

The black sesame tahini was first. I drizzled it over salmon, and wow. I absolutely loved it. Nothing like white sesame tahini. It has an intense, deeply nutty, slightly bitter flavor with an earthy, almost smoky depth. I bought it mainly for food and dressings, not necessarily for my nightly banana ritual, and it did not disappoint.

When my peanut butter finished, I stood in front of the cupboard debating which jar to open next. Because I had been slightly disappointed by walnut butter from another brand in the past, I decided to open that one first. I thought, if it disappoints me again, at least I still have two untouched jars waiting to rescue my joy.

And oh my goodness.

It was divine.

KoRo, once again, did not disappoint me. Nothing like the one I tried years ago. Smooth, rich, perfectly balanced.

Standing there with a spoon in my hand, still a little tipsy on walnut happiness, I realized something.

Maybe this post is just about something small and ordinary.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s these small, simple pleasures, the ones that make your heart quietly skip a beat, your eyes twinkle a little, your mouth curl into a grin, that are worth celebrating.

Pecan butter today, pine nut butter tomorrow, and for a moment, life feels creamy, crunchy, and utterly delicious.

So this is my love letter to nut butter.

What small indulgence could make your heart do a happy dance?

With a nutty smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

Every time, before ending the class with Namaste, they would sit with their eyes closed while I read a poem in German, one I believed at the time was written by my favorite Persian poet, Rumi. It was the perfect way to close the practice. Somehow, no matter how many times I read it, it always felt new, as if we were all hearing it for the first time.

I don’t teach Yin Yoga anymore, but the feeling of those ninety minutes, the warmth, the trust, the peaceful faces, will stay with me always.

What remains now is the poem. And when I began researching it for this newsletter, hoping to find the English version, I learned something unexpected: it wasn’t Rumi at all. Many sources link it instead to Kalidasa, the ancient India’s greatest Sanskrit poet.

Still, the words carry a truth that feels universal:

Exhortation of the Dawn by Kalidasa
(English version by W. S. Merwin & J. Moussaieff Masson)

Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn!
Look to this Day!
For it is Life, the very Life of Life.
In its brief course lie all the
Verities and Realities of your Existence.
The Bliss of Growth,
The Glory of Action,
The Splendor of Beauty;
For Yesterday is but a Dream,
And Tomorrow is only a Vision;
But Today well lived makes
Every Yesterday a Dream of Happiness,
And every Tomorrow a Vision of Hope.
Look well therefore to this Day!
Such is the Salutation of the Dawn!

This poem holds so much meaning. Every line is a simple truth we often forget. We live pulled between two worlds: our past, heavy with old wounds, failures, and misfortunes, and our imagined future, where everything will finally be better.

I know this because I’m caught in that pattern too.

But I’ve learned that on the rare days when I manage to be fully present, even if it’s just for a few minutes, something shifts. Something softens. Something magical happens.

I wish we could all live that way more often, to look well, truly well, to this day. But I also know the reality of life is different and more complicated.

And maybe that’s why this poem stayed with me for so many years.

It reminds me to return to myself.
To this moment. To this day.

In that same spirit of presence and honesty, I want to share something I wrote not long ago, a letter to myself. A letter I needed.

Maybe someone reading this needs it too.

Letter to Self

“Keep taking time for yourself until you are you again.” ~ Lalah Delia

Dear Me,

You didn’t start writing to be brave. You started because you were tired.

Tired of carrying everything in silence, tired of losing pieces of yourself to days that all felt the same. You wrote because you needed a place to breathe.

And look at you now. You turned those scattered thoughts into something honest, something real, a way back to yourself.

You didn’t rush it.

You didn’t fake it.

You just kept showing up in words when you couldn’t show up anywhere else.

That’s strength, even if you didn’t call it that.

You’ve spent so much of your life waiting to feel “ready,” but maybe healing doesn’t wait for readiness. Maybe it just asks for honesty, the kind you’re learning to give yourself day by day.

Keep writing, even when the words feel small.

The story isn’t over just because you paused.

It’s simply catching its breath.

One day, you’ll look back and realize this version of you, the one who kept trying when it was hard, was the bravest one of all.

With love,
Me x

A New Year, Gently Continued

Today, I’m writing my 11th newsletter, and this is also my first one of 2026.

As this new year unfolds, it feels right to carry the softness of this poem, and this letter, into the months ahead.

When I started this newsletter on October 1st, 2025 and published the very first one, I worried I’d have nothing more to write about afterward. But I soon realized how many stories still live quietly inside me, waiting for their turn to be told.

Since then, I’ve written every week until now, sometimes with ease, sometimes through doubt.

From here on, I’ll write once a month, or whenever inspiration visits.

