Mistake is a gift.
Me
Fear, Instinct, and the Chaos Within
Why boring lives are built on “no” and mine is powered by “yes.”
I once read an article claiming that most of us make decisions out of fear. Fear of failing. Fear of rejection. Fear of looking ridiculous, but here’s the catch: decisions made in fear lead to boring lives. Safe lives. Lives with polished shoes and unwrinkled coats.
I can’t do that. My gut is louder than my fear. If instinct says yes, I follow—even if it leads to chaos, even if it’s wrong. Mistakes, to me, are gifts. Proof that I’m alive, moving, learning. In fact, I’m ready for my next great mistake, and perhaps that’s the fundamental paradox of me: I don’t say yes because I can’t say no. I say yes because I refuse to let fear decide.
Well… except when it comes to relationships. There, my no is still rock solid.
The Band Leader and My Solid Ground
Heavy metal, heavy bills, and the lightness of chaos.
Band Leader: “Hey, are you free to do some gigs this summer?”
Me: “Yes.”
Band Leader: “Great.
Me: “How many sets?”
And just like that, I was touring with a “very famous heavy metal band from Finland”—at least, that’s how they introduced themselves on aeroplanes. Was it a joke? Probably not, but the confidence was impeccable.
Meanwhile, I was busy saying yes to an overpriced apartment (making me someone’s unofficial “rich bitch”), yes to projects that made me wake up crying, and yes to anything that promised life wouldn’t be boring.
My calendar wasn’t a schedule—it was evidence in a trial for self-inflicted chaos, but this is my solid ground: to trust instinct, to risk mistakes, to live, and if that means my personal life looks more like a solo tour than a duet—so be it.
Planes, Trains, and Lounge Hobos
Premium lounge, budget dignity.
The journey to my holiday was a saga in itself—first, the ferry. I booked the premium lounge, picturing peace and elegance. Instead, I slept there like a hobo after mastering a few weeks of heavy metal and singing about unicorns. I curled up in a chair while strangers politely ignored me so much for glamour.
Then the night train from Stockholm to Copenhagen: a rolling karaoke bar. My carriage mates believed they were auditioning for Premium lounge, budget dignity, something between Eurovision and purgatory. By Malmö, I realised I was too old for Interrail or Interrail had always been this loud, and I was finally sober enough to notice.
By the time I stumbled into the airport, I looked like a survivor from a reality show no one watched. When I finally collapsed into my aeroplane seat, I passed out instantly after not sleeping at all and carrying 20kg of hiking gear, only to be woken by the bump of landing.
My phone buzzed: “Welcome to Iceland.”
I froze. Wrong country? Wrong flight? Wrong life? Panic spiraled, until I remembered: years in Denmark had taught me the Faroes borrow Icelandic signals. Relief. Still, nothing like thinking you’ve flown to the wrong country to keep your heart rate adventurous.
Of Waterfalls, Skuas, and Discount Superheroes
Featuring me, a stick, and the world’s least intimidating armour.
The hikes were everything I’d hoped for: waterfalls taller than logic, landscapes so mysterious they made Instagram filters cry. Every step gave me room to ask myself: how am I, really? What do I think?
The scenery answered only with silence. Which was exactly what I needed.
Of course, not everything was spiritual bliss. On the final hike, Great Skuas dive-bombed me like feathered assassins, but this time, I was prepared—with a stick in one hand and a raincoat from Alepa in the other, ready to face the shit storm. It flapped in the wind like a discount superhero costume. It was not exactly intimidating; it was more like a walking warning sign that screamed: “Caution—chaos crossing,” and yet, it worked. The birds backed off, and I survived, ridiculous but victorious.
The Mykines Group Horror
Nothing ruins solitude like other people.
On Mykines Island, I longed for solitude—just me, puffins, and the sea—but the organisers insisted that I stay with the group. “Fine,” I asked, “how much do I need to pay not to?” They did not laugh. Luckily, a handsome Norwegian whispered salvation: I could follow the group for the mandatory round, then sneak off for my hike. Nobody would notice. He was a photographer, there to capture puffins, and apparently fluent in loopholes.
So I did exactly that. I broke free. Freedom tasted like salty air and rebellion.
The Great Faroese Booze Quest The real national sport: finding a drink.
After days of hikes, I craved one thing: a drink. Not enlightenment. Not puffins. A drink, but alcohol in the Faroes is like contraband. No casual beers in supermarkets, no cheap wine tucked behind counters. Just the mysterious Rúsdrekkasøla Landsins, the state-run monopoly shop. When I finally found it, I carried my bottle like treasure. Victory.
I videocall my BFF immediately:
Me: “I did it. I found alcohol.”
BFF: “You sound like Indiana Jones, but less attractive.”
Fair. Indy never needed Siri to guide him to gin, but it got me thinking. Was alcohol my travel companion—or my excuse? That’s when I decided: no more. Not forever, just now to see if chaos is really me or just fermented grapes in disguise. Deep down, I already knew the truth. The chaos is mine. Mistakes, Yeses, and the Joy of Solo: The best duet is sometimes just me and my own echo.
Looking back, it all makes sense. My mistakes, my chaos, my yeses—they’re not flaws. They’re the point. Proof that I’m living.
Saying yes doesn’t mean recklessness. It means trusting my gut over fear. Saying no—to relationships, at least—means I’m free to wander, solo but happy, armed with raincoats and curiosity.
So here I am: still single, still chaotic, still making mistakes. Great ones. And for now, without alcohol, because if I’m going to test my limits, it should be with my own spirit, not just spirits in a glass.
Chaos is mine. Always has been. Always will be. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Silent like a ninja, chaotic like Pinja.
Let me tell you a story 
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