The Hyggelig Journey

While my professors extolled the virtues of Foucault, I was absorbed in Lacan. While they dissected Freud’s psyche, I drifted through Jung’s vast, symbolic landscapes. And as they championed revolutionary governments, I quietly envisioned a world shaped not by the fervour of ideological battles but by the delicate equilibrium of sociocracy — where decisions emerged not from dominance, but from the resonance of collective wisdom. It wasn’t rebellion. Not the loud, performative kind. I wasn’t the student who slammed books shut in protest or baited professors into futile debates. No, my resistance was quieter, woven into the pauses between lectures, in the knowing glance exchanged with an unspoken kindred spirit, in the silent refusal to let convention dictate curiosity. I didn’t seek to discredit Foucault, nor did I wish to discard Freud entirely (after all, who else could have spun an entire school of thought from the delicate thread of unresolved childhood?). I simply felt ...

Some time ago, I wrote about intuition, and since then, several people have reached out to say they consider themselves highly intuitive — attuned to subtle details and able to anticipate events. Yet, through deeper conversations, I came to realise that, in many cases, this was not intuition but hypervigilance — a symptom of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD). This ever-present sense of risk is not a gift but an unconscious defence mechanism, developed over time to navigate unstable environments. When a person grows up or lives under sustained stress, fear, or unpredictable relationships, the brain adapts by scanning relentlessly for danger. The slightest shift in tone, a fleeting gesture, or an unexpected silence can be read as an omen, as though something is always on the verge of going wrong. But this is not foresight — it is the past intruding on the present, old threats projected onto new situations. The trouble is, this state of perpetual vigilance does no...

Sometimes I write selfish pages. Not out of greed, nor vanity — no. I write them as if whispering to myself in the dark, so I don’t forget. Because forgetting is easy. The noise of the world is thick, sticky, clinging to the skin and numbing the senses. And in this blur of days, of duties, of silences swallowed whole, I must remind myself of what truly matters. Life isn’t a straight line, nor a grand revelation. It is a slow unravelling, a peeling away of what isn’t yours until you find what is. Never stop fighting, they say, until you arrive at your destined place. But what is destiny if not the place where you are most yourself? And how do you know when you’ve arrived? You don’t. You just keep moving, sculpting yourself with each step, shedding skins that no longer fit. There must be an aim, a north, a whisper calling you forward. Otherwise, what is effort but exhaustion? With purpose, even suffering holds meaning. The wind scatters those who walk without direction, but t...

When my father fell ill in his final days, the lyrics of Shawn Mendes’ In My Blood became an unexpected refuge, helping me process the reality unfolding before me. The song’s plea — its raw, urgent cry against the weight of helplessness — resonated in a way that felt almost too personal. “Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in” — those words captured the suffocating dread that gripped me in the small hours, waiting for news, hoping for a miracle I already knew would not come. The song does not offer easy comfort; nor does it deny the pain of endurance. Instead, it acknowledges the struggle — the desperate search for strength when every instinct urges collapse. “I just wanna give up, but I can’t.” That was it, exactly. The exhaustion, the emotional erosion, the moments when hope felt like a cruel joke. And yet, beneath it all, an unspoken defiance: the fight continues, not because it is easy, but because surrender is unthinkable. The grief that followed those long hours ...

Gustav Klimt once said, “Art is a line around your thoughts.” A line — thin as a whisper, trembling yet deliberate — emerges from nothingness. It does not impose itself. It does not command. It is barely there, yet it holds. It is the first breath of form, the fragile boundary between the unsaid and the spoken. Without it, thought is a flicker in the dark, a thing half-lived, dissolving before it can be known. A vision stirs. Not summoned, not controlled. It arrives unbidden — whole yet veiled, elusive yet certain. It lingers at the edge of perception, pressing gently, insistently, against the mind’s quiet. It cannot be seized outright. To reach for it is to risk shattering it; to hesitate is to watch it dissolve. And so, the line must be drawn. But not too soon. Not too rigidly. It must breathe, as thought itself breathes, as meaning unfolds. The hand moves, uncertain yet assured, guided by something beyond logic. An intelligence older than language, something that knows ...

