Cakes, Boundaries & The Lesson of Trust

Kreuzlingen Youth Hostel—my first youth hostel stay since my school days. Instead of plain buildings in the middle of nowhere, I stand in front of an old villa in a lakeside park by Lake Constance. Cows pass by, and the scent of a nearby animal pen perfumes the air. It’s a beautiful, affordable alternative to Constance, which is less than a twenty-minute walk away. The villa impresses with its dark wooden ceilings, and over breakfast in the conservatory, I enjoy the view of the park while sampling every type of Swiss cheese.

To my surprise, the guests aren’t backpackers on Interrail but mostly families and older people. I am the first in the 8-bed dorm and choose a bed off to the side, hoping for a bit more privacy. The single beds are separated only by small headboards, giving the feeling of sharing the bed with a stranger.

In the evening, as I lie in bed, eager for a quiet night of reading, I open the first pages of my book—when a lady in her mid-sixties enters and chooses the bunk connected to mine. I feel the urge to question her choice, but I hesitate. Inevitably, she starts a conversation. I stay reserved, trying to signal that I’m more interested in my book than chatting. But I can't seem to set a boundary, and she takes her space freely.

She tells me she's visiting her son. She was looking forward to a glass of wine but from her experience, hostels are mostly in remote places without bars around. Instead of going for wine hunt, she lies down next to me and opens a bag of chips. I stare at my book, rereading the same line for the third time. She crunches away. More guests arrive. Later that night, loud snoring creeps through my earplugs from the other side of the bed. 

In the morning, the villa's age becomes apparent. The group of women has risen with the sun, eager for their day of cycling. Each step my roommates take shakes my bed. I curse my decision to stay in a dorm room, as charming as the youth hostel may be.

I spend the day in Constance. It's a beautiful city, but I can't seem to appreciate it fully—either because of my emotional low or because, after all the travels we’ve done out of necessity over the past year, new places no longer excite me as they once did. Instead, I long for a home. When we traveled together through England, Lucas’s homeland, I felt like I was in a fairytale. I marveled at the coziness of the sandstone houses and the kindness of the people. I hoped that once our businesses were finally up and running, we would move to England. While we were there, he often said that he had discovered a new England with me, and the idea of being home again, in a familiar place, appealed to him. We looked at houses and dreamed of a life in the UK. In the final days of our relationship, the topic came up again. This time, he scolded me: He had never said he wanted to move back to England. He would hate it and what made me think I could make that decision unilaterally? 

I decide to not force myself through sightseeing but spend the rest of the day in cafés writing. Unlike the architecture, the sight of cakes excites me most. In the past, when I couldn’t decide between two desserts, I’d simply get both. My friends used to laugh about it, and I lovingly accepted that side of me. But when Lucas came into my life, he was shocked. Certainly, if one is focused on their weight, reducing cellulite, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle, this trait isn’t ideal. But through Lucas' comments, I learned to feel ashamed of this side of myself, and so I stopped.

One of my new goals is to let go of the guilt and embrace the occasional indulgence. Today, no one will judge me. Today, I will only eat cake. But with every order, I hear Lucas’ words in my head, shaking his head beside me—the one who ran to McDonald’s every time he felt bad. In the years with him, I ate more McDonald’s than I ever had in my entire life.

My first stop is Milk&Honey. I order a Vietnamese coffee - yes, the one with condensed milk, and a lemon cheesecake. Oh heavens, this cake is so fluffy that it melts on my tongue. Within seconds, my plate is empty. I resist ordering a second one, though the counter offers many more interesting cake variations. However, I plan to eat my way through the city. So I move on. 

I end up at Café Helga. Besides cakes, Helga offers many vegan dishes. Everything on the menu sounds great. I decide to switch to something savory. I treat myself to dinner with Sucuk, peppers, and cheddar. It’s served with a cocktail sauce and tastes fantastic. After neutralizing the sweet with the savory, I switch it up. I order a juicy walnut - whiskey cake and, for my vitamin intake, a Green Lantern juice made with celery, apple, cucumber, lime, and ginger. I’m careful when it comes to my health.

The next day, I visit my friend Kerstin and her pony, which she lets me groom. As I use the curry glove to smooth out the fluffy winter coat and massage it, I feel my muscles relax. We walk through the forest together, and only halfway through the path do I dare to get on the pony. Fear rises within me, my heart pounds against my chest. I already imagine being thrown off in a high arc. Without basic trust, it’s hard to rely on anyone and this creature mirrors my fear. Tears well up. Kerstin notices. She turns quiet and lets the moment simply unfold.  

I take a deep breath, trying to face the fear and relax.

“You can trust her, she won’t hurt you,” Kerstin suddenly says, and now I can no longer hold back my tears.

I think of Lucas and all the times he deliberately caused me pain. How can I trust anyone again or let them close after such an experience? If I ever have a partner again, even the slightest raised voice will set off alarm bells, because I no longer believe people can be different from Lucas.

How will I ever be physically close to someone again, after living with Lucas in total openness and devotion, something I’d never known? No one will measure up to him. The excitement, the adventures we shared – nothing will ever feel as intense. These thoughts become unbearable, so I focus on the flickering light between the trees and the movement of the animal beneath me. I try to stay present, communicating with her, as I may one day again. Slowly, my pain dissolves, and we walk the rest of the way in silence.

I remember a day when I stopped and looked at my life from the outside. I thought I’d never escape the spiral I was in. Today, I’m free again, with the life I missed while with him. I wonder, though, if it’s truly better? Not in the sense of longing for the opposite, but if it’s as fulfilling as I once thought. Yes, I’m free, and I enjoy making decisions on my own – where I go, whom I meet, what I eat. It sounds trivial, but it was impossible the past two years. Maybe that’s the compromise of a 'normal' relationship? If it is, then being alone is a gift. Why does it still feel empty? With him, I found meaning. A sense of direction. Now, I’ve traded freedom for purpose. No, I don't yearn for the return of our relationship. Not for the constant need to react, fetching his coffee, or the tension before speaking, afraid of verbal blows. Not for hiding my thoughts and feelings to avoid judgment. But without him, I feel lost. 

When we return to the barn, Kerstin turns to me. “On horseback, we surrender, and emotions rise because we are held," she says. "As adults, we are no longer cradled, unable to feel the weight of the world lift, even for a moment. That’s the gift of horses. In that instant, you place everything in the hands of the strong creature and allow yourself to release."  

I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful for this experience.