Between Everywhere and Nowhere

Between Everywhere and Nowhere

  • Kierkegaard as a Big Brother

    Kierkegaard as a Big Brother

    I have always believed that privacy is the real key, even as a little girl. Whether out of necessity or a desire to share knowledge, I have always preferred keeping the real storm inside me. Staying private felt like being “preserved” and “respectful to myself,” a way of honoring my own sense of truth.

    Fortunately, some rare and precious minds chose to share their innermost thoughts with the world. Kierkegaard was one of them. His ideas reached me in ways that felt profoundly personal. I call him my “big brother,” not to diminish his stature, but because he silently guided me in the ways I needed, probably in ways he never anticipated. Of course, this is my personal experience; Kierkegaard himself had no expectation of being seen this way.

    As I mentioned, I have always chosen to preserve my thoughts, questions, and ideas. Perhaps I was fortunate enough to share and discuss everything with my parents, so I never felt obliged to seek validation from others. But as I reached the early stages of young adulthood, I realized that I needed new boundaries, even with my parents. When I confided this to my mother, she said, “Whenever you need advice, you may consult a psychologist you trust.” At first, this seemed logical.

    After experimenting with this path and reflecting deeply, I realized that it wasn’t quite right for me. I had no major crises; my struggles were with myself. Paying someone to navigate my existential musings didn’t feel organic – it was transactional, almost obligatory. What did I expect, in the end?

    So, I turned to what had always been my refuge: the library. Its quiet halls became sacred portals, taking me to parallel heights in my mind. And one day, I found it, the book that would change my perspective: Either/Or by Søren Kierkegaard. Of course, I was not unfamiliar with philosophy or Kierkegaard but reading him in that moment hit differently. It was as if someone was reading my soul, gently guiding me, giving me what I needed before I even asked.

    I was mesmerized. I lost track of how many times I read that book. Then I moved on to The Present Age. How could someone born in 1813, living in Denmark, meet the mental and emotional needs of a girl in a completely different “modern” time and place?

    Kierkegaard became my big brother, a silent mentor guiding my thoughts across centuries. At first, I hesitated to share my perspective about a philosopher in this way, as it might seem too shallow or disrespectful. But I decided to share this view of mine, because philosophy is not only about knowing theories and concepts. It is about what it makes you think. About what it makes you feel. About the questions it forces you to ask. Probably, Kierkegaard would be surprised if he knew someone saw him this way.

    Through him, I learned that solitude can be nourishing and that privacy can be empowering. Even as social animals, my approach towards carrying myself was not abnormal.

    But perhaps the most meaningful thing I’ve learned from him is this: when I feel the need to change something in my life, or when I sense that I crave difference, I no longer interpret it as a betrayal of who I am. Instead, I see it as a sign of growth, as a transition into another chapter of my life. Kierkegaard helped me understand that change is not disloyalty to the self; it is the very process through which the self becomes more authentic.

    I am so grateful for Kierkegaard having that enormous impact on my life.

    “When I see myself cursed, abominated, hated for my coldness and heartlessness: then I laugh, then my wrath is satiated. If these good people could really put me in the wrong, if they could actually make me do wrong – well, then I should have lost.”

    — Either/Or, Søren Kierkegaard, Vol.1, p.39, Translated by David F. Swenson and Lillian Marvin Swenson

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • All Children We Could Not Protect

    All Children We Could Not Protect

    As a person who tends to see the glass as a whole and usually keeps a realistic stance, these days it feels almost impossible to keep up with what is happening around the world.

    Lola Daviet from France, Mattia Ahmet Minguzzi from Türkiye, Meya Åberg from Sweden…

    Too much pain to hold. And we are not even their acquaintances.

    When someone commits brutal harm, they do not only steal a life — they destroy the worlds of everyone who loved that life, who would love that life, and everyone and everything that life would touch.

    What feels even more disturbing is how people have started to sympathize more with the offender than with the victim.

