Beauty Is Not a Luxury — It’s How We Remember Ourselves

It took me years to admit what I needed — space, softness, beauty. But this morning, I woke up in my new room, and for the first time in years, it truly felt like home.

Outside, Berlin is blooming. The trees are lush, the air smells like lilacs and sun-warmed stone. People pass in sunglasses, holding ice cream, light on their feet.

I feel it too, something settling. A soft shift I’ve been waiting for.

A Soft New Beginning

The scent of spring and the feeling of renewal remind me of a year ago.

At the time, I was feeling deeply conflicted. I had worked as a psychologist in health care and later took on an HR role at an AI start-up. Both jobs made sense on paper. They were structured, purposeful, even rewarding at times. But something essential in me was growing quiet.

It wasn’t really about the roles or the companies. The conflict ran deeper. I felt a growing gap between how I was working and who I was becoming. I didn’t lack skill or motivation. What I lacked was resonance. I wasn’t searching for a position. I was longing for a rhythm of life that felt meaningful and alive.

I had to admit to myself that I didn’t yet know where I truly belonged. I only knew that I needed space and solitude to remember.

A vision kept coming to mind: a quiet place, somewhere beautiful, deeply nourishing to the soul. A place where I could slow down, take time, and reconsider what really mattered.

Since I had little savings, it had to be somewhere I could stay for free or at very low cost. A friend had once worked at a Bed & Breakfast in Italy where weddings were held. Another had taught yoga at a mountain hotel in Austria. Encouraged by their stories, I started to look for something similar.

Where Beauty Became a Language

I found something nearly too perfect to have dreamed of — a soft, design-rich B&B in an old French landhouse run by a Swiss woman with fierce warmth and intuitive style. Every detail had character. She spent Sundays at flea markets, always searching for pieces that added soul to the space.

After a short call, something clicked. I’d travel to France, help in the mornings, and spend afternoons exploring, writing, simply being.

I called it my creative retreat — half serious, half delighted. It was the birthplace of this blog.

One evening, I sat on the garden steps, tea in hand, wrapped in a cardigan. The air was cool. Everything was quiet, but not empty, just... alive. For the first time in months, I wasn’t planning or proving or performing. I was simply there. And it hit me: this softness, this ease, this was what I had been missing. Not ambition. Not answers.

I didn’t need to chase a life that looked impressive.

I needed one that felt like home.

I think of those five weeks often, not with nostalgia, but as a reminder of what France taught me. Aesthetics matter. Scent matters. What pleases the senses matters. The B&B owner baked cakes each morning so guests could wake up to sweetness. There were candles on the stairs, fresh flowers on the tables, cushions matched to the day’s color mood.

Her home didn’t just welcome you — it spoke to you.

It was a quiet language of the senses. One that said: beauty is not extra. It’s essential.

Why We Hide What We Love

Why is that so interesting for me right now? Maybe because it shows the stark contrast between the way I was raised and the way I wanted my life to look.

I grew up on a small farm in a German village, in a world where practicality and efficiency were what counted most. Life there was hands-on and straightforward. There wasn’t much space or language for aesthetics. That wasn’t anyone’s fault; it simply wasn’t the focus.

Still, as I got older, I found myself drawn to color, to fabric, to arrangement. First in the clothes I wore, then in the way I kept my room. But something in me always felt hesitant. I wasn’t sure if this love for how things looked, how they felt, was something I could fully own.

Even now, I sometimes catch myself hiding how long I spend playing with outfits or practicing a single line of eyeliner. Part of me still carries the fear of being dismissed, reduced to someone who cares too much about looks, and therefore can't possibly be smart.

Is that something you recognize? A subtle bias you’ve noticed too?

I’d internalized the idea that beauty—especially in the form of clothing or design—isn’t serious. It’s allowed as a hobby, maybe, but not something to spend real time or money on. My ex, with whom I spent four years, supported that view. He would often roll his eyes when I wanted to spend more on hotel rooms, spaces, or things I found beautiful, as if “just the basics” should always be enough.

Slowly, I began to see what I’d absorbed. Not from one person or one moment, but from a whole atmosphere that quietly taught me to downplay what lights me up.

Coming Home to the Senses

What made this all the more striking was that this love for beauty, this pull toward detail, harmony, atmosphere, wasn’t a passing preference. It had always been part of me.

I remember taking a character strengths test in my first year of psychology studies. Out of 24 strengths, the one that stood out most, my top strength, was called Appreciation of Beauty and Excellence. I was surprised by how deeply I recognized myself in it. It was like reading something I hadn’t yet dared to name.

How could this quiet, sensory quirk be a strength? Something to hold with pride, not just as a source of joy, but as something worthy in a world obsessed with productivity and efficiency?

I’ve circled this topic for years, unsure how to explain the kind of beauty that moves me. Not just pretty—soulful, warm, congruent. Not just things, but music, conversation, even pain, when held with care. It’s the kind of beauty that invites peace—free from judgment or the pressure to perform.

It’s not about appearances. It’s about awe.

A quiet undoing of the ego. A glimpse of something greater.

So Today I Woke Up in My New Home

And it is beautiful. Truly stunning. I somehow landed a room in a shared flat inside a warm, wood-clad building in Berlin. The larch shingles catch the light, framed by dark windows that pull it inward and open the space like breath.

The atmosphere is calm and tactile. I love being in this house. It feels like it’s holding me. Quietly, fully.

What surprised me was how immediate the shift felt, in my body, my breath, my thoughts. Even after just one night. But the feeling was familiar. The same grounded calm that washed over me when I first stepped into that French countryside B&B.

This kind of beauty doesn’t just please me. It steadies me. It invites softness. When I’m in a space composed with care, or when I take that care for myself, something in me loosens. Inspiration returns. Peace settles in.

Beauty as Love, Love as Resistance

Why does this feel so profound to me—this presence of beauty, of excellence? It’s not about “pretty things.” It’s about reclaiming the parts of ourselves we were told didn’t matter. Maybe beauty is as vital as love itself.

One of my favourite authors, Emilia Roig, recently wrote a whole book about Love (in German: Lieben). She describes love as:

• an act of political resistance
• a choice to see wholeness where society sees fragmentation
• a path of reconnection, of moving from fear to trust

Her words stayed with me. After losing her newborn child, she fell into deep grief and slowly reemerged able to see more beauty in the world. More connection. More lightness.

To see beauty, especially in aging, in pain, in overlooked corners, is to resist disconnection. It is a way of choosing love.

Maybe that’s why I value aesthetic richness, art, music, integrity, and softness so much. Maybe it’s a form of love. A way of breathing with the world, letting it touch you. A love for aliveness. A refusal to numb out, to drown in anxiety or burnout. I’d rather slow down. Pay attention. Let the beautiful steady me.

And when I do, something opens. I feel hopeful, generous, more alive. I want to offer something back—not out of pressure, but from fullness.

That’s why I’m deeply grateful for my new home, for my experience in France. For the patience to wait. The luck to find. And the softness to finally stay.

I want to build something beautiful from here, not to impress, but to stay awake.

Because beauty is not a luxury. It’s how we remember who we are when we stop rushing.

And you?

What arises in you as you read this? Do you give yourself permission to feel, to soften, to pay attention to what truly nourishes?