Afterthoughts

Personal essays & notes — written by Désirée O’Donovan.

[afterthoughts-by-desiree]

Things aren’t what they used to be

As a child, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. My mum worked shifts as a nurse, and my dad studied in Münster during the week. I grew up hearing stories about Berlin after the Second World War: the ruins, the women clearing the rubble, and my grandfather, still a little boy, sneaking out at night to steal potatoes from fields.

One story stuck with me. I can’t even remember now whether it was during the war or after it, but the cats in his neighbourhood disappeared one by one. Even as a child, I knew why.

The stories were told in short, unsentimental sentences. And every time, a cold shiver ran through me—more fascination than fear.

Only later did I begin to understand the trauma underneath it all. My grandmother grew up in an orphanage. My great-grandmother died after she became pregnant. I’m no longer sure whether the child was her husband’s, but I do know she didn’t want it. My grandfather only ever said she would have “ended up in a concentration camp anyway”. Because abortion was illegal back then.

As a teenager, I started to see it all differently: my grandparents’ mealtimes kept like clockwork, the sheer amount of food, the two fridges packed to the brim. It would never occur to me to blame them for the stomach aches on my way back to my mother’s—or for the time I even threw up on the S-Bahn. My relationship with food wasn’t healthy. Neither was theirs. But I understand why.

And Still, Things Aren’t What They Used to Be

My grandparents, by most measures, were doing well in the 1990s. My grandfather was a postman, my grandmother a cleaner. And yet, then and now—my grandfather is 91—they’ve had a pension that stretches to everything: good food, a four-room flat in an old Berlin building in Charlottenburg, and monthly pocket money for the grandchildren, however old we are now, however grown-up we’ve become.

And despite all that, I heard this one sentence from them again and again: Things aren’t what they used to be. Whenever the local news gave them an opening, it turned into: Berlin’s gone to the dogs.

For most of my life, I filed it away as background noise. Something older people said. A sentence that floated in the air like a habit, and one that even now doesn’t really hold up. At least not in all the small, everyday ways people use it.

One day I was in the kitchen doing the washing-up. For a moment, I felt not entirely unlike my grandmother. The news played in the background through Alexa (because of course it did). And suddenly the thought arrived, loud and undeniable: Things aren’t what they used to be.

At first I didn’t take it seriously. I nearly laughed. I thought of my grandparents and shrugged it off as one of those sentences you pick up somewhere along the way, without ever choosing it.

Except it didn’t go away. Over the next few weeks it kept coming back, quietly irritating, like a song you don’t even like but can’t stop hearing.

And then January 2026 arrived. Trump talking about annexing Greenland. 2025 landing, once again, among the three warmest years since records began. More and more copywriters telling me they’re being replaced by AI. And suddenly that old sentence wasn’t background noise any more. It was right there, in the middle of my day.

Everything feels less solid than it used to. Alliances feel thinner. The things you assumed would hold, don’t. You start to notice how quickly the world can change its mind.

And suddenly that old sentence wasn’t background noise any more. Not nostalgia. Not sentimentality. Just a blunt reaction to the sense that something is breaking.

When the world shifts

The world and the systems I’ve known all my life are changing. They always have, of course. But much of it happens so quietly, so slowly, that you barely notice it while it’s happening. Often, it’s only from one generation to the next that the difference becomes clear.

So I wonder if this is what my grandparents felt too. What every generation feels, sooner or later. You make your peace with the world you know, even with the parts of it that hurt. Because at least it’s familiar. The new version isn’t.

We don’t know what’s coming next. And as you get older, you start to see how different the future will be from the one you were raised to expect.

Maybe that’s where Things aren’t what they used to be really comes from. Not as a longing for the past, but as a response to the unexpected—the moment you realise that the world isn’t unfolding the way you were told it would.

