The Construction Plan

Dear fellow travelers,

There are moments in life when something big happens—and no one notices.

No fireworks. No fanfare. No big stage.

Just one Sunday. A walk. A few bottles in the glass recycling bin. Some elderflower sparkling wine on my parents' balcony.

And suddenly, there's this feeling: It's finally done. Not everything. But the foundation.

On Sunday, I paid my parents a spontaneous visit. I brought some elderberry syrup. No special occasion. No agenda.

We sat on her balcony. Surrounded by radishes, plants, sparkling wine, and summer. They told me about their lives. And I told them about my universe. About my rooms. About my books.

And they listened. With interest. With respect. With curiosity. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe that was it. Maybe I just had to stop fighting against myself for long enough.

That same week, I looked at old accounts—of people I used to follow, people I once sought out.

I took a quick look inside. And I felt: Thank you. The chapter is complete.

No resistance. No disappointment. No longing. Only peace.

Maybe that's the big issue right now. Peace. With my past. With my decisions. With myself.

*

Today, I'm just going to grind my coffee.

It wasn't always that way.

A few years ago, my partner bought a hand-crank coffee grinder at a small café in Puerto Varas in southern Chile. For a long time, I didn’t dare use it. So he ground the coffee for us—with love and hand-frothed oat milk. It became a little ritual.

At some point, I started doing it myself. Hesitantly. Almost secretly.

I still remember the first time. It felt like I was doing something forbidden. Like I was entering a space that didn't belong to me.

Something inside me asked, " Am I even allowed to do this?"

Today, I can laugh about it.

And suddenly it dawns on me: It was never about coffee. It was about stepping into my own life. My own spaces. My own creativity. My own voice.

For a long time, it all felt as if I had to be asked first. As if I had to prove that I was allowed to belong.

Today I know: It’s my house. I get to open the door. I get to grind the coffee. I get to write the books. I get to live my life.

*

Then Sunday came around again—with sunshine, peace, and tears beneath my favorite weeping willow.

And an old post. A picture from 2010. A photo from 2021. A memory from a time when I didn't yet know where all of this would lead me.

Suddenly, I saw the breadcrumbs. The clues. The symbols.

The Jeannettes of the past had no idea. They just painted. They dreamed. They made strange things. They followed their curiosity.

Today I see: They've drawn up the blueprints for a spaceship.

And I'm slowly coming to understand that the seed for this was planted twenty years ago at a festival —and now it has a blueprint. It's no longer just a vision. It's a path. And I will follow this path in the coming days and weeks.

*

Suddenly, I have more energy. Because I no longer have to prove anything—neither my femininity, nor my spirituality, nor my creativity, nor my freedom.

I get to just walk around Munich in regular jeans. Take out the glass bottles. Drink elderflower sparkling wine with my parents. Tell the burger shop owner my name for the first time. And build a spaceship at the same time.

Both are part of who I am. Down-to-earthness. And the stars.

Maybe this is exactly where something new begins. Not the search phase. Not the development phase. But the time that comes after.

The time when the house is lived in. When guests come in. When the rooms begin to come alive.

As I write this, I feel that the cycle is complete. Not finished. But whole.

And that's enough.

With love and a blueprint that’s almost fully unfolded in my hand,
Jeannette