You’re in a meeting. A big, bold, slightly terrifying opportunity lands on the table. You’re not fully prepared. Your team’s maxed out. Your to-do list? A crime scene. And your gut? Screaming maybe.
Leadership has long been entwined with traditional masculine norms. The ideal leader is often seen as decisive, strong, in control, and emotionally stoic – traits stereotypically coded as male. In fact, classic research found people implicitly associate leadership with being male («think manager, think male»). Many organizations still operate like a «masculinity contest» culture. Some core unwritten rules of this old-school masculine code include:
In three weeks, Germany will vote. When I decide where to place my vote, one thing matters most: Which party represents a vision of society that acknowledges a fundamental truth—who we become is largely shaped by circumstances beyond our control. Our intelligence, resilience, and talents may feel personal, but they are, to a significant extent, the result of factors we never chose: our genetics, the quality of our education, the financial security of our parents, the country we were born in. Even our ability to work hard and persevere is shaped by early childhood experiences and social conditioning.
Skin cancer is an underrated but life-threatening danger that can hit anyone—no matter your age, gender, or skin color. As someone at risk, I’m especially committed to raising awareness about this disease. That’s why I’ve been supporting the «Spot the Dot» initiative for a while now. It shines a light on skin cancer through events, collaborations, or exhibitions. I recently talked with Marije, the founder of Spot the Dot, about her personal experience with skin cancer, the challenges she faced starting the initiative, cultural differences in how skin cancer is perceived, and the creative ways she’s bringing attention to the issue. Our conversation highlights just how crucial it is to take skin cancer seriously and how we can all play a part in prevention.
For twenty years, my identity was intertwined with my profession as a journalist—a career that, by its very nature, thrusts you into the spotlight. I embraced this public role wholeheartedly, not just as an individual or a journalist, but as what we called a personal brand. This approach felt not only natural but necessary. Yet, over time, a growing realization dawned on me: perhaps I wasn’t as professional in my journalistic role as I had believed.