Something about being prompted to write about Copenhagen gives me a stomachache.

How can a city so well-designed cause such a reaction in me?

How come—you might ask. Did someone yell at me? Was it hard to survive? Was there no solace in ordinary things? Did my colleagues not mostly treat me well, if not kindly? Were the university years not the most joyous years of your life? Didn’t I, ultimately, love biking?

The answer might as well be affirmative to all of these, yet the stomach ache persists.

I can’t move in either direction. I struggle to express.

Somewhere along the way, I received two contradicting messages. First one being, be true to yourself. The second, do it quietly.

For a deeply Mediterranean woman, this goes against everything I’ve ever known. What am I if not speaking loudly on the phone next to the sea to a loved one caught up in yet another dramatic situation?