The world you learn to live in

Up until our mid-twenties, most of us are just trying to work out how to exist. We learn the rules. We learn the roles. We learn what to say, what not to say, and how to behave in a way that makes us likeable. We learn what counts as “normal”.

And then, later on, you realise something slightly uncomfortable: none of it is necessarily wrong. It’s just that it doesn’t always take you any closer to yourself.

For a lot of people, it takes years to build enough confidence to start unlearning the parts they only picked up to fit in.

Maybe that’s why midlife reinvention is so common. People go back to university. They switch careers. They move. They leave. They begin again. Not because they’ve lost their way, but because they’re finally willing to take themselves seriously.

What remains

So I wonder if Things aren’t what they used to be can mean something else when it shows up.

Not a judgement on the past, but a moment of realisation: I can’t rely on the things I thought would hold.

Every generation probably ends up saying it. Not because the past was perfect, but because you get used to a certain world. And then you realise how easily it can vanish.

And if that’s true, then maybe ageing really is this strange double thing. The outside world gets messier. Less predictable. Harder to read. And inside, you become a little clearer. Not happier. Not safer. Just more familiar with yourself.

Maybe that’s the comfort. Not that the world stays stable, but that you learn to be a little more stable within yourself.

[afterthoughts-by-desiree]

Früher war alles besser

Als Kind verbrachte ich viel Zeit bei meinen Großeltern. Meine Mutter arbeitete im Schichtdienst als Krankenschwester und mein Vater studierte unter der Woche in Münster. Ich wuchs auf mit Geschichten über das nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg zerstörte Berlin, Trümmerfrauen und darüber, wie mein Großvater als kleiner Junge nachts auf Feldern Kartoffeln klauen ging. Eine Geschichte ist mir besonders hängen geblieben. Ich weiß nicht einmal mehr genau, ob es Krieg oder Nachkriegszeit war: Nach und nach verschwanden die Katzen aus der Nachbarschaft. Ich verstand als Kind sofort, warum.

Diese Geschichten wurden in kurzen und ungeschminkten Sätzen vorgetragen. Und jedes Mal überfiel mich ein ferner Schauer, der mich allerdings mehr beeindruckte, als dass er mich wahrhaft verängstigt hätte.

Erst später begriff ich den Horror und das Trauma. Meine Großmutter war im Waisenhaus aufgewachsen. Meine Urgroßmutter starb, nachdem sie schwanger geworden war. Ob das Kind unehelich war, weiß ich nicht mehr sicher. Aber ich weiß, dass sie dieses Kind nicht wollte. Mein Großvater sagte nur, sie wäre „sonst ohnehin im KZ gelandet“, weil Abtreibung damals verboten war.

Als Teenager begann ich, die religiös eingehaltenen Essenszeiten meiner Großeltern, die Unmengen an Essen und die zwei stets bis zum Anschlag gefüllten Kühlschränke mit anderen Augen zu sehen. Niemals würde es mir in den Sinn kommen, den Umstand, dass mich auf dem Weg zurück zu meiner Mutter regelmäßig Bauchschmerzen plagten und ich mich sogar einmal mitten in der S-Bahn übergeben musste, meinen Großeltern böse zu nehmen. Mein Umgang mit Essen war nicht gesund, ebenso wenig wie es der meiner Großeltern gewesen wäre. Ich kann sie verstehen.

Und trotzdem: „Früher war alles besser.“

Zusammengefasst aber ging es meinen Großeltern in den 90er-Jahren richtig gut. Mein Großvater hatte als Postbote gearbeitet, meine Großmutter als Putzkraft. Trotzdem haben sie damals wie heute – mein Großvater ist jetzt 91 Jahre alt – eine Rente, die für alles reicht: Essen, so viel sie mögen, eine 4-Zimmer-Altbauwohnung zur Miete in Berlin-Charlottenburg, monatliches Taschengeld für die Enkelkinder, egal wie alt oder erfolgreich diese sein mögen.