I want writing to remain a place of joy and discovery, not pressure.

I’m deeply grateful for this journey. I never imagined that something so simple could bring so much meaning.

I don’t know where this path will lead, but I’m grateful it found me, and grateful to all of you who are here, reading along.

Thank you for subscribing, reading, sharing, and supporting me in any way you have. You encouraged me to keep going when I needed it most.

2026 did not start the way I expected.

Not personally. And not in the world around me.

I am going through a difficult time and trying to heal. At the same time, I’ve been watching what is happening around the world, and this time it hit me differently, because it is the place where I was born and raised until I was sixteen. My home. Iran.

Since the end of December 2025, a movement has been growing stronger, louder, and more visible in Iran. People are risking their lives, going into the streets, demanding rights that should never have been denied to them.

I am deeply proud of the bravery of every person who goes out knowing the consequences, knowing what might happen, and still choosing to stand up for freedom and dignity.

Your courage shows the strength of the human spirit, and I have never been prouder to be Iranian.

My heart aches for every life that has been lost, for those who never got the chance to experience what freedom truly feels like.

Rest in peace, you beautiful souls.

And to the ones still standing and fighting, I salute you.

Let us learn this year to never take our freedom for granted. Let us honor it, protect it, question it, and use it wisely, not only for ourselves, but for those who do not have it.

Most importantly, let us cherish it in ways we too often forget when comfort surrounds us.

I wish all of us a year filled with presence, compassion, clarity, resilience, courage, and empathy.

May 2026 feel less like something we rush into, and more like something we grow into.

Here’s to everything we’re still becoming.

With a determined, thankful, yet aching smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

Our sweet Y. passed away suddenly on 28.11.2025.

We are all heartbroken, especially my sister and her family, and we are still trying to understand how something so sudden could happen. We knew he had health issues and that his life might be shorter, but he was doing okay, and nothing prepared us for losing him like this.

I decided not to change anything in the story below, because when I wrote it, he was still here with us. And in my heart, he still is.

I didn’t spend as much time with him as others did, but this year, at the end of July and the beginning of August, I traveled to England for a family emergency, and during those two weeks I took care of him every day. Those days became the reason we bonded so deeply. Feeding him, tucking his blanket over him because he loved feeling warm and wrapped, moving his bed into the sunshine because that’s where he felt happiest, all these small routines connected us.

And his eyes… the sweetest eyes I have ever seen, full of softness and knowing.

I’m certain he felt that I was going through a difficult time too, and somehow he understood without words. That gentle understanding created a bond between us that I will always carry with me.

Y. wasn’t just any dog. He was a Thai Ridgeback, smaller than the usual ones, with the most beautiful color and a face that melted you on sight. The most handsome boy.

Whenever we took him outside, people didn’t just smile because they saw a dog; they truly noticed him. He received real compliments, again and again, how beautiful he was, how striking, how good-looking. I don’t know a single human or animal who has ever received so many genuine compliments just by walking down the street.

His birthday was on 12.12. He would have been six years old.

So I’m sharing this story exactly as it was written, with him still here, curled in his corner, still part of our family Christmas. I miss him more than I can express.

…

Christmas is very special for us because it’s the one time most years when my whole family manages to gather together. We live scattered across different countries: my parents and youngest sister in Sweden, my middle sister in England, and I live in Germany.

This has been our rhythm for many years. So, no matter what, when Christmas comes around, we try our best to meet during this season, because time together feels rare and precious. And usually, it’s also a little easier for everyone to take time off.

Before my middle sister and her partner got a dog, and before my nephews were born, we mostly went to Sweden and stayed with my parents. Back then, my youngest sister was living in England too, but now she’s back in Sweden with her partner.

Those days were messy, loud, crowded, perfect, and beautifully chaotic. We loved it so much.

Eight adults squeezed into my parents’ apartment for ten days: two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a balcony. Sometimes even my two cousins joined too.

You might think, how could all those grown-ups fit in that place? It sounds impossible, but it was possible. You’d think it would drive us crazy, and it did, but somehow, we loved it anyway.

It was cozy. Warm. Full of laughter. Full of love. We played, we danced, we cried, we argued, we hugged, we got drunk, and we ate. Oh, we ate so well.

We celebrate Christmas not because it’s our tradition, but because we’ve lived in Europe for a very long time, and it’s something special for my youngest sister, who’s grown up in Sweden since she was six.

Our partners are not Persian like us, and for them, it’s a special Christmas celebrated in a not-so-traditional way.

Somewhere along the way, Christmas became special for me, because it means family. Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. But without my family, I probably wouldn’t celebrate it in the same way, with all the lovely decorations, the tree, the food, and the little rituals that make it ours. But with them, it becomes magical.