    Consciously or not, victim-blaming has become a silent trend. Even when there is no open blame, some people somehow tend to devalue the victim’s place, as if suffering deserved to be examined before believed.

    Whenever such nightmares come to light, certain circles immediately start scanning both sides — weighing them as if morality could be balanced like a scale. “That side had this; the other side had that…”

    Yes, we all go through harsh experiences. Each person is unique — psychologically, biologically, and socio-economically. But none of these differences justify doing harm. Choosing evil is always the easiest.

    There are endless academic and scientific discussions about these issues, but here I speak simply as an ordinary person — one who tries to digest all these stories and comments that pass through her daily life.

    Over-sympathizing would not be such a problem if it weren’t always directed towards offenders.

    Being a minority, an immigrant, or a local gives no justification for cruelty. Humanity does not work by exceptions.

    During Mattia Ahmet’s hearing, one of the suspects’ attorneys said: “It was Ahmet’s bad luck that he was around the suspects that day.”

    Is it that simple? Has life become such a fragile accident? Is it normal to be a target of a hunting ideology in the middle of daily life? Really?

    It often feels like governments are deliberately choosing not to protect their citizens.

    When justice becomes selective, protection turns into privilege. And privileges, by their nature, exclude.

    If states over-protect certain sects of society, communities will inevitably over-react to those same sects. Simple logic 101.

    When justice fails to reflect fairness, it does not only harm the victims — it weakens the moral spine of a whole society.

    Each lenient decision, each ignored case, silently tells people that innocence has less value than power.

    And once people stop believing in justice, they stop believing in each other.

    Of course, this loss of trust does not happen overnight. It grows every time the media wraps cruelty in words that soften its weight — every time headlines frame victims through endless “ifs” and “buts,” as if they must earn their right to be protected.

    When injustice is repeated often enough, people begin to see it as ordinary.

    We must refuse to internalize such reasoning. Because every time we excuse cruelty, we make it easier for the next cruelty to happen.

    And criticism alone will never be enough unless it leads us to seek solutions — not only through laws, but through our shared conscience.

    Since reading this news, I have not been able to calm the sorrow inside me.

    When I watched Meya’s trembling speech on national TV, all I wanted was to reach out and hug her — even though I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

    People always assume it will be someone else’s tragedy. But the circle is getting smaller and smaller each day.
    Sooner or later, the distance between “them” and “us” disappears.

    We should remember the simplest truth about life. Put history, politics, and all the rest aside for a moment.

    We are all humans who long for a serene life lived with dignity. Learn to protect your own sense of integrity.

    As Aristophanes once said: “A man’s homeland is wherever he prospers.”

    Respect the boundaries of the place you live in. Respect your surroundings — whether they are living beings or artificial ones.

    And show tolerance to those who are doing their best to belong, to find their place in the community they are trying to be part of.

    Because peace does not come from similarity. It comes from coexistence.

    May we let all these innocent souls rest in peace, through our honest efforts to build a just and humane world.

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • The Very Concept of Vandalism Behind the Revolutionist Card

    The Very Concept of Vandalism Behind the Revolutionist Card

    This world has always had its problems — it never was, and probably never will be, any better than it is at the very moment. The difference now is that we can see it all. Technology has developed, and with it, our sense of awareness.

    Once, people were busy sweeping only in front of their own doors; today, with a phone in our hands, we can see an ordinary day of a person we would otherwise never meet. Even now, you are reading my thoughts, and normally, we might never cross paths.

    The more developed and connected we become, the more sensitive and reactive we grow. The easier it gets to reach basic needs, the more we focus on expressing ourselves. These days, everyone can be an activist, an advocate, a spokesperson for something — demonstrations, labor strikes, social media campaigns, petitions, or simply sitting in front of a building to make a point. There are countless ways to show your stance, to raise awareness, to push for change.

    But vandalism is not one of them. Intentions may be good, but your freedom ends where it interferes with someone else’s.