Und trotz allem hörte ich bei meinen Großeltern regelmäßig diesen einen Satz: Früher war alles besser. Und wenn gepromptet durch lokale Nachrichten, flexibel austauschbar mit: Berlin geht vor die Hunde.

Die längste Zeit meines Lebens stufte ich diesen Satz als vergreiste Wahrnehmung ein. Er war nur aus den Mündern älterer Generationen zu hören und ist noch heute in so vielen Bereichen einfach faktisch falsch.

Aber dann kam der Tag, an dem ich meiner Großmutter nicht ganz unähnlich in der Küche beim Abwaschen stand, Nachrichten im Radio (unserer Zeit entsprechend über Alexa) hörte, und sich plötzlich dieser Gedanke, wie aus der Ferne, unüberhörbar laut in mir formte: Früher war alles besser.

Erst dachte ich mir nichts weiter dabei. Fast musste ich ein wenig über mich selbst lachen, dachte an meine Großeltern und tat ihn als abgespeicherte Floskel ab, an die sich meine Gehirnwindungen soeben erinnert hatten.

Im Laufe der nächsten Wochen tauchte diese Floskel unangenehmerweise allerdings immer wieder in meinen Gedanken auf.

Speziell im Januar 2026, da Trump Grönland annektieren will, 2025 erneut zu den drei wärmsten Jahren seit Beginn der Temperaturaufzeichnungen gehörte, und ich von immer mehr Texter:innen höre, dass sie durch KI ersetzt werden, wird sie plötzlich laut.

Bündnisse wirken fragiler, Gewissheiten wackeln, und ich merke, wie schnell Dinge kippen können. Ja, ich gebe es zu, ich sehne mich nach Stabilität zurück.

Und auf einmal war dieser Satz nicht mehr nur eine Floskel. Er war eine Reaktion auf eine Welt, die sich spürbar verschiebt.

Wenn sich die Welt verschiebt

Die Welt und unsere gesellschaftlichen und politischen Systeme, so wie ich sie kennengelernt habe, sind im Wandel. Und auch wenn sie das schon immer waren, geschieht Wandel in vielen Fällen doch beinahe unmerklich langsam. So langsam, dass sich Veränderung häufig erst von einer Generation zur nächsten deutlich festmachen lässt.

Erlebe ich jetzt also, was meine Großeltern und so viele Generationen vor mir erlebt haben? Die Vergangenheit mit all ihren guten und schlechten Zügen ist das, womit wir gelernt haben, umzugehen. Selbst wenn sie schlimm war: Sie war vertraut. Das Neue ist es nicht.

Was in der Zukunft liegt, wissen wir nicht. Und je älter wir werden, desto mehr verstehen wir, wie sehr sie sich von dem unterscheiden wird, was wir kennen.

Vielleicht ist „Früher war alles besser“ genau das: keine Sehnsucht nach früher, sondern eine Reaktion auf das Unerwartete. Der Moment, in dem man merkt, dass die Welt nicht so weitergeht, wie man dachte.

Eine bestimmte Version der Welt

Bis Mitte 20 sind die meisten von uns damit beschäftigt, sich in dieser Welt zurechtzufinden. Wir lernen Regeln, Rollen und wie man sich verhalten muss, um gemocht zu werden. Wir lernen, was „normal“ ist.

Später stellt sich heraus: Vieles davon ist nicht falsch, führt aber auch nicht unbedingt zu einem selbst zurück. Viele von uns brauchen Jahre, um genug Selbstvertrauen zu sammeln, um sich von erlernten Regel- und Rollenvorstellungen zu lösen.

Ist das nicht schließlich auch der Grund, warum sich so viele Menschen in der Lebensmitte neu erfinden? Warum sie plötzlich noch mal studieren, sich beruflich komplett umorientieren, umziehen, sich trennen, neu anfangen. Diese Menschen haben sich nicht verlaufen, sondern trauen sich zum ersten Mal, dorthin zu gehen, wohin sie schon immer wollten.