The multilingual chaos is a story of its own. There’s always a mix of five languages flying around, and it can get hilariously confusing.

A house full of grown-ups speaking not all five languages, but maybe two or three of them: Persian, English, Swedish, German, and Azari, the language my parents usually speak together, which my sisters and I can understand but not speak.

One moment I might accidentally speak German to my sister, who doesn’t understand a word, or speak English to my parents instead of Persian.

Someone might try to translate for someone else but end up saying it in the very language the other doesn’t understand. We all stare at each other for a second, then burst into laughter.

And speaking of food, well, it’s never just traditional Christmas food. Sure, there are some classics, but we can’t help ourselves. There’s always a touch of Persian flavor or something completely unexpected that doesn’t normally belong on a Christmas table.

Sometimes it’s Persian rice with saffron and tahdig sitting next to Swedish meatballs, maybe something German or English in between.

Sometimes roast lamb with pomegranate, sometimes cookies that have no business being called Christmas cookies but taste magical anyway and end up on the table. Everything is homemade, even the sweets.

My sisters are the real masterminds: they plan, decorate, and cook. I stay on the sidelines as the assistant, happily following orders: “Cut this, stir that, do this, do that.”

I love my role.

We watch cozy films, the classics that carry all our childhood memories. My parents love having us home, and for a few days, it feels like time slows down and we all get to be little children again.

Since my middle sister and her partner had kids, and their dog Y., we’ve been celebrating in England since 2019. It’s easier for them, and the kids are more comfortable at home. Plus, Y. could join the Christmas fun and didn’t have to stay with a dog-sitter.

We changed our old tradition of Secret Santa, giving one big gift to only one person, into giving everyone a small gift, around £10 each. It’s sweeter this way, more magical, and everyone ends up with more surprises. The routine rarely changes, but somehow it never feels the same.

The house becomes a wonderland. My sisters decorate beautifully with my mom.

My youngest sister works culinary magic, making savory and sweet dishes that sometimes overwhelm her, but she loves it.

My middle sister is just as creative in cooking, though she says baking isn’t her thing.

I prefer helping; big planning overwhelms me, so I happily assist.

My dad floats in and out, making jokes, annoying my mom, and then disappearing to his own space.

The partners stay calm, help when needed, and mostly let us do our thing.

My mom is always in the middle of it all, the most creative of us, keeping the flow going.

My sister and her partner’s house in England is like something out of a cozy storybook, a beautiful cottage with vintage charm, a fireplace, soft lights, and a big garden.

Their love for vintage makes their home feel like an antique shop.

A fireplace crackles in the evenings, and after dinner, we gather with tea and sweets, wrapped in blankets, sitting around the fire, watching movies or just talking and laughing.

And then there’s my nephew O., the heart of the celebration. Watching him unwrap gifts with that pure joy only kids have is everything. This year is extra special: baby M., his little one-year-old brother, will celebrate his second Christmas, but this time he will be able to join the celebration, as he was just a few months old the first time around.

I can’t wait for that little smiling machine to see the tree with his wide blue eyes, the glowing Christmas tree decorated so beautifully by my sister. I can’t wait to see him open his gifts. I can’t wait to watch my two nephews share this second Christmas together, opening their gifts and having fun.

For Y., it is always a bit of a difficult time, because his usual resting spot, where his bed normally stays, is exactly where the Christmas tree goes. And I’m sure, in his dog’s mind, he always wonders why these crazy people come every once in a while for such a long time, and then leave all at the same time.

On the 24th, we make a combination of Swedish, German, and English food, always with a Persian touch.

Grown-ups open their gifts on the 24th, while the kids get two gifts, on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

On the 25th, we wear cozy pajamas, take pictures, prepare a traditional English-style Christmas dinner, and gather again by the fire with more food, sweets, and of course, eggnog. Full, happy, tired, and content.

Two full days of eating, laughing, helping, playing roles, arguing a little, and loving a lot. Simply feeling warm, safe, and happy.

It’s not always easy having all these grown-ups in one place. Arguments happen, but that’s part of life. We’re a family: different people, same love. It’s us, imperfect, loud, funny, and warm.

For me, that’s the real magic of Christmas. Not the gifts or the food or the decorations, but the moments that bring us back to each other, no matter how far we’ve drifted.

Maybe that’s what I love most about Christmas. It reminds me that no matter how much changes, some things stay the same: the laughter, the warmth, the feeling of home.

I can’t wait for the beautiful memories we’ll create this year.

Wishing you all a joyful, cozy, and unforgettable holiday season.

With a jolly yet grieving smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISN

P.S. Rest in peace, our beautiful Y. You are missed more than words can ever say. I love you.

