May Day

Tonight wasn’t legendary. And that’s okay.

It was my first May Day out in Berlin.

For years, I didn’t go. Not because I didn’t want to, but because someone else decided it wasn’t for us. Too loud, too chaotic, too Berlin.

But this year, I went. This year, I moved toward it.

I started with a group of women I didn’t know well. The vibe was off — no hard feelings, just not mine. I left without apology. I’ve learned to recognize when I’m shrinking to fit. I’ve also learned I don’t need to.

Later, I joined a different group. This one was gentler, more grounded. Most of them weren’t drinking. I already was. And yet the contrast didn’t jar me. It felt like ease. Like balance. They peeled off early, and I felt the familiar itch to chase the next high. One more group, one more maybe. But the line to the club was long, and the energy had already shifted. So I went home.

And still, I felt content.

There’s this idea in Berlin that May Day has to be wild. That you need to lose yourself in it, sweat it out, make it cinematic. But I didn’t need that. I didn’t conform to it, and I didn’t resist it either. I just let it move around me while staying centered in myself.

I’ve lived in many places. Moved between languages, cities, continents. I used to think I adapted because I had to. That fluidity was survival. But tonight, I realized something softer: maybe home isn’t about fitting in or standing out. Maybe it’s just the energy we choose to feel. The way we move through a place on our own terms.

I didn’t need May Day to be anything more than what it was.
It was movement, music in the distance, the city breathing around me.
And me, steady in it.

Not every night needs to be magic.
Sometimes it’s enough to belong to yourself.