Dear Berlin 💌

a love letter to the city I currently call home

Mar 03, 2025

February 28, 2025 marked the official expiry of my German residence permit—the one that allowed me to hold a freelance visa and build a life in Berlin, a city I once dreamed of living in and eventually moved to in my late twenties.

Truly a surprise to me, especially since I almost gave it all up my first year of moving in 2023—when I hit my lowest point, both in my career and personal life. Yet somehow, three tumultuous (and mostly challenging) years later, here I am—still standing, managing to extend for another cycle (probably the last), and holding on while I can.

My life as a Berliner has never been something I openly shared online. I always felt it was no one’s business how or why I moved here—all the way from Manila. It was a selfish decision, made purely for myself. Not even for work! Somehow, though, my audience started to grow in the West (hence the numerous US work trips over the past three years), and I was fortunate to finally get paid what I deserved for the work I do.

That being said, it hasn’t been easy. But without a doubt, this has been the most transformative chapter of my life—one that forced me to question everything and redefine what success and happiness mean for someone like me, who has always walked an unconventional path.

Dear Berlin,

We met for the first time in the fall of 2018.

I remember arriving at Berlin Hauptbahnhof, and as I spent a short and sweet three days with you, I knew I wanted to come back. It was love at first sight, or so I thought it was.

Summer 2019 was a dream. I was enamored by your beauty. I made my way to you, and we spent memorable months basking in the sun, making art, and figuring out how to make this work. How to make you my home.

In 2022, the timing aligned, and I dropped everything and booked a one-way ticket. This was it—the thing I had been wanting to do since I started my career. I thought it was everything I had dreamed of. And then, it wasn’t.

Moving in the dead of winter with no friends, a self-employed job, and a language I barely understood (right in the midst of a global pandemic) was like stepping into an entirely new version of myself—one that had no choice but to adapt. Except for the occasional “Bitte” and “Genau,” which lasted me until I could say, “Ein Flat White mit Hafermilch, bitte” on repeat, I navigated your streets in solitude. Sometimes I would burst into tears simply because I did not know what emotion to feel anymore. One café at a time, one journal entry at a time, writing, planning, dreaming, hoping, and asking myself, What am I doing here?

It was my choice, after all. Or was it? I wanted to live elsewhere, to build a life outside the familiarity I had known for twenty-nine years. But I had no idea how difficult it would be, how I’d have to hold onto the smallest things just to get through the days—the days when the nights were long and the temperature dropped to negative. The days when I moved from one apartment to another, five times in three years, never feeling like I had truly arrived. The days when I questioned everything about my life and how different it turned out to what I had expected.

But then, eventually, the sun started shining. The long, gray days gave way to warmth, and your summers were beautiful—filled with food, friends, and fond memories. Afternoons spent by the canal, evenings that stretched endlessly under pink skies, the hum of the city, alive with possibility. There were lots of trips in between—quick getaways, long train rides, fleeting moments that reminded me why I chose this path. Suddenly, it sort of became clearer, but also…not quite. I documented everything, trying to hold onto the feeling of belonging, of freedom, of being exactly where I needed to be. There were days when I felt the most alive, and when you felt like a love letter written just for me.

And then, the leaves started falling. My favorite season. Slowly at first, like a whisper, then all at once—painting the streets in yellow and gold. The air turned crisp, the city quieted. The sky burned a warm color before fading into the early nights, and I surprisingly found comfort in the rhythm of the seasons. The transition, the change, the way Berlin teaches you to embrace both the light and the dark.

And here I am once again, making my way through another winter. They say, third time’s the charm. The cycle repeating itself, the seasons coming and going. But this time, I feel different. The cold still lingers, but it no longer feels unfamiliar. The darkness stretches, but I know now that the light will return. I walk through your streets, past what’s familiar, and the new corners I’ve yet to explore, knowing that, for now, I am exactly where I need to be.

*never forget the 2023 “wearing-a-cast-and-I-fucking-hate-Berlin” era*

Berlin, you are so hard to love. You have tested me, challenged me, forced me to be independent in ways I never thought possible. And yet, you have also given me space—to learn, to unlearn, to figure out who I am beyond where I grew up and beyond the career I built. I truly have made a life here, even in its impermanence.

You are a city of in-betweens. I know you are not my forever home, but you are my right now. And right now, that is more than enough.

Because of you, I’ve learned how to truly be by myself. To trust myself and the universe more, to embrace uncertainty. I’ve learned to find home in the little things—movie nights and café debriefs with friends, long walks in the park, grocery runs, train rides. I’ve learned that home is not a place, but a feeling. A deep breath of fresh air, knowing that in this moment, I am alive, and I am living the truest version of myself so far.

So, Berlin, thank you. For the opportunity. For holding space for me, even when I wasn’t sure I belonged. For the tough love that has shaped me into the person I am today.

Let’s see where the next few years take us.

Sincerely yours,

Abbey

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