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| Stepping into the bitter wind of Copenhagen after leaving sun-soaked Lisbon (2022). |
When I first stepped off the plane at Copenhagen Airport in February 2022, the shock wasn't just from the bitter wind that cut through my jacket like it had a personal vendetta. It was the complete sensory overhaul from where I'd just come from. Just weeks earlier, I'd been wandering through Lisbon's sun-soaked neighborhoods, where golden hour stretched lazily across terracotta rooftops and every café seemed to exist in permanent vacation mode.
Standing there in the arrivals hall, watching fat snowflakes dance outside the terminal windows, I remember thinking, "What have I actually signed up for?" The excitement I'd felt about this Danish adventure was slowly morphing into something that tasted uncomfortably like buyer's remorse.
In Lisbon, being productive had felt effortless. How could it not? When your morning coffee came with a side of vitamin D and your evening strolls took you past street artists painting the sunset, motivation seemed to flow as freely as the Tagus River. I'd work from different caf̩s each day, letting the city's natural rhythm carry me forward. Life there had been like dancing to music you didn't need to think about Рyou just moved, and somehow it all worked out.
But Denmark was about to school me in ways I never saw coming.
Those first weeks in Copenhagen were absolutely brutal. Not just because I was butchering the Danish language daily (seriously, whoever decided "rødgrød med fløde" was a reasonable thing to ask humans to pronounce clearly has a twisted sense of humor), but because of the overwhelming silence. In Lisbon, the city had been my personal energy drink. The constant hum of conversation floating from neighboring balconies, the cheerful chaos of yellow trams navigating narrow streets, the smell of grilled fish during festival season – it all fed something in my soul that I hadn't realized I was depending on.
Here, by 3:30 PM, the sun was already planning its escape. By 4 PM, streetlights flickered on like the city was giving up on the day, and this heavy blanket of darkness would settle over everything. My small apartment felt smaller, quieter, more isolating than I'd anticipated. Even the radiator made these strange clicking sounds that felt foreign and unsettling.
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| Learning to find internal focus during the long, dark winter months by the Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen. |
Within my first month, reality hit harder than a Danish winter storm. I needed work, and I needed it fast. The job I landed was as far from glamorous as you could get: a cook position that split my days between a busy canteen from 6 AM to 2:30 PM, and then a burger restaurant from 4 PM to 9 PM. 5 days a week. Only Saturdays and Sundays were mine to keep.
I'll never forget that first week of work. My alarm would scream at 5:15 AM, and I'd stumble through the darkness to catch the early bus, still half-asleep and questioning every life choice that had brought me to this moment. The canteen work was relentless – feeding hundreds of hungry office workers who needed their morning coffee and lunch served fast and hot. My feet would ache by 2:30 PM, but there was no time to rest. A quick bus ride home, maybe thirty minutes to wolf down some food, and then back out into the cold for the evening shift at the burger joint.
Those split shifts nearly broke me. By 9 PM, when I'd finally drag myself home, I felt like I'd been run over by a Viking longship. My hands smelled permanently of onions and grease, my back ached from standing for nearly twelve hours with only a short break, and my brain felt like mush. The glamorous Copenhagen experience I'd imagined was nowhere to be found.
I'll never forget that phone call I made to my friend back in Lisbon during my second week of this brutal routine. I was practically in tears, collapsed on my tiny couch after another soul-crushing double shift. "I can't function like this," I told her. "There's no energy here. No life. How am I supposed to get anything done when I'm working like a machine twelve hours a day, six days a week?"
She laughed – not meanly, but with the kind of knowing that comes from having watched friends struggle before. "Maybe," she said gently, "this is exactly what you need to learn. Maybe the energy was never really coming from outside. Maybe you just convinced yourself it was because it was easier that way."
I hung up feeling annoyed because, deep down, I knew she might be right. But I wasn't ready to face that truth yet.
