louderthanheels

[louderthanheels]

Too Much Silence — Detox or the Start of the Apocalypse?

My friend recently told me how, after cutting off the internet, she could finally "rediscover her hobbies." Imagine this: she sits, relaxes, and dives into real life – painting, reading books, going for walks. And me? I’m preparing for a detox, where I pretend to turn off my phone for a few hours, but after half a minute, I’m back at the keyboard, searching for what's new in the world of boots I could buy.

Silence. Supposedly, this is the miracle that’s supposed to set us free. After an hour without the internet, you realize that the only sound you hear is your heart pounding in panic, knowing you’ve completely lost touch with the real world. At that moment, it hits you: for someone like me – an IT girl, living in the real world with big part of an online space – a break from the internet feels like total identity loss.

What else am I supposed to do if not check out new posts on Instagram, see what's trending in fashion, or keep up with the world? What if a fallout just begun? Instead of walking in a forest or painting, I grab my phone and hope to become the next hero of the online world. I mean, I need to see what's happening, or I’ll completely fall out of the game. And then that little voice says: "What if you’re really just addicted to all those notifications?"

No, I'm not. I've had notifications turned off for years because I decide what I want to watch online at that moment. Not some application that needs to remind me. But..

After a few more minutes of agony in silence, I make a decision. Since I’ve got this moment of peace, why not use it to find new meaning in life? Sure, I can't imagine life without Instagram, but what if I just accepted this moment? When you disconnect, you realize that silence isn’t quite what you’d put on your "things to wish for" list. After all, like my friend said, it’s way better to have a few hours of peace than see unread messages piling up in your inbox. But who among us would voluntarily choose peace when the online world is our main hobby?

So, in conclusion: who needs silence when you can have a proper dose of virtual chaos? Silence is for people with nothing to do. For us? The internet is our never-ending hobby!

[louderthanheels]

Bullet or Word?

Lately, it seems like everyone is advocating that we should all know how to handle a firearm. I understand that some see it as a matter of safety or personal freedom, but I can’t help feeling uneasy about the idea. As a pacifist, I believe we should focus on mastering a completely different “weapon” – our own language. Being able to express what we feel, what we think, and to communicate effectively with others would solve far more conflicts than any bullet ever could.

How many times do you see arguments, disputes, or even bigger conflicts arise simply because people couldn’t express themselves properly? Because they didn’t say what they truly meant, or they misunderstood each other? It doesn’t take much – just the ability to write a meaningful sentence that clearly and calmly conveys our thoughts. If we all mastered our native language as eagerly as some aim to master a pistol, how many problems could be solved before they even began?

Words can be far more powerful than any weapon. Unlike a bullet, they have the potential not only to strike but also to heal. Weapons divide us, creating fear and the constant need for defense. Language unites us, giving us the chance to understand each other and find common ground. It may not sound as "cool" or action-packed as firearm training, but it’s much more practical and infinitely safer in the long run.

Wherever we are, whatever we’re going through, the key to a better world isn’t more weapons. It’s more understanding, more communication, and more willingness to use language as a bridge, not a barrier. The choice is simple – do you want to live in a culture of fear or a culture of words?

[louderthanheels]

New Year, New Me? Oh, Please!

New Year’s Eve. That famous night when we all pretend we actually enjoy champagne, that glitter isn’t pure hell when you’re still finding it in your bed in February, and that our makeup will last all night until morning – even though we all know what it really looks like five minutes past midnight. And then it happens – the moment when the world splits into two groups. One sets resolutions, planning to finally “improve their lives,” and the other… well, they’ve already given up and are ordering a second pizza. Guess which one I belong to?

When I was younger, the idea of “New Year, New Me” fascinated me. I even believed it! I’d write a list of resolutions that read like the perfect daughter’s Christmas wish list: Lose weight. Start running. Stop buying new shoes every month. Quit eating chips at midnight. Or the really absurd ones: Stop eating chocolate. And every time, it ended the same way – my running shoes got as much action as the Christmas tree in the attic, while I sipped prosecco, asking myself, “Why the hell did I want to run when taxis exist?”

This year, I’m over it. No “New Me.” Because you know what? I’m already good enough. Sure, I sometimes forget the names of people I’ve just met, my closet occasionally looks like it’s been hit by a tornado, and my hair has more “bad hair days” than not, but why should I wait for a new year to change any of that? If I want to improve something, I’ll just do it. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Or… well, probably never.

Resolutions are just a trap to ruin your mood right at the start of the year. They’re designed to make you feel like a failure when you don’t follow through. But the truth is, it’s not me who failed – it’s the whole concept. Life isn’t about perfect plans – it’s about surviving Mondays without breaking down, making it through Friday night in heels, and finding a lipstick that actually lasts the whole party. And trust me, none of these are found in resolutions.