One afternoon, while I was sitting at my desk, one of my favorite professors, Mr. C., walked in. He was an economics professor, loved by his students, tall, broad, with a kind face and a head of white hair that gave him a bit of a wise-wizard look. Sometimes he reminded me of Hagrid from Harry Potter, not in looks, but in figure and presence.

He leaned over my desk and said, “S., I want to tell you something. I really hope I don’t embarrass you.”

Of course, when someone starts with that sentence, your brain doesn’t go to nice places. Mine raced through every possible disaster.

Did I type something wrong? Forget an assignment? Say something silly? Mess up a report? And why was he saying this in front of my colleagues, who were all listening?

My panic tripled.

Then he smiled and said:

“You have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen in my entire life.”

I froze. Not because I was embarrassed, but because I’d just spent the last thirty seconds preparing for the worst, only to be hit with… a compliment.

I was 27, and this kind, 60-something professor gave me one of the most genuine compliments I’ve ever received. The way he said it, sincere, gentle, almost shy, made it unforgettable.

He added, “I’ve wanted to tell you since you started working here, and now that you’ll be leaving soon, I couldn’t let you go without saying it.”

My colleagues all smiled. I blushed, and all I managed to say was, “Thank you, Mr. C.”

The truth is, I wasn’t embarrassed. Just shy. And deeply touched. I’ve received compliments for my eyes before, but that one will always stay with me.

What touched me most wasn’t just the words, it was the sincerity. He didn’t say it to charm me, whisper it in private with strange intentions, or flatter me. He said it openly, honestly, without hesitation, in a room full of people. He truly meant it, and that made it beautiful.

Months later, as I was leaving, I gave out a little notebook for people to write messages in. When it came back to me, Mr. C. had written:

“Not to embarrass you in any way, I still think you have the most beautiful eyes. They radiate your inner spirit.”

Now it’s there forever, pressed into paper. And I am forever grateful for that moment, for his kindness, and for his courage to say something beautiful out loud.

Wherever you are, Mr. C., I hope you’re well.

It’s a quiet encouragement to give voice to the good and the beauty we see in others. Kind words don’t fade as quickly as we think, they linger, sometimes becoming a memory someone holds on to for a lifetime.

When was the last time you told someone something kind about them, and how did it make them (or you) feel?

Have you ever received a compliment that stayed with you long after it was said?

With a happy smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

P.S.

As this month comes to an end, I want to share something with you. Starting in December, I’ll be shifting from weekly letters to a monthly one. I have many stories waiting patiently on the page, but I also want to give them, and myself time.

Writing has become a place of joy and discovery for me, and I want to give it the space it needs so it can stay that way.

At the very least, one story will always land in your inbox every month, still on a Wednesday. And if inspiration arrives unexpectedly, or a story insists on being shared sooner, I’ll send it along, too. No rules, just a more natural rhythm.

Thank you for reading my stories, for being here, and for all your encouragement.

xx

And then in late 2020, slowly, the life inside me began to dim.

It started with exhaustion. Not the kind that a nap could fix, but the kind that settled deep in my body and stayed there. I woke up tired, moved through the day tired, and went to bed feeling like I hadn’t really rested at all.

Then my mind started to feel foggy. I couldn’t think clearly, and everything took a little more effort. My tongue even felt strange, heavy, almost numb, like the words had to fight their way out. It scared me, but I didn’t say much. No one really noticed, but I knew something was off.

Then came the pain.

It started in my hands, then spread to my fingers, arms, legs, feet, toes, chest, and back. It always began the same way, a small pulse in one spot, almost easy to ignore at first. Then the pulsing grew stronger, spreading wider, until it felt like the whole area was throbbing.

Imagine turning up the volume on a song, very slowly at first, then higher and higher until the sound fills the room and there’s nowhere left to escape it. That’s what the pain felt like, a noise inside my body that wouldn’t stop getting louder.

I forgot what it felt like to be pain-free. That’s maybe the cruelest part, not just the pain itself, but the forgetting. I started to believe it was normal, that maybe everyone felt this way and just didn’t talk about it.

I went to my doctor, again and again. Most times she said, “It’s in your head.” I saw specialists. Nothing. No answers.

By 2022, I was breaking. My almost 7 years relationship ended. I was on sick leave. My nights were long, dark hours of tossing, shifting, curling up. I would stare at the ceiling, my eyes burning, muscles aching, waiting for the pain to ease. It never did.

And in the quiet of those nights, the thoughts came: Maybe I have something rare. Maybe I’m dying. I just turned 40. Is this how it ends? What a miserable life, and I’ve done nothing I’m proud of.

I never thought about ending my life, but I wished I could just stop existing. Not because I wanted to die, but because I wanted the pain to stop.

Then, in April 2023, I made one of the best decisions of my life. I called my old physician and asked if I could return to her care. She said yes.

