The Hyggelig Journey

There comes a moment — quiet, weighty, almost imperceptible — when you realise you have chosen. No more lingering at the threshold, no more waiting for certainty to descend like divine instruction. The choice has already been made, even if your hands still tremble. So you step forward. Then again. And then — ah, then you see it — how the ground is uneven, how the air thickens with doubt, how your own footing falters. The path does not open graciously before you; it resists, it tests, it demands. A mistake. Another. And then another. They come like waves, unrelenting, each one threatening to drag you under. You thought it would be different. That once you found your way, clarity would follow, the world would recognise your purpose, and all would unfold accordingly. Instead, the world remains indifferent, unmoved as you stumble. And so the question arises — perhaps this was never your path. Perhaps you misread the signs, mistook yearning for destiny. But the path does not spe...

The patient entered with a sigh, shaking his head. It had been a difficult day — nothing had gone to plan, which, in all fairness, seemed to be exactly the kind of plan the day had in mind. Expectations had fallen like dominoes, except that dominoes at least fall in an orderly fashion. His pulse flickered between breaths, rapid but uncertain, as if caught between deciding whether to panic or simply give up and take a nap. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly, its rhythm filling the room, steady and indifferent, the perfect background score for existential crises everywhere. The consulting room, usually a space of quiet refuge, felt different today, as though the storm had followed him inside. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked clothes and the unspoken weight of things not quite said. The rain drummed against the window, tracing long streaks on the glass, as if jotting down notes on the conversation yet to unfold. He sat down heavily, his body sagging into th...

Life weighs, yet it does not. It slips through your fingers like water, and just when you think you have grasped it, you find you were holding only the wind. There is no fixed form, no final certainty — only desire, thrumming beneath the skin, always just beyond reach, dissolving the moment you try to name it. You wanted meaning — something solid, something to anchor yourself to, something you could hold without fear of losing. A truth that would not shift with time, would not vanish under scrutiny. But the truth — and it was truth because it hurt — is that life is too light to be held. It is insubstantial, elusive, impossible to contain. And it is this lightness that unsettles you. If everything is possibility, where do you stand? If you are free, then who are you? Freud would say you desire what you cannot have. Jung would remind you of the shadows you refuse to face. Lacan would laugh and tell you that you are nothing but lack, a hollow space forever seeking fulfilment. ...

Change stretches us, tugs at the edges of who we are, unsettling the comfort of the known. It urges us to step beyond the familiar and into the uncertain — a quiet disturbance, a necessary tremor. When you long for change, a touch of order makes all the difference. Begin with clarity: what is it you truly seek? And why? The reasons must be sharp, like light slicing through mist. Then, define your place within it. What lies within your reach, and what does not? There is wisdom in recognising the limits of control — expectations lose their weight when set upon unsteady ground. And finally, ask yourself: for whom do you wish to change? Some move to escape inertia, others to embrace something newly found. But no one transforms without cause, drifting without direction. Sometimes, the presence of others steadies us, their quiet support a force in itself. And when that happens, change — however daunting — ceases to be a rupture. Instead, it becomes an unfolding.

The antidote to anxiety is action. When faced with uncertainty, the mind tends to spiral, analysing every possible outcome, yet struggling to commit to a decision. This constant back-and-forth is not just mentally exhausting — it is paralysing. Indecision keeps you rooted in place, amplifying doubts and feeding a growing sense of unease. Anxiety often arises not from the decisions themselves, but from the fear of making the wrong choice. The longer you hesitate, the more overwhelming the situation feels. Over time, this hesitation solidifies into avoidance, reinforcing the belief that uncertainty is something to be feared. It is easy to convince yourself that the choice in front of you is so critical that everything else must be put on hold. You tell yourself that if you analyse it just a little longer, clarity will come. But clarity rarely appears in stillness. More often than not, movement — any movement — is what breaks the cycle of overthinking. Taking even the smalle...

Now that the light at the end of the tunnel is finally visible, the mind wavers between hope and imbalance. Many have fallen victim to the syndemic, and many have survived, yet the scars will remain in humanity’s history for years to come. Recognising this is crucial because, in the years ahead, many will experience uncertainty. The fear that COVID-19 may leave lasting after-effects will be the subject of intense research. However, this is neither the first nor the last time humanity has undergone a collective rupture from normality. The difference is that you have witnessed it firsthand and will carry the critical perspective of someone who has lived through uncertainty. More than ever, we will celebrate life, yet among us will remain a lingering sense of sorrow, melancholy, and indignation that will take time to fade. Pain becomes history’s pages, while times of peace and tranquillity are only truly remembered by those who have seen the worst and learned to recognise t...

Over the years of studying human behaviour, one question has remained particularly complex: why do chronic anxiety sufferers so often push their emotional well-being to the background? How many times have I heard patients say they just can’t relax? That they went to the beach only to return feeling exactly the same? That they took a holiday but never truly unwound? Why is it so difficult for them to switch off from anxiety? From a biological perspective, it seems that in individuals with chronic anxiety, the amygdala remains highly sensitive, always on the verge of activation. This fuels that constant sense of uncertainty — the ever-present “what if this happens?” and “what if I can’t handle it?” As a result, the prefrontal cortex struggles to maintain rational thinking, making it easier for irrational thoughts to take hold. Yet, just an hour of mindfulness meditation, a session of music therapy, a visit to the sauna, or even a gentle walk outdoors could be enough to eas...