Instead, I’ve got something better: wishes. Not a list, not a plan. Just something that makes me happy and helps me enjoy the next year. Last year, my wish was “enjoy every day.” Sometimes, that meant turning off my alarm and sleeping until noon. Other times, it meant ordering chicken noodles from the local bistro instead of cooking. Or ignoring that pile of clothes on the chair. After all, chairs are supposed to be multifunctional, right?

The New Year should be a celebration of who we are, not who we think we should become. So this year? No “New Me” – because the old one’s pretty great. No “I’ll run a marathon” or “I’ll eat only organic.” My wish will be simple. Maybe “wear more red lipstick” or “drink more coffee.” Something realistic, something that actually brings me joy. Because if New Year’s Eve has taught me anything, it’s that life isn’t about perfection – it’s about surviving another day with a bit of humor, a touch of elegance, and a glass of prosecco on the table.

So if you’re setting resolutions this year, go for it. But I’ll be popping open some champagne and raising a glass to you. And if you ask me what my resolution is, I’ll tell you honestly: “To survive. But make it stylish.”

[louderthanheels]

From Carp In a Bathtub

When you think of Christmas, most people imagine piles of cookies, presents under the tree, and maybe some awkward family moments at dinner. But if you’re from the Czech Republic, your idea of Christmas is quite different. Here, Christmas isn’t complete without fried carp—a fish most of us adopt a week before the holiday and keep swimming in our bathtub. Yes, the very same bathtub where you shower. If you’ve just lost your appetite, hold on—it gets better.

As a kid, we used to call him “Carp Josef.” Because let’s be honest, you can’t just ignore a carp in the tub. Over the week, you bond with him—it’s almost like he’s a pet. I used to feed him bread crumbs, tell him about school, and dream about one day setting him free in a pond. But then Grandpa would come in with a mallet, and that dream would shatter faster than the first snowflake of the season. Carp Josef would end up in a pan, crispy and golden, served alongside a heap of potato salad.

And because it was Christmas, we would sit down to dinner in our best formal outfits. Never mind that we ate on the couch in the living room, with the sounds of old Czech fairy tale movies featuring kings and peasants playing in the background. Food on our laps, mayonnaise on our sleeves—that’s Czech Christmas in all its glory.

This year, things are different. I don’t eat carp anymore, and if I had one in my bathtub, it’d only be because I won it in a raffle and didn’t know where else to keep it. My Christmas tree? I pulled it out of the closet, already decorated. It’s seen more Christmases than I have, and some of its branches look like Carp Josef might have nibbled on them from the afterlife, but it’s still holding together. Instead of carp, I ordered Peking duck from a Chinese bistro. Crispy, fatty, with a touch of soy sauce.

And you know what? No childhood trauma, no memories of Carp Josef, no mayonnaise on the couch. Just me, Peking duck, and a movie from one of the streaming services. I picked out the movie a few days ago so I wouldn’t waste Christmas Eve scrolling through endless options. It’s a freedom I couldn’t have imagined as a child. And honestly? It still feels like Christmas—maybe even more so than ever before.

So, if your family tries to push carp and potato salad on you this year, be brave. Order whatever you want. Make Christmas your own. And if someone accuses you of breaking tradition, just smile. Traditions are meant to evolve—and trust me, the carp will forgive you. Probably.

[louderthanheels]

The Christmas Party Killer

I always thought Christmas parties were an opportunity to shine. At least on Instagram. In practice, it often looks different. It's a mix of tacky sweaters, too much prosecco, and conversations you'd rather hear with one ear and let out the other. And when you bring a red satin dress to the party, you have to be prepared for someone to feel the need to comment, "A trans girl with that figure should choose black." Thanks for the advice, Karl. What's your opinion on the dress code for cis-men with beer bellies?

I admit, Christmas parties are a strange form of social torture. On the one hand, I want to be the center of attention – it's my little guilty pleasure. On the other hand, it stresses me out that every turn on my heels can cause a cascade of looks that say: Is it her, or isn't it?

At the buffet, the tension rises. If I take one canapé, someone's look suggests: Aha, she's on a diet. But if I load up more than two sandwiches, a comment like: "Well, it's Christmas, right? Everyone gains weight!" Next time, I might just bring a protein shake and escape the social trap.

The moment I realized Christmas parties weren't for me came when I was standing at the buffet, balancing a plate. Anna, our company's expert on unsolicited opinions, rushed over: "I really admire you, you know?"

Slightly stiff, I nodded, waiting for the next pearl.

"I would never wear the dress you're wearing, but you're so... authentic."

Authentic. I suspect that in her vocabulary, it means too bold to be comfortable. But instead of responding, I just turned on my heel with a smile and left her standing there. Did she deserve it? Maybe. But at that moment, I promised myself that no other Christmas party would have a chance to ruin my mood.

Since then, I've stuck to the rule: No parties unless I get to choose the music and the guest list. This year, I spent the evening with Netflix, homemade punch, and the best possible companion – myself.