    Recently, two members of Futuro Vegetal were charged with a crime against heritage after allegedly throwing biodegradable red paint on a painting by José Garnelo at Madrid’s Naval Museum on Spain’s National Day. The museum says the artwork has been restored. But does that make the act acceptable?

    After all these years of progress, do we still not see that every extreme action gives birth to an equally extreme reaction? These works of art are part of humanity’s heritage — irreplaceable, fragile, and deeply symbolic. Damaging them in the name of a cause does not make you right; it just weakens your argument. You cannot claim to fight for life while destroying what was created to celebrate it.

    Image: BBC

    It seems these days, it’s easy to be something else. If I say, “I identify as a kebab fairy,” few would dare to question me — not out of understanding, but often out of fear of offending. But does that logic justify everything? Just because something feels right in the moment doesn’t mean it is right. So, you just cannot be an overly ardent advocate of something just because you think you are right when you start justifying and normalizing vandalism at some point.

    Why is it always the finest pieces that become the target? If you damage something that belongs to everyone — something that carries shared cultural meaning — you’re not an activist, you’re a vandal. And when you devalue the very cause you claim to defend, the message you try to deliver fades into noise.

    If we truly want change, we need to find ways that invite dialogue instead of destruction. Real change requires collaboration — a shared cause, a collective benefit. The world already has enough broken things; we don’t need to add art to the list. This is the best time to be human, and to channel our will toward change for the good of all of us.

    We should remember that whatever the cause we stand for, it is about us — the ordinary citizens of this world, regardless of our beliefs, identities, or orientations.

    True activism seeks to heal and connect, not to separate and destroy.

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • How a Sentence in The Economist Took Me Back to My Childhood

    How a Sentence in The Economist Took Me Back to My Childhood

    …and I could never have known!

    On a chilly October weekend, I started reading an article titled “Icebreakers – Cracking Stuff” in The Economist, which began with the line “Finland has something America wants.”

    I kept reading, expecting to find something about the current Greenland agenda. Then I came across a sentence by Jari Hurttia that struck me:

    “Ice is a kind of mystery.”

    Yes — ice, snow, winter, the cold — all are mysteries to those who have never truly experienced them.

    My hometown is a beautiful coastal city along the Mediterranean. I grew up with heat, endless sunshine, tanned skin, fresh vegetables and fruits, seafood culture, and countless touristic moments even without leaving my own circle.

    Tourists I met throughout my life would always tell me, “You’re so lucky — you live a full-time holiday life.”

    But that never meant much to me. This climate was simply my natural habitat, my everyday normal.

    For me, a holiday meant snow and winter — that postcard-perfect scene almost impossible to experience in my city.

    It has never snowed in my hometown. True winter existed only as a flawless concept in my mind. To let us experience it, our municipality used to bring real snow from the mountains by lorries — quite literally!

    When I first saw snow actually falling from the sky, I felt as if I were inside a snow globe. Those tiny cotton candies were drifting down, melting on my hands. The white blanket they created. The silence that followed. The chill that reached my bones.

    I wasn’t sweating — I was freezing! And it felt like another way of being alive. It was such a miracle.

    “God, please let me experience this white miracle all my life,” I used to pray. “Please bless me with real winter — I already have enough summer.” That was my childish bargain with God.

    In my city, people had to drive up to higher altitudes to see the snow. Winter — real winter — was our luxury, our privilege. You had to make an effort to reach that miracle. Years later, I became fascinated by other winter wonderlands. Finland was, of course, one of them. 

    One day, I met a Finnish girl in my hometown. She told me, “You have no idea how lucky you are to be from the Mediterranean.”

    Maybe she was right. That conversation stayed with me for years — because it showed how easily we idealize what we don’t live in.

    Years later, when I visited Finland, I told a Finnish man, “You have no idea how lucky you are to be from Finland.”