When I sat in her office, she smiled gently and asked, “What can I do for you?”

I pulled out my phone, I had everything written there. Documenting three years of symptoms, dates, patterns, things I had noticed but couldn’t explain. My hands trembled as I scrolled and read out loud.

She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t look away. She just listened.

Finally, I told her about the other doctor who said it was all in my head. My voice broke. Tears spilled down my face.

She stood up, checked a few things, and then looked at me. “I think you have fibromyalgia,” she said.

I blinked. “Fibro…what?”

She explained it, how it’s common in women, how hard it can be to diagnose, how many doctors don’t even recognize it.

And then she said the words that cracked something open in me: “I believe you. And I’ll help you get an appointment with a specialist as soon as possible.”

In Germany, that can take months, even a year. But she meant it.

Two weeks later, I got a letter: my appointment was set for two weeks later at the end of May.

When I met the specialist, we sat together for nearly two hours. He listened, really listened. He asked about everything, from the pain in my feet to the fog in my head. My sleep, traumas, depression, my anxieties, and so on. He took notes. He asked again. He wanted to understand.

For the first time in three years, I felt seen.

Before I left, he said, “We’ll do a blood test to check for any infection. In a few weeks, you’ll have your results.”

Two weeks later, the letter arrived.

Fibromyalgia.

After three years of constant pain, after being told it was all in my head, after nights of crying silently into my pillow, I finally had a name for what was happening to me.

It didn’t cure the pain. But it gave me something I hadn’t had in years: hope.

What Fibromyalgia Really Is:

Fibromyalgia is hard to explain, mostly because you can’t see it. It is a chronic condition that affects how the body processes pain. It doesn’t show up on an X-ray or a blood test. It hides. But it’s there in every ache, every sleepless night, every “I’m fine” when you’re anything but.

It’s like your body’s alarm system gets stuck in the “on” position. The pain, the fatigue, the fog, they’re all signals from a body that’s been running on survival mode for too long.

Decades of stress, trauma, pressure, heartbreak, they build up quietly until one day, your body can’t whisper anymore. It has to shout.

That’s fibromyalgia. It’s not “in your head.” It’s in your nerves, your muscles, your whole being, trying to tell you that you’ve carried too much for too long.

And even though it can’t be seen, it’s real. Very real.

I will always be grateful to the doctors who listened, who believed me, who gave me back my reality.

Because sometimes, healing begins the moment someone says: “I believe you.”

Writing this wasn’t easy, but I wanted to share it, because maybe someone out there is feeling lost, in pain, and unheard, just like I once did. And if these words can help even one person feel a little less alone, then it’s worth it.

Have you ever heard of fibromyalgia, or do you know someone living with it?

If you live with fibromyalgia, what’s one thing you wish people understood about it?

With a quiet smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

I bought it for two reasons. First, because I didn’t want to rely on my phone anymore. I didn’t want my first sight in the morning or the last thing at night to be a glowing screen.

Second, because I love the way it looks. Something about that little vintage clock makes me smile.

Of course, living in a space this small, I can’t exactly have a “device-free bedroom.” My bedroom is my living room, is my kitchen. But I can still create a little distance.

Every night, I switch off the Wi-Fi, turn off mobile data, and place my phone as far from my bed as I can. The little alarm clock became my safety net, and in a way, my little taste of freedom.

Here’s the thing though: this clock doesn’t just wake me. I think it wakes half the neighbors, too. It rings like it has no patience for snooze buttons or sleepy negotiations. And honestly? I kind of admire it for that.

Because here’s what it gives me:

No phone by my bed, tempting me into endless scrolling.

No gentle music fooling me into “five more minutes.”

No notifications sneaking into my mornings before I’m ready.

Just a small, determined clock, doing its one job, yelling at me to start my day. And it works. Every time.

It’s funny how something so tiny can draw such a big line.

For me, it’s not really about the clock itself, it’s about what it represents. A choice. Saying no to being always connected, and yes to keeping my mornings simple. To start the day on my own terms.

Some alarms whisper. Mine yells. And maybe that’s exactly the reminder I need: wake up, be present, and notice the little things.

What wakes you up best: gentle whispers, loud alarms, or something else entirely?

With a smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

Among them were some books I’d decided to part with, stories I had read, loved, and was now ready to release.

One day, a message popped up from someone asking if I could ship the books. I usually didn’t, too much hassle, but I wrote back and said, “If you buy at least two, I’ll make an exception.”

And he did.

He chose Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl and Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill.

We exchanged a few friendly messages, short, polite, but warm.

Then he asked something unexpected:

“Would you be interested in swapping books sometimes? Sending each other ones we liked, so we could both read more in English?”

