Between Everywhere and Nowhere

Tag: inner conflict

  • Is It Incompatibility to Fit In?

    Is It Incompatibility to Fit In?

    …or do we just mean not to fit in?

    I længselsfulde tanker, Wenzel Tornøe

    We are born within certain borders, raised according to them, and over time we internalize what those borders and their communities show us. A tailored persona is handed to us early on. But does our essence actually accept this persona that borders and their dynamics impose on us?

    Maybe yes.
    Maybe no.
    Maybe intentionally yes.
    Maybe intentionally no.

    A while ago, I was reading Ett nytt land utanför mitt fönster (literally, A New Land Outside My Window) by Theodor Kallifatides.
    As he described his dilemmas, I kept finding echoes of my own thoughts. He is Greek, I am a Turk, and at certain points, our perspectives overlapped almost uncomfortably well.
    That made me think: maybe being someone who cannot fully fit in is not unique at all. Maybe it is universal. And maybe there is nothing special about it, which is, in itself, unsettling.

    In my culture, we are taught very early to “give the best to the other.” To be considerate. To host well. To sacrifice quietly.
    Now, in my young adulthood, I sometimes feel that this land keeps the best for others, while keeping the guest room permanently locked for me. The space is there, clean, prepared, but never really mine.

    Sometimes I try to look at this from the opposite angle. I tell myself that maybe my essence is different because this land also needs difference. But difference is far more easily embraced when you are not considered an integral part of society. When you are an outsider, tolerance has a wide threshold. Difference becomes interesting, even charming.

    Once you are labeled as “one of us,” however, the expectations change. You are then required to behave according to a very specific, carefully tailored script. Difference, at that point, becomes deviation.

    This is not about leaving one’s land or hating one’s own people. Except for extreme circumstances, I do not find that healthy, at least not in my case. Still, in this modern world, being a responsible citizen matters deeply to me.
    I keep thinking: if you live among like-minded people, you must assume all the responsibility required to deserve life within that particular border and among that particular group.

    I have become many things within my own society:

    a daughter,
    a big sister,
    a best friend, a
     student who excelled in languages,
    a student who insisted on not being good at math,
    a reliable colleague, and so on.

    But… being a migrant? Could I become a migrant? Would I ever be capable of carrying this hat, too?

    I am aware that it takes a long time to deserve being an integral part of a society if you arrive later. And if someone were to look at my face and say, “You are not wanted here,” what would I do?
    Unlike my usual personality, I probably would not say anything. Perhaps because I think the native has that right, or perhaps because I am not as certain about my own anymore.

    Recently, I found myself experiencing a different kind of dilemma, what I call losing my religion. Not necessarily faith itself, but something closer to frustration and desperation, to losing the ground beneath my feet.
    I wonder what it would be like to live among people who think similarly. What could I achieve there? Would I be more useful, more productive? Or was the whole point living with a different essence in my own land all along?

    But then again: is it actually my land?

    Sometimes, while jogging through the park, a sentence forms in my mind:
    this country blooms its cities with our tears.
    Then I find these thoughts ridiculous, too dramatic, and make fun of myself and my way of thinking.

    Maybe all the magic lies in living in your own country while carrying a different essence. Or maybe, in another place, I would become nothing at all: typical, standard, unremarkable.
    Being “the spicy one” is not a sustainable trait when you cannot convert that spice into something tangible, something productive, into energy, or at least into light. Also, will I have enough space to enjoy my different essence while blending a new personality with my brand-new identity of “migrant”?

    Maybe it is all about the need to feel important. Or different. Or necessary. Or just being able to meet the ends.

    And yet, at its core, it may have always been something very ordinary.

    Maybe it is not the right time yet.
    Maybe the planets do not allow it.
    Maybe they push you forward.
    Maybe God has a plan.
    Maybe it is karma.
    Maybe it is frequency.
    Maybe it is all about vibe.
    Or maybe it is just coincidence.

    Should it happen?
    I do not know. Not yet.

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  • I Cannot Be a Hygge Girl

    I Cannot Be a Hygge Girl

    Too much anger, too much fury, too much negativity, too much exploitation, maybe too much reality.
    Whatever we choose to call it.

    Sometimes, I want to shed this crust of anger and awareness, to feel as light as possible, even for a moment. To soften. To float. To rest.
    But I cannot.

    We are constantly encouraged to heal inward. To slow down. To withdraw from the daily rush. Hygge, the Danish philosophy of coziness and intentional comfort, or meditation, which teaches us to focus on a single point and quiet the noise, all promise relief. And for some, they work.

    But I keep asking myself: what is the meaning of all this, if the magic disappears the moment you open your eyes?

    I cannot unsee what is happening around the world. I am not extraordinary in any sense, just another ordinary someone among millions. And yet, I feel deeply empathetic toward others, while simultaneously constructing dystopian future scenarios for myself, shaped by everything I witness around me. Awareness, once acquired, does not politely step aside when you ask for peace.

    Most of the time, I argue with myself.
    “You are under too much stress,” I say. “You cannot even focus on meditation or any kind of hygge mindset. But what real change could you possibly bring to the table, even if stress became your core identity? Probably not much. What would change if you turned that anger inside out? Nothing, most likely.”

    And yet, silencing it feels equally wrong.

    I find myself trapped in a constant rollercoaster of dilemma. A dilemma between self-preservation and moral alertness. There is that well-known prayer: God, give me the strength to accept the things I cannot change. Some days, I tell myself to prioritize my health, to step away from the current agenda, to go with the flow. Other days, this feels hollow, as if deliberately unseeing, deliberately tolerating, is a quiet betrayal of my own conscience.

    Lately, I have been wondering whether our obsession with escaping discomfort might be doing more harm than good. What if that persistent tightness in the chest, that boredom, that inner unrest is not a flaw to be corrected, but a signal to be interpreted? What if constantly soothing ourselves, numbing every sharp edge, slowly damages something more primitive in us, our survival instinct, our ability to sense when something is fundamentally wrong?

    At the core, I believe boredom begins when something in your life needs to change. The dynamics shift, and boredom becomes the warning light. In that sense, it is not laziness or indifference, but information. And I am afraid of becoming careless toward such vital signals, afraid of mistaking anesthetization for healing.

    Perhaps it is the over-exploiting nature of our time that makes focusing on inner peace feel almost unethical. Or perhaps we have internalized the long-term consequences of individualism for too long, confusing detachment with wisdom. I do not know.

    Of course, there must be a balanced space somewhere in between, between collapsing under the weight of the world and pretending it does not exist. I have not found that place yet. But for now, this unresolved tension itself has become one of my resolutions for 2026: not to escape discomfort too quickly, not to romanticize it either, but to listen before I attempt to quiet it.

    What I am searching for is not comfort, but my kind of hygge — one that can coexist with an awareness born from discomfort.
    For now, I remain outside of it.

    🎨 In the Hammock by Anders Zorn

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