I’m not a writer. I don’t even know where to begin.

A teacher once told me about “flow writing” — just let the thoughts spill out. So here I am, typing whatever comes to mind. Damn it, that doesn’t feel productive. Shit, I just cursed. Again.

What’s the point of this, anyway? Will anyone even read it? Or is this just another Word doc floating in the cloud, forgotten?

Maybe I can at least empty my mind. It’s good for something, right?

Thoughts... Where do they come from?

My mind feels like it’s racing faster than the trains outside my window. The sound of them braking is so loud I should probably be covering my ears. But instead, I keep typing. Hoping that somewhere in the noise, I’ll find the juicy part of my thoughts.

Maybe this is the flow everyone’s talking about.

I wish I had taken the time to share some of my earlier writings — and actually believed that someone out there might read them.

I mean, I do think I have valuable things to say.
Even if they don’t always make sense.
Even if it takes me a few paragraphs to get to the point.
Even if I philosophize about life most of the time.

Philosophize.
Is that even a word?

My story. Wow.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve written “my story” without actually writing my story, I’d be a millionaire by now.

If you’re reading this, maybe you know the fear of the blank page — and the game called “crumble-up-that-shitty-piece-of-paper-and-throw-it-in-the-bin.” It’s kind of like basketball on the ground. Unless the goal is right next to your desk, of course — then it’s maybe more like handball.

My story. One more time.

Will it ever become that bestselling book I dream of publishing?
Could it be that some people out there might actually be curious about how I went from being a designer to a pandemic-born artist and singer-songwriter?

If you ask me personally… I’d like to know.

Because right now, as I’m typing this story out again, it still feels surreal.
Almost like it only happened in my mind.

Except — I’ve got the footage, voice notes, and journal entries to prove it did.
It wasn’t just a dream.

I just wish I knew what to say or where to begin.

And that’s kind of important if you want to write a book, isn’t it? I find myself constantly searching for the right words.
Sometimes it feels like the life I lived doesn’t exist anymore.

Suddenly, the meaning behind all those things I created — the countless videos, the Instagram stories, the journals I filled, the songs I wrote — it all just vanishes.

Maybe that’s a sign I’ve finally let go of the past.

Still... why can’t I just get some wild download or divine stream of perfect paragraphs, so I don’t have to overthink how to tell my story?

I just want you to understand how I got here.
Why I am who I am today.

But maybe… maybe that’s not the point.

Maybe you don’t need to know it all.

Maybe it’s okay to let go.

To leave the stories behind.

To send love to all the past versions of myself that brought me here.

Maybe the meaning of life is much simpler than we think.

Maybe it’s the overthinking that complicates everything — keeping us stuck in past and future worries.

We attach ourselves to what we think we deserve…
and push away the opportunities that could lead us to our own greatness.

What if life was simple?

What if we didn’t stress so much over what we don’t know…
and instead focused on what we do know?

Which is… nothing?

Alright, I’ll take off my philosopher hat and remind myself of what I do know I am, which is…

Rewritten...

You might ask me, “What does that even mean? How are you rewritten?”

Well… if you met me 7 years ago, you wouldn’t recognize me.

And I don’t need to say much more than:
Imagine a newlywed, 9-to-5 cubicle designer chasing the American dream.

I had it all.
Well — almost.
I was just missing the dog.

And even though society kept telling me that the chase was the key to happiness… I was miserable.

But I didn’t let myself leave.
I stayed in the rat race.

Until a car crash kicked my ass.

Being that close to death will shake your soul.

And to this day, I don’t know exactly what happened in that split second — when the pickup truck rushed in front of me.

I know I screamed.
I know I cried.
I know I was in shock.
I know I yelled at the driver: “what the fuck are you doing man?”

But I was alive.

More alive than I had ever been while chasing the dream.

Or maybe I jumped a timeline?
Maybe I lost my mind?

I lost something, that’s for sure.

I lost my will to keep living the same life that was slowly draining me.

The pain and injuries I sustained put a full stop to the high-intensity life I had forced upon myself.

I knew I couldn’t go on like that. I had to get out.

And the only way was to let it all go:
my full-time design job, my husband, my belongings, my friends, my identity…

I gave it all up and let myself get lost on the path to finding myself.

