Part II: Silence Would Be Easier.

A few mornings ago, I was out walking my dog, as I do every day, just after five.

Lake Zurich lay almost perfectly still. The first light of dawn had caught a few wisps of cloud. A gentle breeze moved across the water. Such peace. Such silence. For a brief moment, it felt as if the world belonged to no one.

Not yet.

Within half an hour, commuters would be hurrying towards the station. Buses would begin to fill. Cyclists would stream through the streets. Offices would unlock their doors. Children would make their way to school. The city would quietly start its engine.

I, on the other hand, had nowhere to be. No appointment. No meeting. No interview. No one was waiting for me.

My dog, meanwhile, couldn’t have cared less. He had far more important matters to attend to. An unusually fascinating blade of grass. The scent of another dog. A seagull that clearly believed itself to be the centre of the universe.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons dogs make such wonderful therapists. They live entirely in the present moment. While I was worrying about the next five years, my dog was fully occupied with the next five metres.

And suddenly it struck me. For the first time in decades, this morning belonged entirely to me.

A strange feeling. Freedom? Or emptiness? Perhaps both.

As we walked along the lake, my thoughts began to wander. About unemployment. About becoming ausgesteuert. About identity. About what happens when life takes a turn you never chose.

The truth is, I never intended to write a series of essays. I simply wanted a plan. A battle plan. Not against the labour market. At the moment, it’s stronger than I am. But against the endless carousel of thoughts. Against sleepless nights. Against rumination. Against those dark little storm clouds that quietly gather on the horizon and, before you realise it, settle directly above your head.

I wanted to write down what helps me. What gives me structure. How I want to deal with this new reality. How to keep applying for jobs without allowing every rejection to make me feel smaller. How to nurture my professional network, continue building my own business, and at the same time protect my mental health.

I wanted to build myself a toolbox. Breathing and relaxation techniques. Meditation. Self-hypnosis. Visualisation. Mindfulness. Exercise. Friends. Healthy sleep. Good food. A hint of humour.

And permission to have a bad day every now and then.

The longer I thought about it, the more another question emerged. Why keep this to myself? Every year, around 25,000 people in Switzerland become ausgesteuert. Twenty-five thousand stories. Twenty-five thousand lives. Twenty-five thousand people asking themselves the same questions I ask myself. Who am I without my work? Where do I belong now? How long can I keep going? And perhaps this isn’t really about unemployment at all. Perhaps it’s about every moment in life when something breaks. After a divorce. After a serious illness. After losing someone you love. Retirement. When children leave home. When a long career suddenly comes to an end. Whenever a role disappears that has defined us for years. Perhaps this isn’t really about work. Perhaps it’s about identity.

As I walked beside the lake, an unexpected thought came to mind. A sentence from Captain Jack Sparrow. Of all people. Who would have imagined that a fictional pirate would capture one of psychology’s deepest truths?

“The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem.”

That’s really what this series is about. Events alone do not determine how we experience life. The meaning we give them does.

Psychology tells us that two people can experience exactly the same event in completely different ways. One is almost crushed by it. The other grows through it. Not because life is fair or unfair, but because the human brain is constantly trying to make sense of experience by turning it into a story.

Avoidance, endless rumination and feelings of helplessness often make suffering worse. Acceptance, planning, social support and a sense of personal agency can make difficult periods far more bearable.

That’s why I’m writing. Not because I already have the answers. Quite the opposite. I’m writing because I’m still searching for them. Perhaps writing is my first coping strategy. Thoughts become clearer once they’re on paper. Fear often loses some of its power once it has a name. And experiences become lighter when they’re shared.

Of course, I could remain silent. Disappear somewhere between statistics, percentages and spreadsheets. Become just another number. Quietly fade away.

Nah. That would be far too easy.

By the time we returned home, the city had fully begun its working day. Emails were being answered. Meetings were underway. Job interviews were taking place. Somewhere, someone was probably being told they no longer had a job.

I opened the front door. My dog curled up contentedly in his favourite spot. I sat down at my desk. Opened a blank document. And started writing.

For myself.

And perhaps… just a little for you.