Tension

A very good friend of mine recently asked me if everything was okay. If I was doing well. She had this feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I looked at her, surprised, and replied, “Of course. Everything’s fine.”

On the drive home, I thought about her question for a moment. After a while, I decided to push the thought aside. Life went on as usual.

A few weeks later, while on vacation, I had a binge-eating episode. 

I travelled to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. It was already the third day of my trip. Twice, I had tried unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the lights. I was overtired because I was working remotely during the day. I didn’t have any food because I hadn’t had time to go grocery shopping yet. On top of that, my workday had been incredibly stressful. At 2 PM, I finally found a window during my lunch break to head out and buy some food. At the supermarket, I picked up two relatively healthy ready meals, milk, a baguette, aioli, a pack of crackers, a pack of chocolate cookies, and some diet drinks.

Before I even got “home,” I had already eaten the entire pack of chocolate cookies—during the 15-minute drive back. I kept reaching for them while driving, using them to regulate my inner tension. 

I tried not to think too much about it and quickly cooked one of the ready meals so that I wouldn’t feel hungry again right away. The rest of my workday was just as stressful. 

The rest of my workday was just as stressful. 

Before heading out in the evening to chase the Northern Lights again, I decided to take a nap. Over the past few nights, I’d only managed about four hours of sleep each night—clearly not enough.

At first, it was hard for me to relax, but eventually, exhaustion took over and I fell asleep. 

An hour and a half later, my alarm went off. It was dark outside—it was time to go hunting for the lights.

I wasn’t sure where exactly I should look for them, so I spent some time researching. 

As I did, my tension grew: What if I don’t see them?

I pushed the thought aside, packed the bread, aioli, crackers, and drinks into my bag, and set off. For 50 minutes, I drove toward darkness. Not knowing what made for a good viewing spot, I just kept driving farther and farther. By the time I stopped driving, I’d eaten almost the entire baguette in the car—dipping it into aioli as I went. 

Eventually, I parked at a spot where two other cars were already waiting. Now it was time for the hard part: waiting. 

The forecast wasn’t ideal but also not hopeless. 

After some time passed, I finished off the rest of the bread and distracted myself by scrolling on my phone. 

Still nothing. 

It got later and later. My tension kept building. 

By 11 PM, I started eating the crackers. The entire pack was gone within minutes. But it didn’t make me feel any better. So I kept waiting…and waiting…and waiting. 

At 1:30 AM, I decided to call it quits. No lights tonight. Disappointed, exhausted, and uncomfortably full from overeating. 

I drove back to my apartment—a drive that felt like it dragged on forever. Deflated, I crawled into bed with only two nights left before my return flight home. My thoughts spiraled endlessly until eventually—I fell asleep.

The next day was Saturday. My plan was to visit Iceland’s Golden Circle route. Running on six hours of sleep, I set out to explore Iceland’s breathtaking landscapes. But throughout the day, I kept noticing how stressed I felt—rushing through sites as if checking items off a list rather than enjoying them fully. In Þingvellir National Park especially, my hurried pace must have seemed odd to others around me. When it hit me how rushed and frantic I'd become again, a thought crossed my mind: Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying this? 

That realization helped—at least somewhat—and things got better after that moment of awareness. Still, there were times when that sense of urgency crept back in; sometimes I managed to counteract it successfully. 

By mid-afternoon though—I’d had enough sightseeing for one day. Tired and craving rest before another night chasing lights—I decided on a nap instead of squeezing in more activities like visiting Reykjavík or hiking near volcanoes (questions like Am I missing out? lingered briefly). But ultimately—I reminded myself vacations are meant for enjoyment—not pressure-filled itineraries!

Despite intending two restful hours' sleep prepped for nighttime adventures ahead—the mounting anticipation left me restless instead; unable-to-sleep led-to researching Facebook groups/apps learning meteorological data improving odds witnessing auroras firsthand! 

Nightfall arrived; harbor-bound awaited spectacle alongside fellow hopefuls parked nearby nervously counting-down minutes stretching eternity-like… 

And then—they appeared! 

For-the-first-time-ever I witnessed Northern-Lights. This was electrifyingly, surreal, awe-struck and overwhelming. Pure-magic that made me forget all my stress from before.

Over the course of the evening, I felt the tension slowly dissipate. Later, I joined a guided tour I had booked the day before, and once again, I saw the Northern Lights. 

By 4:30 AM, I was finally in bed. 

Ich war erschöpft. Müde und ausgelaugt. 

I was utterly exhausted—physically drained but also mentally worn out. The past few weeks had been overwhelming. I had been traveling a lot for work. My grandmother had passed away, and I hadn’t taken a single day to properly grieve. I was working on my book. I had started a new job. And on top of it all, I was trying to stick to a routine of exercising every other day.

I could feel how all of this was taking its toll on me.

But when I saw the Northern Lights, it felt as though a piece of that weight had finally lifted off my shoulders. Gradually, I drifted off to sleep. 

The next day, I had planned a spa day at the Blue Lagoon. Tired but content, I made my way there. 

At first, the same pattern repeated itself—I wanted to see everything, try everything, and capture every moment. In doing so, I completely forgot why I had come in the first place: to relax. To enjoy the thermal baths. 

Bit by bit, I tried to remind myself of that purpose. I went into the sauna, wrote a few postcards, and read a book. Slowly but surely, I began to feel more at ease.

Looking back now at the past few days and weeks, I realize that while I only had one binge-eating episode during this time, I definitely resorted to other (unhealthy) coping mechanisms to manage my stress and emotions. 

I posted excessively on Instagram to mask my feelings of loneliness. 

I worked 12-hour days to feel important at work.

I leaned heavily on my friends and my partner—expecting them, perhaps unfairly, to make me feel better. 

My screen time last week averaged 7.5 hours per day.

Sure, some of that included using Google Maps and other navigation apps—but normally, my daily screen time doesn’t exceed 2–3 hours. 

Without even realizing it, I had replaced emotional eating with other distractions—all aimed at avoiding my inner tension and restlessness. At avoiding feelings of grief, anger, inadequacy, and self-doubt. All of which I was trying to suppress.

And now, as I sit here writing these words, it’s becoming crystal clear: I need a break. I need to take care of myself. 

To stop myself from spinning out of control again. 

To avoid turning back to food for comfort.

To prevent burning out entirely.