Was bleibt

Ich frage mich also, ob man diesen Satz „Früher war alles besser“ nicht auch anders lesen kann, sobald er auftaucht.

Nicht als Urteil über die Vergangenheit, sondern als Moment, in dem ich merke: Ich kann mich nicht mehr auf das verlassen, worauf ich mich verlassen wollte.

Dieser Satz passiert vermutlich jeder Generation. Weniger als Urteil über die Vergangenheit, sondern mehr als Hinweis darauf, wie sehr man sich an eine bestimmte Welt gewöhnt hat. Und wie schnell sie verschwinden kann.

Und dann ist das Älterwerden vielleicht genau diese Doppelbewegung: Draußen wird alles unübersichtlicher, drinnen wird man langsam klarer. Nicht glücklicher. Nicht sicherer. Aber vertrauter mit sich selbst.

Das ist der Trost daran. Nicht, dass die Welt stabil bleibt. Sondern dass man es irgendwann schafft, es selbst ein bisschen zu sein.

[afterthoughts-by-desiree]

Looking Forward to 2026: On Wuthering Heights, Desire, and the Things We Refuse to See

The turn of the year has a way of sharpening our attention. It invites reflection, but also anticipation—a quiet sense of possibility. Rather than erasing the past, many of us use this moment to gently realign with what lies ahead. We pause. We meditate. We journal. We assemble vision boards and set intentions with earnest optimism and a renewed openness to change.

Part of that moment of reflection often brings up a simple question: What are you looking forward to?

My answer arrived without hesitation. I am looking forward to the new Wuthering Heights film, due out on Valentine’s Day 2026. The film looks excessive, stylised, and unapologetically emotional. 

I stumbled across the trailer a few weeks ago. This wasn’t just another literary adaptation: the mood, the cast, and the fact that Charli XCX would be contributing to the soundtrack all pointed toward a pop-cultural event. The film looks hot. My first reaction was simple: Yes, I’ll watch that.

Then I made the mistake—or perhaps the inevitability—of reading the comments.

Who Gets to Decide What a Classic Is

Once the algorithm has decided you are interested in something, it is relentless. I found myself surrounded by videos and posts from people who approached literary classics with near-religious seriousness. Before the film had even been released, the verdict was already in. The adaptation, they warned, would be a travesty: a typical Hollywood mistake, a sexualisation of a great novel. Wuthering Heights, they insisted, is a story of generational trauma, societal violence, and many other things, but not sex.

Yes, the novel is about trauma, cruelty, and the ways violence reproduces itself across generations. What unsettled me, however, was not their devotion to the original. It was the sense that literature must be defended down to its bones, rather than allowed to live on. Stories endure not because they are preserved unchanged, but because they are reinterpreted, repurposed, and felt anew. Each generation keeps them alive by doing something with them.

And then came the word that has stayed with me ever since.

On “Cerebral” Love

The relationship between Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, one young man announced solemnly, is cerebral.

Cerebral.

The word lodged itself firmly in my mind. Not because it was especially precise, but because it felt so familiar—the kind of language I remember from years at university, when students reached for elaborate terms in an effort to impress tutors rather than to clarify meaning. It made me wonder what that kind of phrasing does to conversations about literature. Whether it opens them up, or quietly shuts them down.

A cerebral love? What, exactly, does that look like? And what kind of reading leads someone to reach for such a term?

So I did the obvious thing. I admit, I read Wuthering Heights for the first time.

What Adaptations Are Actually For

Like many people, I assumed I knew the story before I had ever read it. Wuthering Heights had reached me in fragments through adaptations, literary references, and Kate Bush’s haunting song—until it felt complete enough. Reading the novel itself made me realise how little I actually understood.

