As Far / As Close by Danmarks Medie- og Journalisthøjskole

AS FAR/ AS CLOSE

Cover photo by Minoo Hassanzadeh

Intro text by Rhiannon Johnston

The inside of the dust cover is a collection of images that we had to let go – our “killed darlings”.

Printed in Denmark in 2024

A heartfelt thank you to Gitte Luk, Søren Pagter, Lars Bai of DMJX and to everyone who trusted us with their stories.

They couldn’t be told without you.

AS FAR/ AS CLOSE

We came into these people’s lives seeking trust and understanding.

While we picked up our cameras, to attempt to document their lives.

Those within these pages shared with us their stories of acceptance, struggle, community, and belonging.

As you flip through these pages, we hope you will pause in the comfort of your own space this in itself is a privilege.

By Tėja Kalpokaitė

Hydia Jackson

Minoo Hassanzadeh

Hassan Kamil

Anna Mensing

Sil Moison

Rhiannon Johnston

Lara Habor

Katja Hasenöhrl

A Life Lived Deliberately

by Tėja Kalpokaitė

From a rural childhood to a life steeped in routine and resilience, Onute Kalpokiene finds beauty in everyday rituals and strength in her deep roots. “You know, I’m ready to leave life, but when I see this beauty, it’s really painful thinking I won’t see it again.”

Life‘s hardships have been balanced by quiet rituals ‒ a cup of coffee, a walk in the forest, and the steady rhythm of her own being.

The familiar, comforting coffee aroma fills up the small cozy flat in Druskininkai, Lithuania. The rooms have blooming flowers in each corner, and Onute’s Kalpokiene’s prized collection of rocks is one of the first things that can be noticed upon entering, as well as squeaky clean linens, and the feeling of peace and safety. It seems that Kalpokiene has been ritually drinking coffee forever, a gentle habit that with each unwavering detail births her days. It is always the same cup, the same brew, the same steady and gentle hand movements,

and most importantly, the same teaspoon. The same yellowish thick metal teaspoon that looks as old as Kalpokiene, but which her once alive son, Rimondas Kalpokas, gave her. It is a simple, sometimes redundant practice, but it is her quiet tribute to a life lived deliberately. She was born in Lithuania just as the Second World War was coming to an end and allies were liberating Europe from the nazis. The Russians were occupying countries on their way, Lithuania among many others. A massive deportation began as thousands of people were forced to leave their homes on trains built for animals, and those who remained, were forced to work for the state; the farmers were all moved into collective farms with most of their possessions being confiscated. Kalpokiene found herself in one of those forced soviet collective farms, but she never let that define her and pushed on with difficult studies and life’s challenges. Now she finds beauty in small things, learns, and teaches others to appreciate life.

More than a third of Lithuania is covered in serene forests and Druskininkai is one of the most abundant towns of this resource. Kalpokiene loves walking through it. Whether she wants to go to the city centre, the shops or even into her garden, she begins each morning walking through the woods; it is a habit as sacred as her coffee. Today the air smells of pine resin, fresh air and freedom that makes the head dizzy. In early morning, Kalpokiene greets sun rays that barely reach her through the tops of the Pines, there is a myriad of squirrels shimmering around, and harmoniously arguing birds. The cold air touches her face and makes her cheeks red as she tries to grasp the beauty with all her senses.

“When I’m happy, I go to the forest to make the moment last longer. And when I need to cry, I walk until I feel better,” says Kalpokiene. The world has changed around her, but Kalpokiene’s routines bring a sense of permanence. After her walk, she often spends time in her garden. Despite her age, she insists on doing all the work herself, dig up soil, water the plants and weed out invaders. Each year after the harvest she thinks of stopping and passing on the work, but when spring comes, she is delighted to once again touch the soil.

Every Wednesday and Friday, Onute Kalpokiene goes to a women’s dance class in Druskininkai. Here they dance different types of dances, and then they meet for coffee afterwards.

Keep moving

Her blue jacket scuffs against the metal bars of the outdoor exercise machines. The weather is already below 10 degrees, and it looks like it could rain any minute. There are only a few people in the stadium, when Kalpokiene, with a stern look on her face, starts doing backbends. “I stopped doing this for a couple of years, but I missed it”. Kalpokiene does not like to stand out from the crowd too much or to be gossiped about.