I struggled with the word. It lingered, soft yet insistent, waiting to be understood. Deafening — yet silent. Sharp — yet delicate. Crude in its rawness, yet rich with meaning, as though it had carried the weight of centuries while remaining as fresh as the morning air. Saudade. It is not merely a word but a feeling that breathes within, settling beneath the ribs, winding through the marrow of the bones, pressing gently against the skin from within. A presence intricately woven from absence. A longing that does not mourn but remembers, does not grieve but honours. For saudade is not only about what was, but also about what might have been — the beauty of imagined possibilities, the tenderness of dreams not yet lived. And yet, it is a gift. However much it pulls at the soul, however much it calls us back. I could neither reject it nor escape it, for it had taken root in me, filling empty spaces with warmth rather than ache. The more I welcomed it, the more it flourished — not like ivy c...

One day, something I wrote ended up somewhere unexpected. It travelled unbidden, without direction, without a map. It drifted through the digital ether, carried by unseen currents, until it landed on the screen of someone I had never met. It lingered there, silent — perhaps unnoticed, perhaps read and forgotten in an instant. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. I am not an influencer, nor a teacher, nor the bearer of any particular cause. I don’t chase trends or craft strategies. I write simply because I must — because the moment demands it, because something stirs within me and insists on being set free. But social networks are fickle creatures — like shifting winds, unpredictable and untamed. One day, they carry you far; the next, they bury you in obscurity. Their algorithms are vast, faceless voids — spinning, swallowing, indifferent. You cast a word into them, and it vanishes without a trace. You cast another, and inexplicably, it crosses an ocean. Many try to ch...

Any sensitive soul will feel discomfort when witnessing their plans and efforts retreat in the face of secondary factors beyond their control. How often does frustration arrive mercilessly, marking that moment with the weight of failure? The truth is, we are emotionally sentient beings who think. We recall our experiences more through our feelings than through objective facts. This is the human element of subjectivity. Despite being a natural occurrence, this same element gives contrast and meaning as life unfolds. And, since emotions have no expiry date, it is the moments we carry with us. It is an important baggage that defines experience. However, a word of caution is necessary here — it is extremely common to attempt to “outsource” pain. In an effort to cope with negative emotions, one may block any meaning associated with them. Unfortunately, it is convenient to remain captive to a narrative of passivity, as if saying, “That person only gets in my way,” “No one underst...

Every so often, I come across a pre-university student who already possesses a well-developed sense of emotional intelligence. Unlike most, they don’t need an explanation of why emotions influence academic performance — they have already learnt this through personal experience, observation, or reflection. Without even realising it, they have grasped an essential skill that will be invaluable in adulthood, helping them navigate personal and professional challenges with greater ease. However, the reality is that few people develop strong emotional self-awareness. This is not due to a lack of intelligence or capacity but simply because they have never made a habit of observing their own inner world. Many go through life without paying attention to their emotions or understanding how these feelings shape their thoughts, behaviours, and decisions. As a result, they struggle to recognise how emotions influence their professional success, personal relationships, and ability to ...

We are living through something never before seen. A collective grief. A strange and quiet mourning, unfolding in layers. We do not grieve for a single thing, but for many. For the world that was, for the ordinary days that once seemed unremarkable. For the rhythm we had without knowing it was a rhythm. Something has shifted, and we feel it in the body. The loss of normality. The fear of what will become of us. The vanishing thread of social connection. It presses against us, all at once, an invisible weight. And there is a grief that is not yet grief, but already lingers in the air. Anticipatory grief. That sensation of standing at the edge of something vast and uncertain, trying to see what lies ahead, but only meeting fog. It is the grief of what might be, the whisper of a loss that has not yet happened but is already mourned. Usually, it is tied to death. A doctor utters an unspeakable diagnosis, and time fractures. Or, on a quiet afternoon, an ordinary thought slips in: one day, ...