Let’s go back to early September 2019, when I moved to Berlin. I had never aspired to live abroad, but Ksusha, whom I married six months prior (February 2019), was already living there. We had gotten married at the end of a journey across South America, in Argentina. Before that, I lived in Kyiv, and Ksusha in Berlin, maintaining a long-distance relationship for a year. There were no low-cost flights at the time, so I became quite an expert in crossing Poland—I even once “beat” a plane from Rzeszów to Berlin by hitchhiking. Long-distance relationships aren’t so scary; there’s a lot of intensity and space for yourself, but it’s important to know it won’t last forever. For us, the “light at the end of the tunnel” was a set date when we would leave, with no return ticket, and start traveling through South America with backpacks. But even then, the question of “where to live next” was already looming.

I was an experienced IT specialist, a rare and valued talent spoiled by an always-overheated market, working freelance from home with little thought about finances. I lived comfortably in central Kyiv with no plans to move to Europe. A legal move requires a visa, a visa requires a contract, and a contract means 40 hours a week in an office. Meanwhile, Ksusha had already been living in Europe for about six years, was close to obtaining German citizenship, and wasn’t keen on relocating to another post-Soviet country. Ukraine is obviously not Russia, but from the top of the Berlin TV tower, the differences aren’t all that visible—especially regarding social protections and a sense of security, especially if you’re a photojournalist.

Neither of us had pressing reasons to relocate—until we met each other. A “just move” option didn’t work for either of us, so we put off a final decision, agreeing to “live a few years here, a few years there” and see what happens. But first, we’d go to Germany. Whenever I visited Berlin, it was always exciting and joyful. When I finally moved, though, I had one persistent question running through my head as I carried my big blue backpack down the path from the airport building to the subway: What the hell am I doing here?

The backpack held kilos of wire for artisan crafts and also a frying pan… maybe because I thought a new one would be expensive in a first-world country, or because I simply had space in my backpack, or maybe because I was used to making my omelet in that specific pan.

As I rode the subway, I began to feel the change. But from the first day to this very day, I understood this move wasn’t forever; Germany wasn’t really my place. Human Design theory speaks of the importance of place for mental projectors, but it emphasizes people most of all. At that time, I didn’t understand anything like this, but I believe I moved here because of it.

My interest in Human Design was still strong, but three months of intense information intake had left me more confused than clear-headed. Given my distrust of the official school (as I mentioned before), I wasn’t sure where to look for answers. Then there was the move, plus a new job.

In the third week of work, I was already on a business trip to Austria, where we had to implement a fiscalization system before the year’s end. My colleague was a classic Irishman—great sense of humor, notoriously persistent, and a strong friend of alcohol. A beer fridge sat right on his desk.

Over three months, we moved through three different apartments (it’s tough to find a long-term option in Berlin), so my frying pan ended up in my backpack more often than it probably expected.

Once we settled on an apartment, I dove into the world of movement: CI + tango + Axis Syllabus + Feldenkrais method + jams + bouldering + swimming.

If you’re familiar with projectors, you may already guess where this leads. Living at this pace makes it nearly impossible to find oneself, and there was hardly any energy left for studying.

Sure, I was that person who casually asked acquaintances for their birth dates so I could “… just check something…,” and I mostly asked questions rather than confidently telling people about their design. But this happened less and less often.

My own strategy was a blind spot. My mind knew it, could tell others about it if needed, but didn’t notice that in real life, in my life, I wasn’t applying it. This is typical in the early stages of the process when knowledge creates the illusion of experience.

Six months after I moved to Germany, COVID hit. A month later, the country went into lockdown. Not only was I working from home now, but I was also down to three days a week (my company was heavily tied to cafes and bars, so they had to tighten their belt).

This was a turning point!

When instead of 40+ hours in the office with people, you have 12 hours of actual work a week, on your own rhythm, at home… When the parties and social inertia fade away… Energy naturally directs itself where it wants to go—toward studying Human Design. And so, the much-needed void for a projector’s life appeared. A space for nothingness. An opportunity to simply be. And no, this doesn’t automatically open your eyes to things, but it gives you a chance for discovery. Gradually, the knot started to untangle. I kept searching for information and stumbled upon a 90-minute lecture by Ra on projectors. You know, the one that talks about humanity’s soft toys. The one that makes you want to hug yourself and cry. But it’s a good push to finally look at your life.

During a joint trip to the Baltic Sea for three days, I told Ksusha that I didn’t want to go cycling all day but rather lie alone in a hammock. She got very upset, cried, and had a fit. It was so uncomfortable that I ended up going along.

When I lay apart from everyone at a 10-15 person gathering in a park, not initiating any conversation, Ksusha later complained, “What, you’re not going to talk to anyone now?”

But when I started meeting with a mutual friend just for one-on-one conversation…

Soon after, Ksusha said that Human Design was ruining her life.

Well…

My life, meanwhile, was healing. It was a challenging process for both of us.

  • “When we met, you were different…”

You can’t really argue with that. When you’ve been lying to yourself for years without realizing it, your partner’s confusion is understandable.

At some point, I got bold enough to say I wanted to try sleeping alone. I said this to a Manifestor 4/1 with the 37-40 channel and a 6th line in the red sun if you know what I mean :)

How did our relationship survive? How did I survive?

Well, I don’t know how it sounds from the outside, how much blind fanaticism you might see in my story… But from the inside, there was none.

Nobody truly “believes” in Human Design, especially not those who actively study it. I just changed behavioral patterns and observed how I felt as a result. That’s what an experiment is.

I slept one week as usual, in the same bed with Ksusha, and one week in another room. It turned out I felt better alone, so now I almost always sleep this way.

I tried grabbing attention and leading conversations in a group or, on the contrary, remaining silent until asked. I stopped initiating contact with friends. I stopped being proactive at work. It’s funny with work: the less I tried, the better my performance review.

The main thing is that this is a very logical process: each step and its aftertaste can be explained in mechanical terms.

The experiment leads to self-discovery.

It’s impossible not to love your true self.

I haven’t suddenly become someone else on a deep level—no, I’ve just dusted myself off. The fact that Ksusha and I are still together means she was initially drawn to me, not to layers of dust.

Time goes on, the wheel turns, and life becomes more and more interesting.

Technically, we’re still looking for a home, but now I’d say we’re just looking forward.

What else can you do, right?

P.S. Moving to a home office and reducing my work hours by more than half were a real blessing; it’s scary to imagine what would have happened if things had continued as they were…