The Threshold of the Alps
It was late April, and it was my 24th birthday. On paper, it should have been a celebration of a new chapter, but as I drove through Switzerland, I felt like I was reading the final pages of an old one. The highway sliced through deep green valleys, while towering mountains rose on either side toward jagged, snow-capped peaks. Waterfalls cascaded down the cliffs like silver ribbons, catching the brilliant glint of the spring sun. The sky was a spotless, taunting blue, but I was blind to all that beauty.
I was stuck in a massive traffic jam in front of the Gotthard Tunnel, the longest tunnel in Europe, carving a dark path through the heart of the Alps toward the south. The air in the car felt thin, heavy with the weight of five years of shared history. Beside me sat the man I had loved since I was nineteen. We were on our way to a well-deserved holiday at Lake Maggiore in Italy, a trip meant to be a sanctuary. But as the car crawled at a glacial pace toward the tunnel entrance, the silence between us became a wall. The conversation drifted in a direction I had desperately tried to avoid for months. I didn't just want to know the truth anymore; I had to pry it out.
Emerging Into a New Reality
The Gotthard Tunnel is seventeen kilometers of artificial light and gray concrete. It feels like a suspension of time. Inside that darkness, the truth finally broke the surface. My fear of the future—a quiet hum I had ignored for a year—became a loud, undeniable reality. The fire between us had died out, and a new flame for another woman had been lit in his heart.
By the time the sun finally struck the windshield on the other side of the mountain, the world looked different. My face was wet with salt, my eyes stinging from the sudden transition from the dark tunnel to the blinding Italian light. The inevitable had happened: our relationship was over. Even though we kept driving toward our destination, convinced we still "needed" this vacation, the woman who entered Italy was not the same one who had entered the tunnel.
A Ghost Couple by the Shore
Being in that beautiful place together was agonizing. The enchanting blue of Lake Maggiore and the stunning mountain scenery stood in harsh, cruel contrast to the anger, defeat, and despair I felt inside. We spent our days walking through picturesque villages and sitting at lakeside cafes, a ghost couple haunting a beautiful shore. We were going through the motions of a holiday, but we were just two people waiting for the courage to admit it was time to leave.
I remember looking at the water and feeling like my own internal structure had collapsed. My "home" was gone. The apartment we shared, the future we had sketched out, the comfort of knowing who I was "with"—all of it had dissolved in the seventeen kilometers of the Gotthard. Eventually, the irony became unbearable. There was nothing left to do but turn the car around and drive home—back to a daily reality that would never be the same again.
The Envelope
Once back in the Netherlands, the silence of my life felt deafening. But then, I went to the mailbox. Inside was a thick, heavy envelope from the Rotterdam University of the Arts.
For the past year, I had been living a double life. Every Saturday, I had traveled to Rotterdam for the preparatory program—an investment in myself, the best gift I had ever given my soul. I had spent my weekends sketching, measuring, and learning the language of space and light, even as my personal life felt like it was shrinking. Now, I held the response to my application for the full-time Interior Architecture program in my hands.
My fingers trembled as I tore it open. It wasn't just an acceptance letter; it was a blueprint for a life that actually suited me.
The Symbol of the Tunnel
That letter changed the geometry of my world. In a matter of weeks, I left behind the relationship, the shared apartment, and the corporate job that had begun to feel like a cage. I moved my life into a tiny student room—a "casco" space that was entirely mine. I traded the security of a five-year relationship for the uncertainty of a drawing board and a fresh start.
That passage through the Alps, through that dark, suffocating tunnel, became my symbol of rebirth. It was a painful, confronting experience, a forced demolition of the life I thought I wanted. But in hindsight, it was the most beautiful turning point of my life. I had to go through the mountain to find the light on the other side.
The Rebel Lesson: Navigating the Dark
We all face our own "Gotthard Tunnels"—those dark, long passages where the walls feel close and it seems like the light will never return. We fear the tunnel because we cannot see the exit, but the tunnel is the only way to the south.
If you are in the middle of a dark passage right now, don't stop driving. The darkness isn't a dead end; it’s a transition. Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is keep moving until the sun hits your windshield again.
Have you ever had a moment where a painful ending turned out to be the necessary beginning of something beautiful? Is there a "tunnel" in your life right now that you're afraid to enter? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
Craft your own path,
Bertie