Yes, the trailer suggests that the film may take liberties with the source material. That much seems clear. But some of the criticism feels less like a concern with staying close to the original and more like a fundamental misunderstanding of what this adaptation is trying to do. That judgment is, of course, based solely on the trailer.

Take the casting, for instance. Much of the outrage centres on the idea that Heathcliff has been miscast: too white, too polished, too far removed from the novel’s descriptions. And while questions of representation matter, the trailer itself makes something else equally obvious: this film is not aiming for historical exactness. Its priorities lie in mood, image, and style rather than literal transcription.

Judging the film by how closely it follows the book misses the point from the outset. Adaptations like this are not acts of replacement; they are acts of re-engagement. And that, perhaps, is what makes the intensity of the backlash feel so strange. Wuthering Heights has been adapted countless times before, often without provoking anything close to this level of alarm.

If anything, there is something quietly hopeful about the current uproar. A film like this—precisely because it is unapologetically stylised—is likely to send a new generation of readers back to the novel itself. It certainly did so for me. To dismiss that possibility in the name of preservation feels less like protecting literature than misunderstanding how it continues to matter.

Intensity, Not Innocence

Then there is the claim that the novel contains no sensuality. The trailer, by contrast, foregrounds nothing but sensuality. This is where the confidence of certain literary gatekeepers becomes particularly baffling.

Catherine famously declares: “My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being,”

How this is interpreted as purely cerebral, I struggle to understand. The language is physical, existential, consuming. It loses any clear boundary between self and other. It is not safe.

Narrators as Moral Gatekeepers

What struck me most while reading, though, was how the novel itself handles this love. It refuses to validate it in any simple way, and I came to understand that this refusal is deliberate. Writing well ahead of her time, Emily Brontë filters the love between Catherine and Heathcliff through two narrators whose thinking is rigid, cautious, and deeply conventional. Within the narrow moral frameworks of their world, the love is repeatedly explained away, diminished, framed as excess or madness rather than intensity.

That choice is precisely what makes the novel feel so modern—and why it was so widely misunderstood at the time of its publication. The outrage and confusion it provoked echoed the narrators’ own responses: a deep discomfort with emotional extremity, and an impulse to moralise, pathologise, or contain what could not be easily explained.

By confining the story to these limited perspectives, Brontë exposes the gap between lived emotional reality and the social language available to describe it. Reading the book felt like picking at a wound: unpleasant, obsessive, impossible to stop.

What Attracts and Repels Us

In that sense, Wuthering Heights feels less like a relic of the nineteenth century and more like a text that continues to expose the limits of our social imagination. We still move through the world within narrow frameworks of what is considered acceptable or sane. Intensity remains something to be explained away, disciplined, or contained.

At the same time, it is striking what continues to capture our attention. The novel does offer a different kind of love in its final movement: the quieter, reparative relationship between Cathy and Hareton. But this is rarely what adaptations linger on.

What returns, again and again, is the darker, more destructive bond between Catherine and Heathcliff. Not because it represents something we would want to live out, but because it speaks to a fantasy of intensity that resists order, health, and resolution. That this is the love most often brought to the screen says as much about us as it does about the novel itself.

After all, the film’s very title appears in quotation marks, as if underlining the obvious: this is an adaptation. Not a museum piece. Not an act of reverence. The trailer suggests an emphasis on image, mood, and style over historical fidelity. Heathcliff may be too white. Catherine too old. The costumes inaccurate. The moors aestheticised.

I may be disappointed after watching it. What I would most like to see on screen is the madness, the decay, the moral rot—the idea that immense love can, under the wrong conditions, give rise to immense cruelty. But even if the film chooses a different path, it will have done something worthwhile simply by reopening the conversation.

Even so, I suspect the Charli XCX soundtrack might still offer something closer to that intensity.

So yes, as this new year unfolds, I remain oddly certain of my answer. Of all the things to anticipate, I am looking forward to seeing “Wuthering Heights”. Now more than ever.