Three years of rewriting, meditating, and rewiring my beliefs—that’s what it took. And even then, it came with setbacks and “dark-night-of-the-soul” moments, where I downed countless bottles of wine and felt like rock bottom couldn’t go any deeper… and then it did. Something else would happen and drag me down even further.

All the struggles, failures, and emotional spirals were like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining weight while I lost my grip. Until one day, I began to shift my mindset—from victimhood to gratitude. I stood up and shook off the cold snow that had kept me frozen in a cycle of self-sabotage.

When I made the conscious decision to see the positive in the shittiest moments, something cracked open. I realized my mind was creating my reality—and the chaos I was living was a mirror of my own beliefs.

And when I started counting the blessings in my life… more magic started showing up.

Instead of spiraling (again) about how I don’t know what to write, I decided to do something productive.
I made a list.

A résumé of failures, if you will.

A curated collection of my life’s most epic struggles and character-building moments — complete with poor decisions, emotional breakdowns, and cosmic slaps in the face.

Because somewhere between rock bottom and “maybe I’m onto something,” I found what I now call my greatest success: discovering my voice, tapping into my inner wisdom, and learning how to actually love myself and life — not just pretend I was enjoying it on Instagram.

Resume of failures: A living document of everything that didn’t go according to plan, yet still shaped who I am.

Growing Up Misunderstood (1990s–2000s)
I grew up in Denmark, often feeling misunderstood. School wasn’t easy—there were bullies, “mean-girl” dynamics, and a social anxiety that made me feel trapped in a box I couldn’t escape. I learned early that life could be lonely, but I also began to notice the person I was beneath all the labels.

Wandering and Soul-Searching (2009–2012)
After high school, I spent three years wandering, exploring, and trying to figure out who I was. Some days were filled with adventure, others with quiet introspection. I sipped wine, asked endless questions, and let life unfold without pressure, laying the foundation for the path that awaited me.

Chasing the American Dream (2012–2014)
I moved to the U.S., chasing the “American dream” and hoping for new opportunities. Life threw challenges my way, including surviving sexual assault in college—a trauma I kept buried for years. It was a harsh lesson in resilience, one that I wouldn’t fully process until much later.

Seeming Perfection, Hidden Misery (2015–2018)
On paper, my life looked perfect: married, working a steady 9–5 design job, living what others might envy. But inside, I was quietly miserable. In April 2018, a near-death car accident shook me awake. For the first time, I realized I couldn’t keep living on autopilot.

Breaking Free (May–August 2018)
I quit my job and booked a one-way ticket to Costa Rica. For two months, I volunteered and searched for purpose, soaking in experiences that would later guide my next steps. Returning to Denmark, I accepted a place in graduate school for communication design, ready to start over and rewrite my story.

Reinvention and Healing (Summer 2019)
Divorce finalized, I dove into yoga teacher training and detoxed my life from old patterns. I spent two weeks in Africa searching for meaning, reflecting on my choices, and reconnecting with the person I wanted to become.

Serendipity and Creativity (February–June 2020)
A research trip to Costa Rica sparked a bold idea: buy and convert a school bus. Then the pandemic hit, borders closed, and I found myself stuck—but in a strangely perfect way. Burned out and unsure, I failed my master’s exam. Amid the uncertainty, I bought a ukulele. That small instrument became a lifeline, leading to an accidental performance at a jam night that reignited my confidence.

Becoming an Artist and Singer-songwriter (Late 2020–2021)
I declared myself an artist and moved around Costa Rica, chasing healing and writing raw, unfiltered songs. Returning to Denmark, I completed my master’s project and scored 10/12, finally feeling like I had reclaimed my voice.

Heartbreak and Self-Realization (Early 2022)
I fell for a narcissist, got out, and learned a powerful truth: I wasn’t broken. Immersing myself in the healing world, I reclaimed my identity, trusted my instincts, and stopped seeking validation from others.

Owning My Voice (2023–Now)
I released I Am, seven raw ukulele songs reflecting my journey. Back in Denmark, I planted roots, shared my music and stories, and built a life that feels authentically mine. Today, I am a woman with purpose, hundreds of unreleased songs, and a mission: to tell the unpolished truth of my life and inspire others to rewrite their own stories.

Digestible, right? Now I feel I’ve got more to say... so let me elaborate.

