The Hyggelig Journey

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...

The evil they do to me does not harm me, for it is not the pain imposed by another that defines me. Pain is fleeting, transient, a passing ripple in the vast river of time. It may sting in the moment, but it dissolves into the past, becoming nothing more than a distant echo. What truly transforms me is the evil I choose to commit, for it is my own actions that carve the contours of my being. I am not shaped by what is done to me, but by how I respond, internalize, and allow it to influence my path. And so I observe. I watch the silent unfolding of existence, where men drift like shadows against the walls they have built themselves, prisoners of their own design. They believe themselves bound by fate, yet it is their own fear that keeps them shackled. The weight of harm is not in the hands of another — it rests in the choices we make, in the decisions we allow to shape us. A wound is but a whisper against the skin, a fleeting reminder of a moment that has passed. A mark that...

You saw it in your hands before you saw it in the patient. The pulse — small, insistent — whispered a secret no one had spoken. There was a tremor in the skin, a shift in the air between you. Before the words, before the symptoms, before diagnosis clothed itself in logic — you already knew. It was not a thought — it was a feeling. Thoughts are slow, they need shaping, but this knowing arrived whole, needing nothing. The meridians do not speak, yet you hear them. The body does not argue; it simply reveals itself, a quiet confession given freely to those who know how to listen. Your fingers rest, light as a breath on the surface, and the needles follow — not merely where they should be, but where they must be. There is no hesitation, no deliberation — only a call, and you answer. Not with reason, not with proof, but with certainty that is older than both. Intuition does not shout, does not ask permission, does not knock at the door. It is a river that already knows its course,...