About Beginnings

I stood there wondering: where do I start? What’s the first article here? By now I have so many things I want to write about – but where do I begin? Which one is the first?

Then I read a sentence in Patti Smith’s Just Kids and thought: of course. This is my first article. I’m going to write about language. The all-encompassing theme that surrounds me every single day. If my friends and my partner are reading this, they’re probably thinking: well, that was obvious – because they know, language is something I care deeply about. Something that moves me. For me, it’s a universe. So much comes with it, and so much is missing without it. It opens doors. Or doors stay closed when it’s missing.

The passage in Just Kids that stopped me: “The narrows of the river emptied into a wide lagoon and I saw upon its surface a singular miracle. A long curving neck rose from a dress of white plumage. Swan, my mother said, sensing my excitement. But the word alone hardly attested to its magnificence nor conveyed the emotion it produced. At the sight of it, an impulse arose in me for which I had no words — a longing to speak of the swan, to say something about its whiteness, the explosiveness of its movements, the slow beat of its wings. The swan became one with the sky. I struggled for words that would describe what it meant to me. Swan, I repeated, not entirely satisfied, and I felt a twinge, a curious yearning, imperceptible to passersby, my mother, the trees, or the clouds.” ¹

I know this feeling. The storm inside, and the single word that makes it out. So much – enthusiasm, feeling, a strong opinion – and so little way to let it out. A tightening in the chest from wanting to communicate, to be understood. Like a child in school, impatiently raising a hand to be called on. Like that kid in Just Kids. And when you finally decide to push past the hurdle and just try to say something – what often comes out? Swan.

And this from someone who by now understands everything in French, manages in everyday conversation, passed her B2 exam – which is “pas mal” – and who is curious, open, learning, making progress. But I’m talking about deeper conversations. Discussions. Eloquent, quick exchanges – the kind where fast speaking reflects fast thinking, where you’re reaching for real connection. For that, my French isn’t quite there yet.

So how do I express myself when the language isn’t there? When I speak too slowly to make myself heard? When others need patience to let me finish, while sentences are still forming in my head before they find their way to my mouth – while I’m searching for a way around the one word I’m missing?

And just like that, you arrive at the subject of listening.

Have we forgotten how to really listen? Not the kind where you’re already thinking about what you’ll say next, already judging, already growing restless. But real listening – present, patient, genuinely curious about the person across from you. Letting someone take up space. And truly being there while they do.

Here in France, many of my conversations have shifted from speaking to listening. To asking. Reading lips. Absorbing faces. Trying to understand gestures, reading eyes, feeling the mood in a room. Language beyond words. As someone with a strong instinct for people and atmosphere – someone who has always read between the lines – I can navigate this. I soak it all up. Like a sponge. But I’m also someone who loves to express herself, who comes alive in conversation. So the question remains: how do you make yourself heard without language? How do you show yourself to others?

Someone from Brazil once said to me: “I think people here will never truly get to know us.” I understood immediately.

Language is so much more than words. It’s identity. The way you play with language reveals personality, character, wit – how you stand up for yourself, how you move people, how you make your inner world visible. It creates connection. Clarity. Sometimes I feel and think so many things at once – and what surfaces on the outside is: swan.

Which means sitting alone with the inner storm, at least in that moment. It helps to be comfortable with yourself then. To not mind the conversation that stays inside. Maybe even enjoy a little conversation with yourself.

But lucky me – this is only one side of the coin. I have beautiful and loving people by my side who feel me even without many words, who listen patiently even when my French takes a little longer, and who speak English, which makes life often easier and less lonely. And those with whom I can speak German, my native language – which feels like breathing sometimes. When I get them on the phone, I apparently sound like a Formula 1 car.

And then there’s Marseille – so many cultures living alongside each other, people open and genuinely curious. When my German accent slips through, I often hear: “Where are you from?” “So cool that you’re learning the language.” “You speak really well.” Whether that’s always entirely true – well, I’ll leave that open. But it’s support. Warmly meant support. And that gives me the courage to just speak, mistakes and all.

So I keep going. Until I can say what I actually want to say – in French.

Maybe not like a Formula 1 car, but maybe a little more than swan.

¹ Freely translated from the German edition of Just Kids by Patti Smith.