It was never just an office. It was never just a job. And it was certainly never just work. My architecture firm was my second home – and sometimes even my first. It was the place where creativity, technology, madness, family and coffee came together. It was a place where people not only worked but also grew. And I was right in the middle of it all.
It all began during my engineering studies. While others were still hesitating between theory and practice, I was already planning my own little realm. Not a classic architecture firm with fixed rules, hierarchies and 9-to-5 offices, but a place of togetherness, freedom and ideas. I wanted to bring freelancers, students, architects, engineers and creative minds together – people who knew that good architecture is more than just a pretty floor plan.
Soon it was more than just an idea. I moved into a large flat in an old building in Berlin – beautiful, bright, with parquet floors, stucco ceilings and a smile that penetrated every wall. I set up not only my home but also my office there. The boundaries blurred from the outset. The kitchen was a meeting room, the living room became a thinking room and the children sat on the floor between models and plans, naturally drawing with felt-tip pens on architect paper or making ‘their own house’ out of cardboard.
It was chaotic. And it was perfect.
We worked on everything – from tiny single-family homes and Berlin loft projects to huge international industrial buildings. There were days when we discussed static calculations with major investors in the morning and in the afternoon sat across from a young couple who finally wanted to fulfil their dream of owning their own home – and had exactly 136,000 euros available, no more.
And that was exactly what I loved. This range. This life between two worlds. It wasn't just architecture – it was a way of life.
My daughters were right in the middle of it. When they came into the office – noisy, laughing, full of questions – they would call out ‘Hello!’ through all the rooms, grab pencils, sit down with the employees, build miniature houses or help with the static calculations. They knew what a U-value was before they had percentage calculation in school. And they knew that you learn best when you're right in the middle of it.
Sometimes they sat next to me when I was talking to customers and asked in all seriousness: ‘Why does the house have to look like that?’ Or they scribbled a different roof shape on the plans – and sometimes it was even better than ours. Their presence changed the atmosphere. They made the office softer, more human, more genuine. And I knew: that's exactly why I founded it.
The interns who started with us were often shy, reserved, cautious. Some asked during the first week if they were even allowed to contribute. Three weeks later, they were bravely presenting their ideas, participating in discussions, disagreeing – and growing beyond themselves. It was a pleasure to watch them. Not because they ‘worked’, but because they dared to do so.
Some of these young talents later became self-employed, set up their own offices, became lecturers or went abroad. And many of them wrote to me years later: ‘Without you, I couldn't have made it.’ Yet I had only done one thing: I had given them space. And trust. Two things that are often missing in professional life.
I remember one applicant who blushed during the interview because she didn't have a ‘portfolio’ – just a folder with drawings. I looked inside, smiled and said, ‘Then we'll start tomorrow.’ Today she works for an international architecture magazine. And I'm proud of that, even though I no longer have anything to do with it.
Of course, not everything was sunshine and roses. There were nights when we worked all night long. Projects that suddenly fell through. Customers who tore up our plans just because they had seen something different on Pinterest. There were authorities that drove us crazy, construction costs that exploded, employees who cried. And me – there were days when I just wanted to run away. But I stayed.
Because it was my life. Not just my job. I didn't have an ‘office,’ I had a universe. And I was damn happy in it.
One day, a mother friend approached me and asked, ‘Tell me, do you ever actually have time off?’ I laughed and said, ‘Only when I want to.’ And that was true. I never felt like I was missing out. My life was made up of so many interlocking elements: family, career, creativity, responsibility – all in the same place.
And sometimes, late at night, when everyone had gone home, the lights were out, the window was open, the paper was rustling and the smell of wood and coffee was in the air, I sat there – alone – and thought: this... this is exactly the life I wanted to lead.
Maybe that's what remains when everything else blurs: that I have created spaces. Not only made of concrete, steel and glass, but also made of trust, enthusiasm and the idea that people can rise above themselves. And that I was right in the middle of it. Not only as an architect, but also as the host of an adventure called Workday.