I loved the idea. It felt simple and kind, like something from another time, when people used to write letters and send little surprises to strangers.

So, I said yes.

I packed the two books carefully and mailed them. When he received them, he thanked me and recommended a few titles he thought I might enjoy.

It was nice, nothing more, nothing less, just a thoughtful connection between two people who loved reading.

A week later, I came home to find a small package waiting for me. It had his name and address on it.

Inside was a book, When to Jump by Mike Lewis, one of the ones he’d mentioned.

I hadn’t expected anything. I hadn’t asked for it. But there it was, a gift from someone I’d only written with a few times. And it moved me deeply.

I sent him a message right away, thanking him from the bottom of my heart. It was such a small thing, yet it meant everything, that someone who didn’t know me personally had thought of me with such kindness.

And then his reply came. I’ll never forget his words:

“Hello S.,

nice to hear from you. Hope you are doing well :D
It may sound strange, but I somehow had the feeling that you should read that, and I decided to follow this feeling and make you this gift.

Maybe because I once read that you should listen and follow your gut feeling and intuition more often in life… Therefore, I am so happy reading your nice words and very thankful for your appreciation.

Enjoy reading and let me know whether it helped you in your current situation, and maybe even to make some relevant decisions.

Wish you all the best as well, and please keep your positive energy. It’s great.

Regards, S.”

It’s a special kind of joy when a stranger sees you for who you are, not through how you look or what you do, but simply through the energy that lives in your words.

To think that someone who didn’t even know me could feel my positive energy through just a few messages, that meant more to me than I can explain.

It also felt as if someone who barely knew me had somehow seen something in me, a spark, a restlessness, maybe even the beginning of a change I couldn’t yet see myself.

I read When to Jump not long after. And the funny thing is, he was right. Maybe he sensed that I was standing at the edge of something new, unsure when or how to leap.

It took time, but looking back now, I believe he was right all along.

My jump didn’t happen right away, it came slowly, quietly, without me realizing it

And one day, it happened.

I started to write.

Maybe Goodmoodism is my jump.

Or maybe it was serendipity, a small, unexpected act that reminded me how kindness can shape the course of a life.

We lost touch eventually. Life happened. Somewhere along the way, his messages were deleted, and I had no way to find him again.

But almost a year later, while cleaning my inbox, I stumbled upon an old email notification from Kleinanzeigen, his last message to me. I read it again, and the same warmth washed over me.

It was too late to reply, but maybe not too late to remember.

So, this story is for him. Wherever you are, S., I wish you the best of luck and the happiest of days.

Your small act of kindness meant more than you’ll ever know.

Has someone you barely knew ever done something kind that stayed with you?

With a grateful smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

Nope. I did it for four selfish and slightly funny reasons:

1. I’m lazy. I’ve never been good with beauty routines, and constantly touching up roots felt like running a marathon I didn’t sign up for.

2. I was working remotely. No one cared if I showed up with silver roots on Teams.

3. My hair was falling out. Stress was the main culprit, not the dye, but I thought giving it a break couldn’t hurt.

4. I was curious. I wanted to see how I’d look with gray hair before I turned wrinkly at 82. I’m 42, and curiosity won.

And let me tell you: the transition was not easy.

I hated my reflection about 99.9% of the time. I thought about coloring it again more times than I can count. And to make matters worse, I picked the worst possible time to do it, a year when I was stressed, gained back the weight I had lost, and felt unwell overall.

On top of that, the mirror was serving me more and more gray hair each day.

And yet, somewhere in the middle of all that frustration, something softened. I stopped caring as much and started looking forward to seeing how I would actually look with my natural gray hair.

I stopped using chemical dyes in September 2022, switched to henna for about a year in 2023, and finally stopped coloring altogether in mid-October 2024.

There was still some henna mixed in, so I hadn’t seen the full natural look yet.

Until recently.

I had two haircuts during the transition, each one a little shorter, helping me slowly say goodbye to the leftover red tones. I thought about chopping it all off pixie-short, but I wasn’t ready to meet that version of myself in the beginning.

And the third one on October 11, 2025, changed everything.

I finally cut off the last bits of henna and walked out of the salon with a bixie-style haircut, all natural, all mine.

I caught my reflection and actually smiled. In love with my new hair, the beautiful silver strands shining freely without all the leftover red shades. I looked… really cool.

Even my hairdresser smiled and said, “You look five years younger!”

And she was right, not just about the look, but the feeling.

So, would I recommend it? Only if you’re already in a place where you feel okay with yourself. If you’re going through a rough emotional season, maybe not, at least that was my experience.

Will I keep it this way forever? Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll color it again one day. Maybe I won’t.

For now, Mr. Gray and I are figuring out how to live together peacefully.

