I was sitting at Tel Aviv airport, my husband next to me, my son sleeping in his carrier. It was late, and we were waiting for our flight home. I was deadly tired, but still couldn’t sleep. I didn’t mind, however, since the more common crankiness had been replaced by a pleasantly relaxed state of mind. It had been a wonderful, if short, holiday, and a beautiful wedding. It had been amazing to be back in Jerusalem without an agenda, back to all those magical places with the feeling of coming back, without the pressure of “having to see something”. It had been exciting and joyful to take my son and unborn daughter to this ancient place filled with that indescribable, extraordinary energy.

So my gaze started to lazily graze the waiting areas and shops, watching people carrying luggage and families saying goodbye to each other. My eyes got caught on a young woman sitting right next to us, traveling alone with what looked like a very large plastic covered pole. Who would go through the trouble of taking a carpet through Israeli security checks? I wondered. Why is she traveling alone, where is she coming from, where is she going? I got hooked on what I imagined to be this girl’s history, maybe because she reminded me of myself when I was traveling to Israel for the first time, or maybe just because I needed entertainment for my tired mind. Of course, being too tired and shy and feeling too ridiculous to actually strike up a conversation with her, I would never hear the real answers to those questions. But she was immersed in some paperback, and I decided finding out this book’s title would be as close as I would get to learning more about this person. So after a lot of eye straining and unsuspicious leaning over, I discerned she was reading Hugh Prather’s “Notes to Myself”. I had never heard of it, but made a note of the title nonetheless, vowing to definitely check it out back home, when the check-in process finally started and I lost track of the woman and subsequently forgot all about the book.

It was only months later, when I was looking for something completely different on the internet, that I found the note and remembered the girl at the airport who had become, in the short time in which our life’s coincided, some sort of symbol for a free and unbound life, the kind of life I deeply wish for for my family and myself. Meanwhile, I had had my second child and, since having children cracks you open in more ways than one, had re-evaluated my life, thinking a lot about how I wanted to live it for and with my family, and had finally dared to look at those life dreams and daring visions that had been safely tucked away in some far corner of my mind for fear they could disturb my comfortable day-to-day. Sensing this couldn’t be a coincidence, and following the only thing that I’m running by right now: my instincts (nothing else will help you with a newborn), I ordered the book. And indeed, when I started to read it the minute the small volume arrived in my hot, hot hands, I immediately had a feeling this might be exactly what I needed. On its very first pages, the book says “In our hearts, we can all sense the way home”. I’m thinking I have finally found mine, and how fitting that it should have found me through those intricately wrought incidences.

Editor’s note: for the next two weeks we’ll be running the best of our This Ordinary Day pieces. We’ve enjoyed working with so many great writers and wonderful people and felt it was high time to take a look back at some of what they’ve brought us. If you’d like to see more pieces, please take a trip over to our archives page — it’ll be well worth your time.

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It was a Sunday, and I was taking a walk. By myself. No husband, no son, no friends in sight. Just me and my iPod, keeping me company with some music. A much needed retreat from whatever it is that constitutes my day-to-day.

It was cold and rainy, the dirt paths in the park all muddy, the colours muted and grey. I had been yearning for spring to come for weeks now, the winter had been so long here in northern Germany. Give me some colour, some light, I was pleading silently.

My eyes caught on a brightly coloured piece of fabric, tangled up in the bare branches of an old tree. A kite, of course, a child’s game, abruptly pulled to a halt by the forces of nature. A symbol for the carefree, playful times of childhood, and the ways in which they are often muted too, just like earth in winter. A symbol also for the dreams we have when we are young, when we still believe in the magic of stories and know about the power that lies within each of us. When we still trust ourselves. When our intuition is intact and taking the lead.

More often than not, those dreams get tangled in the How-it-should-be’s that surround us from all sides, just like a kite gets tangled in a tree.

Think of all those dreams, untold for fear of embarrassment, muted by supposedly well-meant but unasked-for advice. Think of all these manifestations of hope and intent, starting out with so much purpose, only to be stopped, maybe even crippled, by, for lack of a better word, circumstance.

I’d like to think that these brightly coloured dreams are sitting in the top of each tree, millions of them, patiently awaiting their chance to break free and continue on the journey they started so long ago. They could be like that kite, taking flight once again, freed by the wind. Missing a piece or two, torn maybe, but flying nonetheless.

The night had been terrible. My little boy was waking up every hour, insisting on sleeping in my bed, but unwilling to give me any room in it. As soon as he’d close his eyes — with his feet, knees and elbows rested uncomfortably on and around my body — his unborn sister would start kicking me big time, and, oh yeah, did I mention the feeling of starvation I experience in the mornings?

What a great holiday, I thought. Just what I needed. No sleep, everyone wanting something from me, while I just want to be left alone. Immediately, I felt guilt creeping up on me. This was not good. Finally, after what felt like hours, I ventured out of bed, luckily not waking up anyone, got myself a hot tea and breakfast, and sat down at the window looking out on the Baltic, wrapped in a blanket. It was 5:30 in the morning, I was ridiculously tired and not a little bit grumpy, but the swans were waking up out on the bay, slowly gliding on the glistening water toward the open sea, majestically carrying their heads on their long, slender necks, bright white against the dawn, greeting me on their way past our house, appeasing my aching body and angry soul.