In January 2020, I looked my supervisor in the eyes and shared the vision for my master’s thesis in “Design for Planet” — a project in collaboration with a Costa Rican organization. Luckily, I had someone guiding me who shared the same “go big or go home” attitude. Within two weeks, I had a flight ticket and a backpack with the basics — sunscreen included (thanks, Mom).

I had barely arrived — only a few weeks into my research — when I found myself locked in a house in the jungle. Borders were shut, and there were no return flights home. I probably don’t need to remind you what was happening in the world — unless, of course, you were on some remote island or hiding out in a Himalayan monastery with no Wi-Fi. I thought it was a joke and would pass quickly — probably fueled by my determination to complete my project. After all, I wanted to graduate my master’s exam that summer. Failure was not an option. A pandemic wasn’t going to ruin my plans. Beyond my perfectionist streak, I secretly believed paradise would bring me more peace of mind than my own country ever could. I learned the hard way that you can be surrounded by serene beaches and colorful toucans yet still face an emotional hurricane.

Suddenly, I had nowhere to run. My aching body brought me face-to-face with a wall of burnout — a wake-up call demanding a massive change. I had to pause everything and let years of suppressed emotions finally surface. I had to be alone with my thoughts and feelings, uncovering the root cause of why I had faced a near-death experience — and why I spent my whole life avoiding any kind of negative emotion (spoiler: avoidance is not a long-term life plan). I chose to be strong and looked straight into the eyes of my shadow — the one I had been running from my entire life.

After that, I had no idea who I really was, leaving me no choice but to rewrite my story and reinvent myself.

So I did.

When everything failed — the bus project, my master’s thesis, the company plans, my mental health — I bought a ukulele and started playing.

When people ask me why, I can only say it was intuitive. Music had brought me joy as a kid. I needed something to take my mind off my misery, something that would simply bring me joy.

I’m grateful I had this instrument during Covid. I played because it felt good — not to become a singer-songwriter or make a living from my music. I didn’t know I was healing old injuries or rewiring my brain. I didn’t know I was alchemizing emotions into songs. But that’s exactly what I did.

Three years later, I have enough songs for several albums. I hope life continues to bring me blessings so I can share my voice through music and writing.

This is why I got a second chance at life — and I’m not going to waste it.

So... Who am I really?

A question that might send a handful of millennials into a quarter-life crisis — and give others a mental breakdown. For me, I had a bit of both in 2020… but it became the most powerful prompt to redesign my reality and prototype who I wanted to be in this lifetime. Now I fully understand why they say you have to break down to break through.

I imagine the beginning of my story would be an introduction…
But that requires some sort of statement describing who or what I am. The purpose here is to prove my hypothesis: I am what I say I am — what I think, feel, and embody. More than my external world. More than what I do. More than what I own.

For now, I let go of all the labels. To simply exist. To do less and learn to be.

My introduction, then, is the beginning of the end of a cycle — where I tell you who I was, up until the very moment I am writing this.

So... Now... who was I?

I’ve tried so many times to get it right. But now I question what that even means — to “get it right.” Is there a right or wrong way to tell a story?

I don’t know. I don’t think so. I just believe in having something on my heart and putting pen to paper. What matters is not what you say, or how you say it — but that you try your best to express it. Without filters. Without judgment. Without fear. Without trying to sound like something or someone else.

Your authentic voice — that’s the essence of it all.

So this is my story, as short as it can be.

The beginning of my book, the first chapter of me being real with you all — without worrying how it sounds. I’m letting my guards down and letting you in because telling my story might save a life and inspire another. And honestly, that’s more important than keeping my pride or my carefully curated Instagram aesthetic.

Can you believe I created an identity for myself… and now I’m scared I’ll ruin it by being “too much”?

Where I am now wasn’t just a meditative walk through the jungle or a beachside yoga retreat. It wasn’t just white dresses and plant ceremonies. No. It was messy, awkward, and occasionally ridiculous.

It was lonely nights questioning my entire existence while binge-watching Netflix. Downing a bottle of wine the night before turning 30. Moving and traveling so many times I could’ve qualified for frequent flyer miles. Falling into toxic relationships and somehow staying because I thought I didn’t deserve better. Repeating old patterns like a broken record. Quitting work and giving up everything I knew to focus on healing. It was harder than any job I’d ever had… and the lessons were deeper than any school could ever teach.

Five years ago, I was ‘just’ a designer.