The real turning point came during my fourth month, right in the middle of what Danes cheerfully call "the dark period." I'd been trying to squeeze in some self-study between my exhausting work schedule Рattempting to learn data analysis and improve my Danish with whatever mental energy I had left. In Lisbon, I would have taken my laptop to a sunny caf̩, ordered a pastel de nata, and somehow the ambient energy would have carried me through the difficult bits.
But there I was, coming home at 9:30 PM, staring at Excel spreadsheets while my feet throbbed and snow pelted my window, and I realized I had two choices: create my own energy or give up entirely on any dreams beyond just surviving.
That's when I started building what I now think of as my "internal engine," forged in the fire of absolute necessity.
Since my weekdays were completely consumed by work, I had to get creative with my Saturdays and Sundays. Those two precious days became my lifeline. I'd sleep in until 8 AM on Saturday (which felt like luxury after those 5:15 AM alarms), then dedicate the entire weekend to self-improvement and study. But more importantly, I started carving out tiny pockets of productivity during my weekday routine.
The 30-minute break between jobs became sacred study time. Instead of collapsing on my couch, I'd force myself to review Danish vocabulary or work through data analysis problems. Those bus rides to and from work? Prime time for listening to educational podcasts or Danish language lessons. Even during slow moments at the burger restaurant, I'd mentally practice conversations in Danish or think through problems I was trying to solve.
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| Balancing double shifts and study goals in Copenhagen—where my 'internal engine' was truly built. |
The Danish concept of "hygge" started making sense around month six, but not in the way I'd expected. It wasn't about lighting candles and wrapping yourself in blankets (though I did plenty of both on my precious weekends). It was about creating an internal sense of purpose and progress that could survive even the most grueling circumstances. It was about finding meaning in the struggle itself.
By month eight, something incredible had happened. Despite working those brutal split shifts, I was actually accomplishing more in my personal development than I had during those leisurely Lisbon days. The constraints had forced me to become ruthlessly efficient with every spare minute. Twenty minutes here, thirty minutes there – it all added up to significant progress in my self-study goals.
My weekend routine became a well-oiled machine of recovery and growth. Saturday mornings for deep study sessions, Saturday afternoons for exploring Copenhagen (finally!), Saturday evenings for meal prep and planning the coming week. Sundays were split between continued learning and genuine rest – because I'd learned the hard way that rest wasn't lazy; it was essential for surviving another brutal week.
The discipline I developed during those months was unlike anything I'd experienced before. When you only have small windows of opportunity, you learn to make every moment count. No more scrolling social media during breaks. No more "I'll start tomorrow" excuses. When your study time is limited to bus rides and brief breaks between double shifts, you develop a laser focus that would have been impossible in easier circumstances.
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| Using my weekends to explore the beauty of Frederiksborg Castle in Hillerød after a week of hard work. |
I began understanding why Danes consistently rank among the happiest people globally, despite enduring winters that would break most people's spirits and work cultures that demand serious commitment. They'd mastered something I'd never learned in all my sun-soaked years: how to find purpose and progress even in the most challenging conditions. They'd learned to generate energy from within rather than constantly borrowing it from the world around them.
Don't get me wrong Рthose months were hard. Bone-deep, soul-testing hard. I missed Lisbon with every fiber of my being. I missed the spontaneous conversations, the leisurely caf̩ sessions, the feeling that each day held infinite possibility simply because the weather was gorgeous. But Denmark was teaching me that depending solely on external energy is like building your life on quicksand. Eventually, conditions change, and you need to know how to stand on your own.
The most profound shift came during a particularly vicious February week in my second year when temperatures dropped to -18°C, the canteen was short-staffed, and the burger restaurant was swamped with Valentine's Day orders. Instead of sliding into the despair I'd feared, I found myself more focused and resilient than I'd been in years. My routine had evolved into something more powerful: a complete system that worked regardless of weather, workload, or external circumstances.
