Two Weeks Before Leaving

Right now, I am on the floor, surrounded by clothes, wondering how I am supposed to fit an identity, not to mention a life I have not yet experienced, into two suitcases and a carry-on.

This dilemma I’m facing isn’t just a metaphorical one. There are actual piles.

One pile is specifically for winter layers. It is large. It contains sweaters, coats, scarves, and a growing sense that I do not own enough layers to survive a Scandinavian climate. I keep adding things to this pile like an offering. The pile does not appear satisfied.

Another pile is for education accessories. This one looks more reasonable until I remember how many notebooks are essential to becoming a successful student studying abroad. I am apparently convinced that my being in Copenhagen will require its own stationery ecosystem. Pens I like. Highlighters in colors that encourage focus. Books I may or may not open, but will feel better knowing I brought on a long dark night.

The third pile is all of my other clothes, which is the real problem. Outfits take up the most space because they are doing the most work. They are not just for wearing. They are aspirational. They represent who I think I will be, or who I hope I might convincingly resemble. There is a version of me in these piles who is organized, functional, and owns weather-appropriate footwear. I would like to meet her.

I keep picking things up and putting them back down. Will I need this? Will I regret not bringing this? Is this practical, or am I emotionally attached to it for reasons I cannot defend? At some point, packing becomes less about logistics and more about discovering how easily my own belongings can manipulate me. I am learning things about my own priorities that I did not anticipate. 

I’ve never even visited Copenhagen. This fact intermittently pushes its way to the forefront of my consciousness, like a low-grade alarm. I am moving there anyway. I am doing this with the confidence that I am assembling as I prepare to go. Consulting Google tells me about public transportation and weather patterns. Instagram suggests to me that everyone looks effortlessly composed and inexplicably well-layered. Neither informs me about how it will feel to arrive somewhere where no one knows you yet.

People keep telling me this is “an incredible opportunity.” Of course, I agree. I am excited in a way that is sometimes hard to delineate from panic. There are new systems to learn, new classrooms, new rhythms. The appeal of this adventure is not reinvention so much as adjustment. I am not starting a new life. I am altering an existing one. Same habits, same fixations, different surroundings.

The suitcases remain open. I keep trying to compress. To envision. A semester. A city. A routine. A body that studies, moves, worries, pays attention. Two suitcases and a carry-on feel insufficient, which feels inevitable. Something will be left behind. Something always is.

For now, I keep sorting. I keep revising. I keep standing up and sitting back down on the floor. This is what preparation looks like before it turns into departure.and sitting back down on the floor. This is what preparation looks like before it turns into departure.