Enduring Friendship

For over 19 years, Kasper Nymand has been more than just a friend — he’s my topbud. It’s not a widely known term, but it perfectly captures our bond.

Kasper’s mind is nothing short of extraordinary — always hungry to learn, explore, and challenge ideas. His curiosity knows no bounds, and his insights never fail to inspire me. Through him, I’ve gained a deeper appreciation for Danish culture, from the comforting embrace of hygge — that cosy, contented sense of togetherness — to the strong values of social fairness that shape life in Denmark.

One of our long-standing fascinations has been the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (as flawed as it may be). Several years ago, we both took the assessment — I was identified as an INTJ (with a notably developed Introverted Feeling), while he was classified as an INFJ at the time. It sparked countless conversations about how we perceive the world, how we think, feel, and make decisions. But people evolve, and so did his result. More recently, he tested as an ENFP, which — true to his nature — led to yet another deep dive into the fluidity of personality, personal growth, and whether these labels truly define us.

I’ve always considered him one of my best friends, but if you asked Kasper, he’d refuse to rank his friendships. He values his connections deeply, without weighing one against another. And that’s something I truly admire — his loyalty and care for those in his life are boundless, free from competition.

Despite the miles between us, we’ve always been there for each other. Life has changed, we’ve grown, but our friendship remains as strong as ever. Some connections are built to last a lifetime — and this is undoubtedly one of them.

Here’s to many more years of learning, laughing, and being topbuds!

Comments

The Fallacy of Self‑Sufficiency

Some people will tell you — quite loudly, usually — that they are enough. They need no one, thank you very much. Entirely self‑made. A closed circuit. I, too, fancied myself an island at one time. A small, sturdy principality of one. I paid my own bills. Made my own tea. I even spoke aloud to myself in the supermarket queue, which was meant to prove something. But late at night, when all the heroic independence had been done for the day, there it was — a sort of homesickness without a forwarding address. You know the feeling. You’re supposedly sovereign, but you still wish someone would knock. Self‑sufficiency is a word that weighs a bit too much. It sounds like an insurance policy or a piece of camping equipment. It promises freedom, but only the kind you can fit in a box. Like eating an entire birthday cake alone — which, I confess, I’ve done. Because the truth (and it arrives, as truths tend to, when you’ve just burned your toast) is that we are made of others. We are es...

A Pause Between Heartbeats

Time doesn’t tick. It breathes — unevenly, almost nervously. Sometimes it opens itself like a window you didn’t know was there. And inside that window, someone waits. Not with urgency, not with despair. Just a subtle weight: Will you come? Will you listen? You don’t need to prepare. You don’t need a speech. You only need to stop — to let the world stumble for a moment while you say, Yes, I’m here. That small pause, almost nothing, can be everything. Not everything in the dramatic sense. Everything in the sense of air when it was almost not enough. It’s not about how many minutes. Time has never obeyed clocks. What matters is the shift — leaving the room, the page, the self — to enter someone else’s trembling. Someone asks, not out loud but between words: Can you see me? And if you do — even for a beat — something sacred happens. Not salvation, no. Just a flicker of light that says, You are not alone. And that flicker, believe me, can change a day, a night, sometimes a life....

The Progressive Misreading of Silence

At 5, I entered rooms like a murmur. I was already listening for something behind the noise — something older than voices, softer than footsteps. “He’s such a well-behaved boy,” they said, smiling with relief. But what they mistook for virtue was only quiet intuition. I was not good. I was attuned. At 11, I had mastered the art of presence without weight. I could sit by the window for hours, watching the wind pass through the trees like thought through the body. “He’s quiet,” they would say — gently, but with a trace of discomfort. They couldn’t name the feeling of someone watching without need. At 17, I was called “mature.” But maturity is not a virtue — it is a scar. I had already seen the shape of endings before others saw beginnings. Friends came to me like tide to stone, hoping to be held. I held them, yes — but not always with words. Sometimes silence is the only honest offering. At 24, my stillness no longer charmed. The world asked for brightness, momentum, performa...

The Hyggelig Journey

Search This Blog