Those split shifts had become my training ground. Every day was a test of mental toughness, every weekend a reward for persistence, every small moment of progress a victory earned through genuine sacrifice. I was learning faster, retaining more, and actually enjoying the process of disciplined growth in ways that comfortable circumstances had never taught me.
Leaving the Happiest Country in the World
By June 2023, after exactly sixteen months in Copenhagen, I was standing at a crossroads. I'd survived the brutal winters, mastered the language enough to have real conversations, and most importantly, I'd transformed from someone dependent on external energy into someone who could create their own light, even in the darkest circumstances.
The decision to leave Denmark wasn't about escaping. It wasn't about the cold or the darkness or those exhausting double shifts. It was about growth. I'd come to Denmark lost and broken, and I was leaving whole. But I still had more to discover, more to learn, more to become.
In June 2023, I left Copenhagen – that beautiful, organized, challenging happiest country in the world – and arrived in Brugge, Belgium. The contrast was immediate and stark. Where Copenhagen had been minimalist and clean, Brugge was a postcard come to life. Medieval cobblestone streets, ancient bridges, canals that mirrored centuries-old architecture. The sun was starting to linger much longer, and the air felt different – softer, more forgiving somehow.
But what struck me most wasn't the beauty of Brugge itself. It was how prepared I felt to receive it. I didn't arrive as someone desperately seeking external energy to carry me through. I arrived as someone who'd learned to carry themselves.
I remember walking through Brugge's winding streets that first evening, my suitcase rolling behind me, and instead of feeling disoriented or lost, I felt peaceful. The sixteen months in Copenhagen had given me a gift that no travel guide or sunny day could ever provide: the unshakeable knowledge that I could survive and thrive anywhere, under any conditions, as long as I had access to my own internal strength.
After sixteen months of split shifts, brutal winters, and disciplined self-study in the happiest country in the world, I wasn't the same person who'd arrived at Copenhagen Airport in February 2022. I'd been forged in cold darkness and refined through relentless routine. Denmark hadn't just taught me about internal focus – it had completely rebuilt who I was from the inside out.
Now, as I write this from my new home in Brugge, where medieval charm meets the gentler landscapes of Belgium, I still wake early and make the most of every available moment. Not because I have to anymore, but because I learned that the most reliable energy source I'll ever have is the one I cultivated within myself during those transformative sixteen months in Copenhagen.
Denmark didn't just teach me about productivity and discipline – it taught me that I was capable of so much more than I'd ever realized. Those months showed me that sometimes the most beautiful growth happens not in the sunshine or comfortable circumstances, but in the quiet, dark moments when you're pushed to your absolute limits and you have to learn to be your own source of light, energy, and motivation.
The move to Belgium felt different this time. I wasn't running toward external energy anymore; I was bringing my own with me. And that made all the difference.
Leaving the happiest country in the world didn't feel like loss. It felt like completion. I'd gone to Denmark as a student of life, and I was leaving as someone who finally understood that the quality of my life wouldn't be determined by geography or weather or external circumstances. It would be determined by the strength of the systems I'd built, the discipline I'd cultivated, and the internal light I'd learned to create for myself.
That's what Denmark gave me. And that's something I'll carry with me, no matter where in the world I go.
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Copenhagen taught me that the best systems are built from within. |
💡 Bitty Tip: The Internal Engine
If you find your productivity dropping, don't blame your surroundings—blame your system. The "Denmark Lesson" is that we often rely on external motivation (like good weather or a nice cafe). Try a "No-Environment-Constraint" challenge: Practice focusing for 20 minutes in a place you find "boring" or "dark." If you can learn to generate focus there, you can do it anywhere.
Over to You!
We’ve all had a "Danish winter" moment—where life felt cold or the workload felt heavy.
How do you build your own focus when things get tough? Have you ever moved somewhere that changed you?
Share your story or your best productivity tip in the comments below! I’d love to hear your experiences. 👇
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