    We always reveal our nature in what we admire. What we cannot easily reach always feels more precious. 

    Perhaps this is how distance creates desire — the snow for me, the sun for them.
     
    Or maybe these contrasts keep the world in balance — they make us curious enough to leave our own comfort zones and seek the lives that feel like our idealized opposites. 

    We rarely learn to appreciate what we already have — maybe because, as I once prayed in my childhood, we already have it, and we know we won’t lose it. 

    And back where I come from, the waves never stop whispering that we all long for what’s beyond our horizon.

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • Where Grace Outlives Us — Feriköy Latin Catholic Cemetery

    Where Grace Outlives Us — Feriköy Latin Catholic Cemetery

    Where do we feel ourselves closest to death? In hospital rooms, amid burial ceremonies, or while standing within a cemetery’s silent alleys?

    What stirs within you when you walk through a graveyard — goosebumps, longing, a shudder, calm, or something else altogether?

    To me, graveyards are secure havens, places where we entrust our dearest ones for eternity. They mirror faith and culture. Often, a cemetery becomes a canvas upon which the identity and spirit of the person who now lies beneath the soil are inscribed — transforming into part of nature’s quiet tapestry.

    Some cemeteries show us that even after our physical presence fades, we may still radiate grace and artistry. Through their final resting places — their eternal homes — some individuals continue to satisfy our souls aesthetically, even when their biological existence has ceased.

    One of the most beautiful examples of this, for me, is the Latin Catholic Cemetery in Feriköy, Istanbul.

    Image courtesy of bi-ozet.com

    Hidden in the heart of Şişli, this 19th-century cemetery carries the silent traces of Istanbul’s multicultural past. Established around the 1860s for the city’s Catholic and Levantine communities, it has become a peaceful sanctuary filled with marble angels, neoclassical tombs, and stories carved into stone.

    The Timothée Reboul tombstone in the Feriköy Catholic Cemetery. Image courtesy of levantineheritage.com

    Walking here feels like stepping into a forgotten gallery — each monument a piece of art, each name a different melody of the same city. Italian, French, Latin, and Turkish inscriptions intertwine; ivy and sunlight dance across sculpted faces. It’s a place where architecture, faith, and emotion meet in silence.

    The tomb of the important Orientalist painter Jean Brindesi
    Image courtesy of levantineheritage.com

    You don’t need to be religious to feel something here. You only need to pause. Between the whispering trees and white marble, there’s a quiet beauty that reminds you: even after we’re gone, we can still leave traces of grace behind.

    If you’re in Istanbul now, there is an exhibition called “Memento: Mermere Kazınmış Latin İstanbul” — free to visit until the 12th of October by booking an available slot. If you plan to visit the city soon, I highly recommend experiencing this extraordinary place with your own eyes.

    Image courtesy of bi-ozet.com

    What I love about humanity is that when we truly wish, we can turn anything into art and peace. We can satisfy our hunger for beauty even by visiting the eternal homes of people we’ve never met — those we only discover by chance while wandering among their resting places. Sometimes, a person can still give you calm and comfort through the very spot where they lie forever.

    May all our loved ones rest in peace, and may God bless us all with long, healthy, and meaningful lives. 🕯️

    Image courtesy of bi-ozet.com

    All images here belong to their respective owners.

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • Artificial Intelligence Is Not to Blame for Your Stupidity

    Artificial Intelligence Is Not to Blame for Your Stupidity

    Lately, I’ve been surrounded by studies, tweets, and heated conversations all warning the same thing: artificial intelligence is making us dumber, lazier, and creatively numb. Some even argue that it will slowly replace our ability to think for ourselves.

    Ironically, I was the only person in my circle still living with pens and notebooks—no AI planning apps, no AI writing tools, not even AI search. As a translator, I thought that made me somewhat cool. But instead of being praised for my independence, I was criticized for being outdated, slow to adapt, even resistant to change. Classic human hypocrisy.

    Curious to test this for myself, I started using ChatGPT non-stop for a few months, in every possible area of my daily life. From writing emails to planning meals, from brainstorming ideas to drafting work notes—even for terminology discussions in translation assignments.

    What I discovered is simple: AI doesn’t make you stupid. You become mentally passive only if you hand over your thinking to a ready-made mechanism because it feels easier, not because it is inevitable.

    Fed by human data, AI does its best to navigate you, meet your demands, and address you in different voices. But here’s the key question: how much trust do you place in your own voice, your research skills, and your expertise? During this trial, ChatGPT couldn’t change my voice or override what I wanted to say—simply because I didn’t let it.

    The Real Risk

    As human beings, we dramatize new technologies far too much. Instead of sinking into the warm arms of laziness, we should use technology the way it was intended: as a support, not a substitute.

    Workloads are heavy, deadlines are unrealistic, and underpayment is exhausting. Sometimes, we don’t even have the energy left to think. Depending on AI may seem like salvation in those moments. But this dependency is dangerous, as recent research warns. An arXiv preprint even explored how people develop intimate, emotional bonds with AI partners, blurring the lines between authentic human interaction and machine-mediated connection.

    Balance Is Key

    That’s why I believe everything beyond reference is poison. Keep things in balance. Don’t lose your own voice or your mental battery. Don’t forget the joy of researching and creating.

    While it’s impossible to isolate ourselves completely from new technologies, we can choose how much we let them shape us. AI was created by humans—by us, fragile beings in flesh prisons. It is still just a tool, idle until you ask it to produce.

    Don’t let anything, or anyone, pull you away from your humanness or make your abilities seem less worthy. And don’t let opportunists persuade you that it’s normal to be replaceable. 

    Just let technology be your servant, not the other way around.

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • When Tuvan Words Felt Familiar: A Cultural Reflection

    When Tuvan Words Felt Familiar: A Cultural Reflection

    I recently discovered Galsan Tschinag through two parts of his The Blue Sky series — The Blue Sky and The Gray Earth. Tschinag is a Mongolian author with Tuvan roots who writes in a deeply autobiographical way about the nomadic life of the Tuvan people.

    I read the books in Turkish translation, and right at the beginning, a small note caught my eye:

    “The author chose to leave Tuvan–Mongolian words as they are. We respect this choice and keep them untouched.”

    That intrigued me. Would these words feel distant? Would they interrupt the flow?

    To my surprise, as an Anatolian Turk, they rarely felt foreign. Most of the time, I read fluently, almost seamlessly, as if those words had always been part of my own language.

    Some examples included:

    TuvanTurkishEnglish
    ArzılanAslanLion
    HölGölLake
    HarlıgKarlıSnowy
    SarıgSarıYellow
    BeğBeyLord / Chief

    A Note on the Tuvans and Their Language

    The Tuvans are a Turkic-speaking people living mainly in the Tuva Republic in southern Siberia, Russia. Their language, Tuvan, belongs to the Turkic language family and shares historical roots with Turkish. Around 300,000 people speak Tuvan today.

    Historically, the Tuvans and Turks share common ancestry from Central Asia. Over centuries, migrations, nomadic movements, and intermixing with neighboring peoples shaped the cultures and languages of both groups.

    Knowing this makes the familiarity of certain words in Tschinag’s books even more fascinating, as echoes of a distant but connected linguistic and cultural heritage emerge across centuries and geography.

    Cultural Echoes Across Lands

    What struck me even more were the subtle cultural echoes. In one passage, the Tuvans deal with bad dreams in a unique way: instead of telling anyone, they dig a small hole in the ground and spit three times into it.

    In my own culture, we do something strikingly similar — when you wake from a bad dream, you turn to your left side and spit three times to ward it off without telling anyone.

    Two traditions, worlds apart, yet connected by the same instinctive gesture.

    Language as the Vessel of Identity

    That experience reminded me of something powerful: language is the true vessel of cultural memory. You can mix with other peoples, migrate to new lands, or adopt different faiths — but your language holds the essence of who you are.

    It carries the echoes of your ancestors: their struggles, joys, survival, and traditions. Here I was — a 28-year-old Anatolian Turk — suddenly understanding, mostly, the Tuvan words of a writer born in 1944 in Mongolia. Across geography, decades, and lives, there was a quiet recognition.No matter what the world tells you, identity lives in language. It is the thread that ties you to those who came before, and the voice you pass on to those who come after.

    Reflections on My Own Roots

    We, Anatolian Turks, are a people whose identity has been constantly shaped and reshaped: through our nomadic past, settled lives, and encounters with countless other communities.

    Reading Tschinag made me reflect on these layers — on how language, ritual, and memory carry the essence of who we are, often transcending borders and time.

    Although the ties between the Tuvans and Turks are historically known, what felt extraordinary to me was the immediacy of the recognition. Despite centuries of distance — geographic, cultural, and historical — I found myself transported into that world within the pages of a book. The traditions and words did not feel foreign; they resonated.

    It reminded me that no matter how far we move, how much we mix with others, or how much time passes, language remains our essence and our ancestor. It is the quiet force that brings us back to our identity — a bridge across time, distance, and generations, connecting us to who we are and who we might become.

    Carry the dignity and elegance of your identity by honoring your language, using it in the most poised and graceful way.

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • Welcome Autumn 🍂

    Welcome Autumn 🍂

    The Seine and the Eiffel Tower in the Sunset by Henri Rousseau

    I started this blog in summer with the idea of “new season, new blog.” Now, I leave one full season behind and welcome another one here. I feel so grateful.

    Winds are getting breezier with each passing day. Water makes its presence more noticeable. In the fruit and vegetable aisles, colors have started to change. At coffee shops, I hear people saying more often: “We’re not really in the mood for something cold anymore.” And yes—a jacket over a striped blouse finally feels like a good idea.

    We left behind a long and—at least for me—very impactful summer. Every season has its own personality, yet everyone has a favorite. For me, it’s the early days of autumn and the last week of December. You can feel the transition: from hot to cool, from dry to wet, from vivid to brownish shades, from fruity to cinnamon notes in the air. 🧥☕️🌂🎐

    It’s incredible how quickly we adapt, even though only 24 hours separate the last day of August from the first day of September.

    Four Trees by Egon Schiele

    This summer was extremely hot, so now we know how precious it is to feel a little cold again. We had spring to prepare for summer, we had summer to prepare for what’s next. And now, we embrace autumn to get ready for—and enjoy—the winter.

    I love this harmony: trees shedding their leaves, pavements turning darker after gentle rains, the aroma of hot coffee, picking my favorite socks to add comfort to my home, and of course, waiting for the many ways pumpkin will appear on the table.

    White Soup Bowl by Anne Coster Vallayer

    I am deeply thankful: thankful for witnessing another transition in nature, thankful for the goosebumps a breeze leaves on my skin, thankful for teary eyes caused by strong winds, thankful for damp hair from a soft rain.

    Grateful for everything that makes me feel alive, human, and reminds me that I am also a biodegradable part of this whole ceremony.

    And while I embrace this poetic rhythm of nature, I also enjoy the simple, practical ways the seasons linger in our daily life.

    A side note: even though we leave summer behind, summer will live on in our fridges and jars. So, in a way, summer never truly ends. 🪷

    Still Life with Cherries, Strawberries, and Gooseberries by Louise Moillon

    If you ever read this—how was your summer? How are the first weeks of autumn treating you? Share your favorite autumn ritual with me, I’d love to hear it!

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • What Do You Think of Etiquette?

    What Do You Think of Etiquette?

    Le Déjeuner des canotiers by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

    The term etiquette has been gaining popularity these days, especially on social media. But what do we actually know—or understand—about it?

    According to the Cambridge Dictionary, etiquette is “the set of rules or customs that control accepted behaviour in particular social groups or social situations.”

    We may not always notice it, yet we are all born into a world of etiquette. Do this, don’t do that, not here, only this way…These silent rules vary widely, but they help us navigate the necessities of society.

    Personally, I like to describe etiquette as “fancy boundaries that help us fit into the world required by the social contract.”

    At first, the very words rules or boundaries may trigger resistance. We tend to associate them with restriction. But in reality, these rules exist to make our lives easier—not harder.

    Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe by  Claude Monet

    Every culture, every society, every city, every country has its own unique set of customs. In Japan, bowing is not just a greeting but a reflection of respect; in Türkiye, paying for a friend shows how deeply you embrace that friendship; in Denmark, following the rules and showing courtesy on bicycles reflects consideration for everyone on the street; while in France, table manners are a language of their own. We are expected not only to follow these customs, but also to respect and represent them. Etiquette is the perfect tool for this.

    Recently, I’ve been reading Crushing Etiquette by Miera Rao and Philip Sykes. What struck me most was the idea that etiquette isn’t just about what happens during an event—it starts the very moment we begin preparing, continues in how we engage, and even lingers in the way we leave. That sense of wholeness truly fascinated me.

    For me, etiquette is an investment in ourselves. But do we really think of it that way? Today, especially online, etiquette is often reduced to slogans like “dress like a lady,” “project silent wealth,” or “look like a true gentleman.” But it is so much more than styled hair or a neatly trimmed beard.

    It is about showing respect to a table by behaving as it requires. It is about easing the work of a host without making them uncomfortable. It is about smoothing daily life and supporting one another. Waiting patiently in line for the metro is etiquette—just as much as holding your wine glass by the stem, which keeps your wine at the right temperature.

    Of course, not every aspect of etiquette ages well. Some traditions may feel outdated, even irrelevant. But that is natural: etiquette is shaped by the needs of societies at particular moments. It evolves so that our lives become more ordinary, more compatible, and hopefully, more graceful. The important thing is not to hollow out its meaning, but to let it grow with us.

    Whether we are aware of it or not, we are all etiquette critics in our own way. In a business meeting, if we see someone with messy hair and creased clothes, what impression do we form? Or when someone stands too close in a queue, ignoring personal space—what does that say about them? Aren’t they acting against the etiquette we silently agree to uphold?

    Femme au jardin by Claude Monet

    Never underestimate the power of your daily habits. It is not just the business meeting, not just the holiday we enjoy, not just the coffee we drink, and not just the dinner that satisfies our hunger.

    I remember once attending an Independence Day concert organized by a foreign country in my own city. I hadn’t prepared properly and didn’t pay much attention beforehand, and as a result, I felt I was showing disrespect by not following the crowd’s cues. That moment reminded me that when everything is done with awareness and consideration, no negative feelings arise—etiquette simply allows life to flow more harmoniously.

    I also remember holding the door for a stranger, and their smile reminded me how small gestures can ripple through a day.

    As Oscar Wilde once said:
    “The man who can dominate a London dinner-table can dominate the world.”

    The dinner table by Henri Matisse

    Nowadays, we should embrace everything that makes our lives easier and more harmonious—and I truly believe etiquette is one of them. No matter where we are or what we are doing, carrying ourselves with dignity is always worthwhile. Etiquette may seem small, even invisible at times, but it shapes the way we move through life—and the way life moves around us.

    So next time you pause in line, offer a smile, or hold your wine glass by the stem, remember: these little gestures matter. They are not just rules to follow—they are opportunities to live more gracefully.

    Which small gesture of etiquette will you practice today, and how will it change your interactions?

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    You can follow me on:

    📌 Pinterest
    📷 Instagram

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

  • How I Realized I Was a Workaholic

    How I Realized I Was a Workaholic

    Vilhelm Hammershøi, Les quatre pièces

    One delay. One pause. One cup of coffee. That’s how it began.

    I started actively working shortly after graduation. I loved being productive in my field, seeing the results, and earning money for what I truly enjoyed doing. When the Covid pandemic broke out, I somehow turned that crisis into an advantage, as I was working in the field of medicine and medical devices. Before long, I realized I was becoming “successful.” The more projects I submitted, the more “known” I became. Soon, job offers started arriving—project-based, part-time, everything.

    Gradually, I became a person whose brain couldn’t grasp the concept of “enough.” I just kept eating and eating, only my food was work. My schedule grew so tight that I was spending entire days without sleep just to keep up with deadlines. The projects were always delivered on time, but I was never sleeping on time. The world was in an economic crisis, yet I was earning well, especially compared to my peers. That was deeply satisfying. It felt as if I was taking my life under guarantee—or maybe it was just the routine taking control of me.

    Then one day, one of my projects was delayed. My teammate sent me an email: “The project was postponed this week. Next week we’ll discuss the details and the new project. Sincerely.” That project had been swallowing my entire afternoon and night. Suddenly, that time was mine. I didn’t have to rush. I didn’t feel the invisible pressure I had been carrying for so long.

    And then it happened: I realized I wanted coffee. I walked to the kitchen, started brewing, and froze. I couldn’t remember the last time I had made myself coffee without feeling stressed or trapped. That cup was a turning point, an illumination. I wasn’t going with the flow of work—I was drowning in a tsunami I had chosen. And it was not easy to admit to myself that I was ruining my young adulthood like this, especially after years of being applauded for all my professional efforts.

    I was becoming experience-rich and financially rich, but livelihood-poor and timely-poor. That evening, I looked at the sunset, and for the first time in a long while, I felt human. And it all began with just one project being postponed.

    When we talk about addiction, people usually think of drugs, alcohol, shopping, maybe hoarding. But anything taken beyond its natural limit is poison. For me, that poison was work. It was my addiction. After this realization, I decided I needed to turn back into a normal human being. I wasn’t saving the world—I was just ruining mine.

    So, in a “this is the first day of the rest of my life” kind of mood, I booked a trip along the coasts of my country. During that trip, I also started watching movies (I’d never had much of a movie culture, unfortunately). To my surprise, I realized I felt overly empathetic toward robotic, workaholic characters—and I always found excuses for their mechanical behavior.

    By constantly working and selling my labor, I was actually exploiting my humane side. I had turned myself into a machine: calculating, planning, organizing, submitting. At some point, I even noticed something more subtle: as a language worker, I was so consumed by my projects that I had become fluent only in professional terminology—yet I struggled to find words in daily conversations. Work hadn’t just claimed my time; it had started eroding my language.

    When I returned, I cut down my work schedule. I started working normal hours, like most people. And slowly, I began rediscovering what I truly loved doing. I even started building a reading habit again. But that wasn’t all. Now it was time for my body to react to what I had put it through for years.

    Since I wasn’t used to sleeping, my body struggled to adjust. Even months after switching to normal hours, I tossed and turned in bed for nights, unable to sleep more than a few hours. Still, I didn’t give up. I told myself: “I found a way to ruin it; now I’ll find a way to fix it.”

    Charles François Daubigny, La Mer, Temps Gris

    And you know what? I ended up spending almost half of the money I had earned—the money that had made me feel so “secure”—on healing from the damage of working too much. Whenever I put on my glasses, I’m reminded not just of my sight, but of what I let this addiction do to me.

    We are not just what we “provide” at work. We are also what we feel, what we love, and how we live. Sometimes, it’s worth pausing to ask ourselves: what are we doing, where are we going, and with whom are we spending our most valuable asset—time? Because going with the flow isn’t always safe. If we don’t stop to notice, that “flow” might carry us somewhere we never meant to be.

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com

    Leave a comment

    💌hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com