How I became who I am – a story about self-esteem, patterns, and change
It feels good to write about your own story. This is how the change from passively “being lived” to actively living manifests itself. Much of my life was calm, outwardly orderly, and reasonable. And that is precisely part of the problem: I functioned well. For a long time, I didn't realize that this is not the same as a fulfilled, self-determined life.
Today, I accompany people who are
stuck in similar inner patterns: who work hard, who perform,
who are reliable – but who hardly feel themselves in the
process. Who act out of old beliefs without realizing that
these are long outdated or were never healthy to begin
with.
My journey to who I am today did
not involve any radical breaks, but was a slow yet profound
process of change. And it is far from over.
My story of transformation began
where many stories begin: in childhood.
I grew up in a home marked by reliability, structure, and
practicality.
My parents were technicians – analytical thinkers,
conscientious.
On the outside, everything worked. It seemed like my brother
and I had everything we needed.
But something essential was missing.
My mother was born during World War II.
She grew up in a time when books like “The German Mother
and Her First Child” by Johanna Haarer were considered
valid parenting guides. A doctrine shaped by terrible ideology
– one that saw affection and emotion as threats. One that
denied children their emotional needs – and instructed mothers
to remain distant.
My grandmother’s stories of the war and postwar years were full
of hunger, hardship, and cruelty.
My mother had very little security as a child – and what she
didn’t receive, she couldn’t pass on.
She took care of us dutifully. But I can’t recall a single
moment of her being joyful, sad, or angry in a free, emotional
way.
We lived in an emotionally neutral space.
For a child, that’s hard to understand.
I drew a logical – but damaging – conclusion:
If no affection comes, it must be because of me.
I’m not good enough.
And: I need to try harder. Then maybe...
Those early patterns didn’t stay in childhood.
They shaped how I thought, how I saw myself, and how I made
decisions.
I was diligent, adaptable, responsible – all traits that
society rewards.
But I wasn’t acting from self-awareness – I was driven by a
sense of inner lack.
By the hope that maybe, someday, someone would finally see,
validate, or appreciate me.
I fulfilled roles. In my personal life. In my work.
And I was good at it – but I wasn’t connected to myself.
The first deep insight came late.
I was in my early 40s. My mother had already passed away.
While hiking with my brother, we spoke openly about our
childhood for the first time.
He mentioned Johanna Haarer – a name I had never heard. For
him, it was familiar.
He explained the long-term effects of those parenting
principles – and suddenly, things began to fall into place.
Most importantly, I realized:
It wasn’t me.
He, too, had missed a lot – even if, as a technically minded
person, he had a slightly easier relationship with our
parents.
But the emotional void hadn’t escaped him either.
Understanding that the lack wasn’t personal, but systemic –
that changed something in me.
It dissolved one of the oldest internal beliefs I had never
questioned.
A second key moment came soon after – unexpectedly, in a
professional setting.
As part of a 360-degree feedback process, I received just one
comment.
A highly respected colleague with international recognition
said:
“Be more confident. You’re better than you think you are.”
That was it.
But that one sentence – from that person – moved more in me
than many previous conversations.
It wasn’t an intellectual realization.
It was a physical, visceral insight:
I’m not lacking. I never was.
Those two moments were the beginning.
They opened a door that had long been closed.
I started questioning my inner patterns:
– Why do I believe my worth depends on performance?
– Why do I feel the need to please everyone?
– Why do I feel guilty when I take care of myself?
The answers led me back to old beliefs – and forward to new perspectives.
I began studying personality models, systemic questioning
techniques, and inner pattern work.
Not just in theory, but in practice. I test, reflect, and
develop my own approaches – rooted in my personal history, but
with solid structure.
By now, I have enough self-trust to share my experiences through my self-employed work.
This story isn’t exceptional.
And that’s perhaps why it matters.
Many of us carry old patterns around – quietly, but
powerfully.
We function without asking why – or what it’s costing us.
I want to encourage something different:
To look. To question. To connect the dots. → And gain
clarity.
If parts of this story resonate with you, feel free to read
more.
