Hello bookworms, I am pleased to announce that it’s March—and nearing the end of March. Last August, I went on a semester abroad to Copenhagen, returning to my home university this January. As soon as I stepped foot there, I knew I had made the right decision.

If I’m being brutally candid, I am not very benevolent with myself. I like to think that’s why, when I praise myself, I can feel that even my soul isn’t lying to me. Perhaps that’s wrong, and I should always be a fan of my opinions and actions, but often, I feel I’m not always on track. I feel doubt, shame, and deep embarrassment.

I try to make choices I know I won’t regret, but it can feel incredibly overwhelming with a voice inside you so determined to prove you wrong. Every experience I’ve lived through, I wouldn’t change a thing. However, I’m often oblivious to how valuable a moment is as I am experiencing it. This is why these few months were precious to me. Every second of every day, it felt right.

Copehangen was special. I never thought I could be so inspired somewhere, and also feel so uninspired.

How does one cope with the overwhelming sense of possibility around them? Every glance left my eyes looking over a breathtaking building with decades, maybe centuries, of history. Each angle left me craving to grab my camera. Each art piece made me want to move away, to write poetry, and to sing forever. Each person I walked by, in their own manner, seemed so authentic to themselves. I felt like I was watching a movie scene each time I stepped outside.

To me, Copenhagen was my ultimate opponent. It wasn’t clear to me that I had been looking for one, but it was all too evident once I found her. The city served me and questioned me. It made me look up to the sky in awe and crouch in sorrow all at once. I felt both isolated and drowned in love. For once, I thought I couldn’t fight against this; maybe surrendering to the city was the answer.

I have genuinely never existed in a location where I wholeheartedly believe there is space for every kind of individual. Being raised, for the most part, in Toronto, an incredibly eclectic and multicultural area, feeling out of place in Copenhagen was something I had yet to contemplate. I didn’t consider many things that ultimately hit me hard. But for that, I am glad they did. When I experience senses, difficult, visceral emotions, I am confronted by them, almost physically. Hit by them, pushed, shoved, it’s bold and forceful, never gentle. I seldom see them coming, so their stay seems prolonged.

I may not be the best with transitions. I find that I allow them to occur, to wash over me like a small wave, dealing with any unwelcome ramifications as they arrive. Arguably, this doesn’t lead to the most effortless experience.

But Copenhagen cracked me open.

It made me uncomfortable. I didn’t feel as safe—not physically, as it’s the safest city I have ever been in compared to my hometown and home school town. Mentally, it sequestered me, but it also set me free. It forced me to face many things that I had pushed aside for years.

I believe it also nurtured me, allowing me to finally give myself the grace I have presented others, the space I continue to extend, the time, and the care that can leave me depleted.

I don’t have enough words, or even any, to explain how grateful I am. I’m thankful for every period I go through and every period that is bound to come. Times in my life, the people I’ve met, the person I have seen myself morph into, are not easy to look back on. The past, to me, is bittersweet. I would never want to go back in time, nor do I want to live forever, but sometimes, a moment is so sweet, that I wish it would stay just a little longer.

Thanks for reading.