What’s your relationship with gray hair: do you fight it, hide it, or welcome it?

Have you ever made a change in your appearance just out of curiosity? How did it feel?

With a fabulous smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

She came with fire in her eyes and a discipline unknown to her, and for a brief time, I believed I could be her forever. But life tested me, and somewhere between exhaustion and comfort, I let her go.

It feels heavy, not just in my body, but in the small corners of my mind where disappointment sits quietly and refuses to leave. The kind that lives inside your chest. I can feel it sitting there, the mix of shame, regret, and longing for the person I once was.

The truth is, I eat everything I promised I wouldn’t. The kind of food that used to comfort me when nothing else could. The kind that soothes me for seconds and hurts for hours. And still, I push away the thoughts that tell me to stop.

And then I sit there with that familiar ache, not in my stomach, but in my heart. The same question circles in my head: Why did I do it again?

I feel ashamed. Not because of the food itself, but because I knew what it would do to me, and I did it anyway. I feel frustrated, angry at myself for knowing better and doing worse.

There was a time, not that long ago, when I felt in control of my life in a way I never had before.

I still remember April 2023 like it was yesterday, the year I decided to take control, not out of vanity, but out of survival.

After years of diets, pain, guilt, and disappointment, I stopped chasing quick fixes and finally listened to my body.

When I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, something inside me woke up. It wasn’t motivation; it was understanding.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t trying to lose weight because I hated myself. I was trying to heal because I finally cared about myself.

From one day to the next, I stopped eating the things that hurt my body, not out of fear, but out of respect. I stopped chasing “diets” and started choosing what made me feel whole.

I changed everything: what I ate, how I moved, how I treated myself. Real food, rest, resistance training, and a determination I didn’t know I was capable of.

And it worked. My body responded. My mind cleared. My pain softened. The fog lifted. My clothes fit differently, but more than that, I fit differently inside my own life.

Between April and December 2023, I lost 18 kilos (about 40 pounds). But more importantly, for the first time in two decades, I gained a kind of strength I had never felt before. It wasn’t just about food or weight. It was about discipline, about trust, about a promise I made to myself.

But discipline, I’ve learned, isn’t about control, it’s about consistency. It’s not something you find once; it’s something you keep choosing. And I stopped choosing. When life got heavier, I slowly stopped showing up for myself.

I remember that woman so vividly. She was strong, steady. She looked in the mirror and saw someone becoming who she was always meant to be. And I can’t help but wonder, what would have happened if I had just kept going? If I had held on a little longer, trusted myself a little more?

But life has a way of testing you when you think you’ve finally figured it out. And when it did, I didn’t notice at first. I got comfortable. I thought I could handle a little bit of the old life again.

It didn’t happen overnight. It began with small compromises, a little chocolate here, a skipped workout there. Then came the justifications, the tired days, the stress. Before I knew it, I was back in the same place I had promised myself I’d never return to.

Slowly, silently, until it became familiar again. And it’s that familiarity that hurts the most. Because now I know better. I know what it feels like to live without that pain. I know what it feels like to feel light, in body and in spirit. I know what it feels like to wake up and not dread the day. I know what it felt like to be strong. And knowing all that makes coming back here feel unbearable.

I hate that I lost her, the version of me who believed she could change.

But maybe she isn’t lost. Maybe she’s just waiting. Waiting for me to remember that healing doesn’t disappear when we fall, it just goes quiet until we’re ready to listen again.

And maybe this is where I start again. Not by chasing the version of me I lost, but by remembering the woman I became when I stopped giving up on myself.

She’s still here, under the exhaustion, beneath the cravings, waiting for me to remember how it felt to choose her.

So this time, I don’t want to start over. I just want to return to the woman who showed me what it means to fight for myself. And maybe this time, I’ll stay.

So now, I won’t make promises or write lists or swear to start over tomorrow. I’ve done that too many times before.

Instead, I’ll just sit here, feeling it all, the guilt, the grief, the longing, and remind myself that these feelings are proof I still care. If I didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt this much.

Maybe healing isn’t about staying perfect all the time. Maybe it’s about finding the courage to begin again, every single time we lose our way. And maybe this, right here, right now, is my beginning again. Because I know what it feels like to live differently. And that means I can do it again.

The map is still in me. The strength is still in me. The woman who once believed, she’s still here. And now I’m writing to her to tell her, I want her back.

Have you ever felt yourself drift away from your strongest self and found your way back?

With a smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

O. turned 4, and M. turned 1, two boys who couldn’t be more different, yet belong together like yin and yang.

O. is our first family baby, which already makes him special. He’s the one who turned me into an aunty, and I am forever grateful for that.