Or, more accurately, a design researcher — a student of communication and sustainability. That was my identity, the box I lived in. I’d stick to the guidelines, and if I stepped outside of them, I knew I’d be challenging the norm. And as a Dane, that’s risky business. You don’t want to stand out or take up too much space. You don’t want to show off or pretend you’re more than anyone else.

The ‘Jante Law’ — if you haven’t heard of it, look it up. It’s basically a set of societal rules telling us we should never believe we’re better than anyone else. It keeps egos in check, sure… but it also stops people from shining.

Because if you’ve achieved something, you’ll feel guilty for sharing it. You’ll hesitate to flash a new car, or embrace a new wardrobe, because what if someone thinks you’re just showing off?

The beliefs I clung to for so long? I eventually discovered they were total BS.

Everything that I learned was part of subconscious programming that kept me from expanding. From awakening.

But that April morning in 2018, when the truck ran a red light, I received the most valuable gift I could have ever imagined: the moment of being close to death and questioning everything.

I ended up leaving my design job of 2.5 years, my husband of 3 years, and my life in the U.S. of 6 years…

I stepped out of everything I knew because, at that point, nothing really mattered. I wasn’t happy with myself. And if everything I ever worked for could be gone in a moment — then what would I do differently? What would I live for?

If I had one day left to live, what would I be doing?

My journey continued to the jungles of Costa Rica, where I volunteered and started looking for my purpose. The search went on for years, and when the divorce came through, I felt relief: finally, I could discover who I was without being something for someone else.

Two months in the jungle. Back to Denmark to start a master’s in design. Spending a summer completing my yoga teacher training. Switching from escape—aka drinking—to being conscious of my choices. Detoxing, reflecting, reprogramming, doing inner work, questioning myself and my path. Onto the next education — becoming a double-certified coach. Traveling to Costa Rica again, only to get stuck in the pandemic. Diving deeper into spiritual practices: Reiki, meditation, sound healing, Ayurveda…

But out of all the tools I learned, the one that has been and still is the most valuable? One I never had to go to school to master…

My voice and inner wisdom.

It didn’t come from any books. It came from the daily practice of expressing myself. From getting to know who I am and how I want to show up in this world. Peeling back layers, unlearning the BS.

Suddenly, I became an artist and a singer-songwriter. I learned by doing. Everything I’ve accomplished up until now has been because I dared to try. It came from expressing myself without constraints—writing just to write, playing just to play, singing just to sing, creating just to create. Questioning labels and identities. Finding my flow. Claiming to be an artist, even when I didn’t fully believe it. Replacing “I’m not good enough” with “I can do it.” And finally asking myself:

Who Am I?

What a terrifying question. One that so many of us ask… but rarely dive into. We stick to the identity our upbringing and surroundings handed us. And let’s be honest—it’s way easier to define ourselves by what we do, than who we actually are. No wonder half the population basically short-circuits when someone asks, “Who are you, really?” At what point do we even truly know ourselves, deep down—if life is just a checklist and nonstop chase of degrees, job titles and material things?

But what if who you thought you were isn’t the person you came here to be? What if all the habits, lessons, and paths you’ve taken so far were just part of a journey to somewhere bigger? Somewhere more expansive. A world beyond your imagination.

That was my reality. I realized all my childhood dreams and visions were possible to manifest. All I had to do was believe they were true. All I had to do was embody and feel that this was already my reality—and then take aligned action as that new version of myself.

It didn’t happen overnight. It was a longer path: doing less and being more, stepping away from the familiar and diving into the unknown, feeling before thinking, healing the past, not worrying about the future, and being fully present—here, and now. Even if being present meant having ice cream for dinner on the couch while contemplating your life.

Back to the part about avoidance.

For years, I buried the hardest parts of my past, convincing myself I could just keep moving forward without ever looking back. But during a sweat lodge—think tipi-style sauna, packed with heat, darkness, and nothing to distract you—something inside me cracked.

The air was thick, my heart was pounding, and in that suffocating stillness, the thing I’d pushed down for over a decade finally forced its way up. Anger. Shame. Grief. It all came rushing in like a tidal wave I couldn’t outrun.

That was the moment I had to face what I’d avoided for so long: surviving sexual assault.