In hindsight, it could only have been a couple of minutes before everyone else was waking up, but this time looking out on nature, just being, not doing, felt like hours. It replenished my reservoir, regardless of what time it was, how little sleep I’d gotten, what expectations I had brought and been forced to bury.

Life doesn’t go the way you plan it. It simply is your life, at this moment, in this place. You decide what you make of it.

I am sitting on the train. My PhD defence is tomorrow. I feel like I’m under water, slowly slowly drifting upwards. I can already glimpse the sparkling sun above me, magically sending rainbows my way. The heavy weight of the deep sea has lifted from my chest, and although I’m not yet ready to breathe, I can feel a strange calm, soothing my aching body for those last hours.

A long journey is coming to an end. It started with a jump into cold water, turned into a long and hard dive into unknown seas, and came to its close in almost complete darkness. Strange creatures accompanied me there, first colourful, then bleak and often frightening. From the darkness I followed the light, growing brighter and brighter by the day, the pressures of heavy dark water lifting ever so slowly, until I could see the surface again and realised the journey was almost over.

So I take these last hours to look back into the dark, to say farewell to those dark creatures who have made this journey frightening and intense, bumpy and deep. They have also made it MY journey, and although I certainly won’t miss them – deep down they’ve known this all along, and maybe that’s why they’re the way they are? – I want to face them one last time and carry their imprint in my heart forever as a token of hope.

Every journey, however difficult and dark, comes to an end. Every end is also a beginning, and I cannot wait to see this one unfold, up there, in the warm and sparkling sun.

* I am typing this from the handwritten version on the day of my defence. All is well, I can breathe now.

This baby is a kicker. You know that picture where you can see the outlines of a foot through the mum’s belly? I used to think it was Photoshopped, but with this child, I think it’s totally possible.

Sometimes the kicks are so hard they wake me up at night, as if she already knew that as a second child she’ll need to be more insistent with her calls for attention.

Every day, her kicks remind me of the time left until she’s here and of the things that still need to be done. They make me reflect on what kind of mother I want and will be able to be (not the same thing at all) for my soon-to-be two children.

You see, it’s harder with the second child. In my first pregnancy, I was blessedly certain that I would do things differently than my parents, that I would not have the relationship issues all the other young parents have, etc etc. Then my son was born, and I soon realised that it’s not that simple. You cannot unlearn the rules that you’ve internalised your whole life just like that, especially not when you’re exhausted, sleep-deprived and full of self-doubts to boot. So with the first child, I realised that yes, I want to do things differently, I want to find my own way and be as authentic a mother as possible, but more often than not, resorting to tested rules felt much more comfortable than taking that unwalked path. Making up your own rules on the way can be a daunting task when you are responsible for a new life.

So I struggled. I still am struggling. However, what I’ve realised through time, practice and many exchanges with friends, one of them a recent enlightening chat with my friend Jen Lee, is that if I want to live authentically, I need to do it 24/7. It’s a decision for life; I cannot be an authentic mother without becoming an authentic worker, wife and person in general. It’s simply impossible. Which means the decision for authenticity becomes even more daunting, because it will affect all of my life. That’s where the doubts come in: Who will I become if I commit to this? Will my friends and family still like me? Or will I become unbearable? Will I even be able to make “good” decisions?

But two years into motherhood, I know deep down that I can only be a “good” mother to my very own standards if and when I am myself, if and when I work at accepting who I am in both my imperfection and uniqueness, if and when I am trusting in the things I know, deep down, and the abilities I have. There really is not much choice.

My little baby girl is literally kicking in the direction of a life lived by the credo of unapologetic authenticity.

Until she’s here, I’ll be watching my belly, waiting for that foot to show, and gathering my strength to be me. For her.

Scene 1: Christiane’s brain before going to Israel.

Voice 1: Wow, I cannot believe I’m going back there. I’m even taking my husband and my little boy. What if there are any terror attacks while we are there? What if there’s something wrong with the plane? I’m scared. I could never forgive myself if anything happened to us.

Voice 2: Oh come on, you’ve been there before. Just relax. It’ll be fine.

Voice 3: It’s so easy sitting on that comfy couch, letting the people over there deal with their own problems, isn’t it? If they can live there, you can go there and show you care. These are your friends, for heaven’s sake.

Voice 1: I’m still scared.

Scene 2: On the beach, Tel Aviv.

Husband: I cannot believe how wonderful this is.

Me: I know.

Jakob: screaming with joy at the waves of the Mediterranean.

Scene 3: Jerusalem, the Old City.

Husband: Do you think we would have come here if we hadn’t been invited to the wedding?

Me: I don’t think so.

Husband: That’s so wrong.

Me: I know.

Scene 4: The wedding.

The sun is setting behind the hills of Jerusalem, bride and groom are standing beneath the wedding canopy, the Old City in the background. The bride circles the groom seven times, family members speak Hebrew blessings, the couple exchanges rings and vows, the groom breaks glass.

Crowd: Screaming, singing, yelling, chanting.

Me: Crying.

Husband: Crying.

Jakob: Sleeping.

Scene 5: Christiane’s brain after coming back from Israel.

Voice 1: You guys were right. There was no need to be scared. I’m so happy we went back.

Voices 1, 2 and 3: Let’s not forget this. Let’s not forget this. Let’s not forget this.