I’ve written three texts that explore specific aspects of my
journey:
– Self-worth, role fulfillment & the need to be
enough
– People & phrases that shaped me
– Commitments as levers for change
Each of these texts reflects a part of the path.
Maybe one of them helps you see your own puzzle more clearly.
When I look back on the way I saw myself back then, one word
comes to mind: effort.
Not in the obvious sense – not everything was hard. Much of it
was structured, smooth, functional. But underneath, there was a
constant tension. The attempt to somehow be good enough. And
the quiet, persistent sense of never quite making it.
This pattern had a root.
Two moments from my childhood have stayed with me – not because
they were dramatic, but because they were so ordinary, so
subtly formative.
I was in elementary school when friendship books were a trend. I especially looked forward to my mother’s entry. I hoped – perhaps for the first time very consciously – for a few personal, warm words. A small sign of affection.
What she wrote was:
“Without work early and late, nothing will succeed.
Envy sees only the flower bed, not the spade.
These lines are from your mommy.”
I still remember the moment I read it. I was deeply
disappointed and clearly recall praising my mother’s drawing to
cover up my feelings.
Today I know: I had hoped for affection. For a loving “I’m
proud of you” or “You’re a special person.”
Instead, once again: performance. Effort. Duty.
The fact that she signed it “mommy” – a word she normally hated
– only intensified the sense of dissonance.
It didn’t fit her.
And it didn’t fit me.
But I drew the typical conclusion a child would:
If there isn’t even room for kind words in a friendship book,
then maybe it’s because of me.
And: maybe I just need to try harder.
A few years later, when I was eleven, I was staying with my brother at our aunt’s house in the U.S. Her little son – my cousin – was five at the time. There was a near-daily exchange between him and his mother that stuck with me:
“I love you, Mummy!” – “I love you, too, Honey!”
Those few words hit me right in the heart. Not because they
were dramatic, but because they were so natural, so light, so
genuine.
I thought it was beautiful – and a little painful.
I wished I had something like that, too.
When I got home, I told my mother about it, quietly hoping she
would understand what I meant.
That maybe she’d say something like: “That’s unusual for us,
but I love you too.”
But instead, I got a lecture on how superficial Americans are.
That such phrases don’t mean anything.
I remember how, in that moment, I closed a door inside
me.
This is not going to happen.
From that point on, I started seeking connection, belonging,
and resonance outside my family.
And because I didn’t yet understand the pattern, I did the same
thing I’d always done: I performed. I delivered. I
adapted.
Of course, the hope that this would lead to true connection
didn’t come true.
Quite the opposite: I made some serious mistakes during that
time.
Looking back, I often say: I didn’t just marry my husband – I also married his mother.
My mother-in-law was – and is – the complete opposite of my own
mother.
For her, children and grandchildren come first. Not out of
obligation, but because that’s simply who she is.
Her warmth and ease in showing affection were exactly what I
had always wished for.
Of course, I later learned that even this family wasn’t
perfect.
But the emotional climate was different. And it drew me in.
My biggest internal struggle was this: not passing on the old pattern.
The rational, matter-of-fact style I grew up with was deeply
ingrained in me. I hadn’t chosen it – it was just there.
But I wanted to give my children the nest I never had.
Unlike my mother-in-law, it took enormous effort for me to fill
that role.
I wanted to be present, caring, emotionally available – not
just functional.
I succeeded. Not perfectly. Certainly not effortlessly.
But my now-adult sons often tell me that they felt seen and
loved.
And that means more to me than anything else.
Looking back, I’m grateful that childcare for infants wasn’t
common yet.
Otherwise, I might have used that as an escape – choosing work
over emotional connection.
Not out of selfishness, but out of overwhelm.
But I had to go through it.
And I made it.
These experiences have shaped how I understand self-worth and role fulfillment.
Today, I know:
– My worth doesn’t depend on performance.
– I don’t have to fix what others failed to give.
– I’m allowed to focus on the connections that nourish me.
And that’s exactly what I bring into my work today.
Not as a “coach” with years of theoretical training and fifty
certificates on the wall.
But as a human being who knows the path – and who has also
studied how change actually works.