With his brown eyes, brown hair, and the curiosity of ten scientists, he doesn’t just play, he discovers. Dinosaurs, lizards, dragons, he knows them all by name (I’ve honestly learned more from him than from any dinosaur museum).

He’s fearless about making new friends, fearless about bugs and dirt, and fearless about being himself. That’s rare, even in adults. When he walks up to another child at the playground with a bold, “Do you want to play?” I think: if only we all had that kind of courage.

Then there’s M., our blue-eyed surprise. In a family of mostly brown eyes, he’s like a little sparkle of sky. At just one year old, he’s already mastered the art of joy.

How?

By smiling at literally everyone. Stranger or not, if you make eye contact, you’re his. He is our family’s smile machine. And a little foodie, anything, anytime, anywhere. With him, even a spoon of mashed carrots feels like a celebration.

He’s trying so hard to walk, desperate to follow his big brother into the wild world of climbing and running. Bath time is heaven. Outdoors is double heaven. He’s the kind of child who doesn’t just live in a room, he brightens it.

Together, O. and M. are different but complementary, like two little pumpkins in the same patch. O. brings curiosity. M. brings sunshine. Together, they make the world, and definitely my world so much brighter.

And because birthdays deserve poetry…

To my little pumpkins, O. and M.,
Two October treasures, each one a delight,
Growing side by side, hearts warm and bright.
Like pumpkins in a patch, strong and true,
The world is more magical simply with you.
Pumpkins grow best side by side, just like you,
Sharing giggles, dreams, and adventures too!
Through every season, near or apart,
Aunty will hold you both close in her heart.

With all my love,
Always,
Your Aunty xxx

Who’s the pumpkin growing right beside you in your patch of life?

With a cuddly smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM

Not me.

I began with:

I am a cow. I’m running around a wide green field, the sun is shining, the grass is sweet, and I’m happy.

One day, I was taken from that field. My life as a cow ended, but another life began. My skin became something new: I was now leather. I am smooth and strong.

Soon, I found myself in a workshop. I was stretched across a table, traced with chalk, and cut into unusual shapes. I was stitched and sewn, folded and bent. A firm and flexible thing was attached beneath me.

I was taken to a shop and placed on a shelf. People picked me up, and put their feet inside me, walked a few steps, then put me back again.

And then one day, someone slipped me on, smiled, and said to the guy who brought me here. “These shoes are perfect. I’ll take them.”

That’s the moment I understood. This is who I am. I am Shoe.

I was only in second grade, but that essay won the prize for most creative.

The truth is, I loved writing as a kid. Essays were my favorite. But I had a problem: spelling. In every language I learned (and I learned three-and-a-half), my brain decided to rebel. I could pour my heart into words but still second-guess whether “receive” had the “i” before the “e.” Honestly, becoming trilingual and still misspelling might be my most underrated talent.

Over time, that discouraged me. Life piled on, as it does, and little by little I forgot how much I loved writing essays and stories.

Now here I am, years later, remembering that cow-turned-shoe essay and realizing something: I still love to write and Goodmoodism is my way of finding my way back to that little kid who loved to write and saw stories in everything.

So here’s to rediscovering old loves, to listening to that second-grader inside us, and to writing stories, no matter what.

What’s something you loved as a kid that you’ve found your way back to?

With a smile,
Goodmoodism :D

One afternoon, I wandered through a small local market. Among the colorful stands, I froze in front of a little clay figure, tiny body, cheerful smile, radiating joy. A sign above it read: Gute Laune - “Good Mood” in German.

The woman who crafted it explained, “Whenever you feel down, just look at it, you can’t help but smile back.” She was right. That little figure carried a truth so simple it felt like magic: joy is contagious.

I bought five of them. One for myself, and the others for my sisters, my parents, and a dear friend. Each came with a note telling its story. Mine still sits with me today. It remains one of my most precious treasures, not for what it’s made of, but because of what it means: hope, lightness, and the reminder that even in hard times, a smile can be enough.

Years later, when I began dreaming about creating something of my own, my mind kept circling back to that spark, the way a small clay figure once made me smile when I needed it most. That’s when the name appeared, clear as day: Goodmoodism.

To me, Goodmoodism isn’t about pretending life is always sunshine or chasing constant happiness. It’s about embracing the whole picture, the ups, the downs, the funny and the messy in-betweens. It’s about writing what life brings, finding meaning in the details we often overlook. And always, the belief that even one spark of good mood can make heavy moments lighter and ordinary moments extraordinary.

So that’s what Goodmoodism is: my little corner of the internet where every thought finds its way into words, and words explore the beauty, chaos, curiosity and ups and downs of life.

Welcome to Goodmoodism. I’m so glad you’re here.

What’s something small that has lifted your mood when you needed it most?

With a smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM