I am not from anywhere, and I think that's okay.

When people ask me where I’m from, I
never quite know what to say. Germany, I suppose. I spent most of my childhood there, my parents still live there, and Munich is probably the closest thing I have to a geographical home. But then I lived in England for some of the years that shaped me the most, and when people ask, I usually find myself saying “German and English” because choosing one has never felt quite right. 

Now I live in Indonesia.

If I think about it, though, I don’t think home has ever really been a place to me. When I think of home, I think of people. My parents in Germany. Friends in England. The people I’ve met and built a life with in Indonesia. Places become home because of the people who are in them. I think I’ve always been comfortable with moving. It has never felt particularly frightening to me. Every move has happened because something in my life was changing, and rather than feeling like I was losing something, I always felt excited about what was coming next. There was something liberating about arriving somewhere new and knowing that I could reinvent myself.

My first experience of this was when I was three and four, my family lived in a campervan travelling around the Mediterranean island of Malta. I remember it as an almost impossibly idyllic childhood. We would spend our days outside, and every night we would stay somewhere different — on beaches, in orange groves, beside castles on hills and in little coves. We picked wild figs to eat and spent all our time out in nature.
At the time, I obviously didn't understand that this was an unconventional way to grow up. It was simply my normal. But I think something about that experience stayed with me. Perhaps it subconsciously taught me that there wasn't necessarily one correct way to live. That you could choose a different path. That doing things differently could lead to experiences that you wouldn't otherwise have. It is something I hope to give my own children one day. 

Then, at sixteen, I moved to England by myself. 

I'd just finished my O-levels and moved away from my parents to pursue a career as a
professional athlete. I was suddenly living in a country I barely knew, on a houseboat,
surrounded by people I'd never met. And somehow, it felt completely natural.
The people around me made it easy. My teammates took me in and looked after me. Even strangers seemed unusually willing to talk to you. The bus driver might stop for a chat. Someone working at the cinema might strike up a conversation. There was a warmth and friendliness that I wasn't used to, growing up in Germany.

Living there for longer also taught me that friendliness can sometimes exist alongside a
certain superficiality. But even so, I loved the warmth of it. I found a community there, and many of the people I consider my closest friends today are from those years.
I also ended up living on a houseboat, which taught me something completely different: if you want to live on a boat, you'd better become a handyman.

There were times when I had no electricity and sat by candlelight. Sometimes there was no running water and I'd have to carry buckets around just to wash the dishes. During Covid, I taught myself how to build things, fix things and solve problems, eventually renovating the entire boat myself as a surprise for my dad. It was challenging, but it was also magical. The summers were spent watching swans and their babies swim past every morning. I grew herbs and vegetables in a little garden at the front of the boat. There was a community within the marina, and friends and I took the boat down the canal to the pub for fish and chips and an ice cream.

It was another life that probably looked strange from the outside, but felt completely normal to me. And perhaps that is one of the biggest things moving around has given me: a very flexible idea of what “normal” actually means.

For most of my life, I was also known primarily as an athlete. Sport had become my identity from the outside. But internally, I had always felt like a creative person. Sport was something I had fallen into when I was young, whereas creativity felt much more fundamental to who I was. When I retired from professional sport, I almost made a complete 180-degree turn. Suddenly, most people knew me as an artist or a ceramicist rather than an athlete. It made me realise how easily we can mistake one part of a person for the entirety of who they are.

At twenty-three, I moved again, this time to Indonesia. And once again, it was the people that made the place feel like home. I have learned so much about life from Indonesians. Culturally, we can be very different, and there are many ways of thinking that are completely unfamiliar to me. But there is also an incredible kindness that I experience here every day. Sometimes it's as simple as driving down the road and having a stranger smile at you. That sounds like such a small thing, but after growing up in Europe, it still surprises me.

I feel very strongly that I am in the right place.

There is a saying here that the island chooses who is allowed to stay and who has to leave, and I feel incredibly grateful for everything this island has given me. At the same time, living here has made me much more conscious of what it means to be an outsider. I can learn the language. I can contribute to my community. I can try to integrate myself as much as possible. But I also know that I will never be completely integrated. There are things reserved for locals — local prices, certain priorities, certain parts of society — that I will never truly be part of, and I think that's okay. I don't feel like I am missing belonging. I have realised that belonging doesn't necessarily come from being culturally identical to the people around you. It comes from the relationships you build and the people you share your life with. 

The more I have moved, the more I have realised how little I actually know. There is a saying: the more I see, the less I know. I think that has become increasingly true for me. Every time I enter a new culture, meet new people or experience a different way of living, something I previously considered obvious gets questioned. It has made me want to stay open. I sometimes notice the difference between my perspective and that of people who have stayed in one place for most of their lives. Their world can feel more black and white to me, whereas mine has become increasingly grey — not in a negative way, but because I have learned that there are so many different ways of seeing the same thing.

I think moving around has made me adventurous. More willing to jump into cold water. It has made me creative, empathetic and more present. It has taught me to appreciate what I've been given and to be grateful for the opportunities I've already had, rather than constantly waiting for the next thing. It has also made me realise that I don't want to live according to a predetermined idea of what my life is supposed to look like.
When I look back, I don't think I would be the same person if I'd stayed in Germany. I don't think I would be the same person if I'd stayed in England either. Every place has left something with me, but none of them define me.

Maybe that's what identity means to me now. Not a fixed answer to the question of where I come from, but the freedom to decide where I'm going. The places I've lived have shaped me. The people I've met have changed me. The cultures I've experienced have challenged the way I think. But I don't feel tied to any of them. 

My roots are important, but I don't think they determine how far I can grow, they are only the beginning.