It happened in 2014, while I was in college in the US—over 10 years ago. I never told anyone. I was ashamed. I felt guilty because I already had a boyfriend and blamed myself for “cheating” on him, even though it wasn’t my fault. So I kept it to myself and went on to marry that boyfriend.

Now I know that I am a survivor.

For so long, I told myself it was okay. That somehow I deserved it. I carried the story that something was wrong with me, that I wasn’t good enough, that it was my fault, that I somehow attracted these people into my life. But recently, my coach told me: “You don’t attract these people—they’re everywhere. You just have to have zero tolerance for BULLSHIT.”

That hit me hard. My tolerance had been way too high.

Even the night it happened, I blamed myself. I convinced myself I’d just had too much to drink and it was a one-night stand. But as the years passed—and as I kept replaying the scene in my head—healing work made it painfully clear: it wasn’t consensual.

And honestly, just like my old tolerance for bullshit, I could also handle my fair share of alcohol in my 20s. Those were the party days. But that night was different. I was in a relationship, I wasn’t looking to sleep with anyone, and I hadn’t had “too much” to drink. And despite the blur and blackouts, I remember saying no—several times—and trying to push him off me with the little strength I had left.

Unfortunately it wasn’t enough.

My body went into freeze mode and I dissociated completely. I locked it away for almost ten years.

But that day as I was sweating in the lodge—somewhere between the steam and the drumbeats—it all came out. Almost like a purge of darkness. I didn’t plan for it. I didn’t see it coming. My body remembered before my mind could make sense of it. The images, the sensations, the truth I had buried—surfacing in the middle of a ritual.

I realized then, it wasn’t just that one night I needed to heal from. It was also years of toxic relationships and the patterns that kept me stuck.

And while I can say I was both a victim and a survivor, I don’t label myself as either anymore. I let go of the past, because it may have shaped me – but it will no longer define who I am. The biggest lesson for me was learning that I am worthy of being loved, allowing myself to feel it all—including the ugliest pain—and writing every word of it down.

I just didn’t know I’d be writing a book and making an album about it...

I didn’t know I’d end up writing so many songs. But now I understand the power of creative expression—without it, I’m not sure I could have processed half of what I’ve been through.

I’m sharing my story of survival and rebirth so you understand: nothing is ever as it seems. I carried a perfect image for years, unwilling to jeopardize it for anything. That’s why I masked it all. I didn’t want to risk people seeing me differently.

Now I know that if I want to make a real difference, I have to drop all the filters and show up exactly as I am—sharing the stories of trauma and hardship so others see that there’s hope. I’ll keep making music to shine light on the darker paths.

So… who am I? And why did I call myself a musician armed with nothing more than 4-chord ukulele songs, when I didn’t fully believe in myself?

Because I knew I had to find purpose and meaning by doing what fills my soul.

Because a thought became a feeling, and as I acted as that new version of me, the universe met me with opportunities tuned to that same frequency.

So really, I’m not surprised I tricked my own mind into becoming what I claimed I was… and what I am today.

You might wonder why on earth I suddenly decided to change my whole life for the arts. The truth? When you come that close to death, you start questioning why you’re wasting time on things that bring no joy.

For me, it took one conscious choice: to stop suffering, to stop playing the victim, and to take full responsibility for my story—the pain and all. To heal. To let go. To make space for a new life to become my reality.

But that meant stepping away from who I was and who I thought everyone else wanted me to be, so I could finally see myself clearly and embrace my authenticity.

I used to run from my feelings because I thought I wasn’t strong enough to face them. Now, I embrace it all and turn it into something that might inspire others.

Writing this book is my way of letting go of the old. I’m not looking back — only moving forward, rising, and shining the light I finally learned to embody.

I survived to tell my story and I know that’s for a reason.

I’ve returned to my childhood passion, the one I believe we all share at our core. Everyone is born an artist. But somewhere along the way, we get so caught up trying to be all these other things that we forget who we really are. We’re thrown into a system that doesn’t nurture creativity, that teaches us to trade imagination for “practicality.”

It’s time to come back.

Back to the core of who we are. Back to the colorful unicorns and fairytale worlds where we get to write our own stories.

This is mine — for now. Always evolving. Always rewriting.

I’m not perfect, but I’m unapologetically, authentically me. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

The point of my story? I’ve learned how to simply be.

I am rewritten.
I am me.

Becoming Rewritten...