“They say I’m too old to be exercising like this, and I took it to heart, but I really should not, so here I am.”

Her mother lived to be one hundred, and Kalpokiene plans to do the same. She thinks that as long as she moves, she is alive. “I’ve learned that no matter what happens, the body remembers how to keep moving forward,” the elderly woman says as she gets ready to run around the stadium.

When Kalpokiene returns home, she often sits in her small kitchen. She speaks with her plants. “Some days, they’re my best company. I love being around people, but I feel like trees understand me more.”

In the evenings, Onute rests, a quiet contentment settling over her. She reads or watches TV; her life now is quieter than it once was, but she does not mind. As she often says, “The past should be left behind, you must live in the present.”

The past is still there

When she walks in the forest, Onute often reflects on her life, memories drifting into her mind with each step. Her thoughts travel back to the village, to the long, cold walks to school, and to those first overwhelming days in Vilnius. She thinks of her husband, of her four children, of her son Rimondas. Even in moments of deep nostalgia, she says she doesn’t cling to the past. Instead, she lets these memories wash over her.

Her parents never went to school, they did not learn to read or write, nor about the knowledge of the world. Life was centered around survival, and that was the case for their parents and their parents’ parents. For as long as it could be traced back, they were born to work the land.

The family lived in a small house, which Kalpokiene’s parents built with theire own hands, without running water or electricity. They burned little sticks for light. All five of them lived in the same room, the three children slept in the same bed. Kalpokiene has not felt like that is her home since she left it at sixteen, but when she smells a bar of handmade soap, happiness fills her body as it reminds her of being a little girl lovingly washed with the soap that her mother made.

Kalpokiene’s father was disabled in the war, so her mom was the breadwinner, earning half a bag of grain for a full year of work, and sometimes had to risk her life stealing potatoes and anything that she herself grew from the collective farm to survive, so the little girl was always at least a little bit hungry.

“I can’t recall a lot from my childhood” she says in her soft, nurturing voice, “We played with sticks, danced to keep warm, on Christmas Eve we baked a little poppy seed bread. We’d eat carrots straight from the ground and pick mushrooms. I remember my father moving slowly and my mother always rushing and running.”

It would have seemed that her family’s destiny was patiently waiting for Kalpokiene, too. Getting an education would not have been a priority for practically anybody in that situation. After all, her older brother worked the land his entire life, and her sister finished six years at school. Yet there Onute was at the ripe age of six, marching four kilometres each way to school, six days a week. It was not so bad in early autumn or late spring, but her determination was unfathomable when the temperature reached minus twenty degrees or colder, and Kalpokiene did not have adequate shoes. Now as an adult she misses those days when the snow was just perfectly laid, with the sun being caught in little grains of water and snowflakes gently landing on her face and hair. Even now when the first snow falls, Kalpokiene walks barefoot in it Her friends often join her and they march together through the woods, reliving what was once a peaceful everyday occurrence. Onute Kalpokiene never quit school, not after the sixth class, and not after the eleventh class when she finished high school and went to college.

Onute Kalpokiene, her daughter-in-law, Neringa Kalpokiene, and grandson Kajus Kalpokas visiting the house in Panara, the village where she grew up.

taken in the 60s during a summer break when Kalpokiene returned home to Panara from her studies in Vilnius.

Photo

Bound to help

As she sits with a cup of coffee reminiscing about life, she says she does not understand her own determination and how her life played out.

“It felt as if one day I just woke up in a new bed, in a completely new city, with strangers around me,” she says, outlining her further education years.

“When I first arrived in Vilnius, I was with my cousin. There were many cars, and the buildings were so big. I was from the village and had never seen such things. I don’t remember much, apart from sitting on a bench for a very long time.”

There were twelve girls in one small room. It had whitewashed walls, spring beds, and each girl had a small cupboard. There was

no kitchen, and they did not need one, since they usually just ate milk and bread and maybe some cheese once a month. There were showers next door, with cold water only.

“I was really embarrassed that I went there without a winter coat, and my professor bought one for me. I never really went dancing or left the house much since I didn’t have anything to wear, but I enjoyed studying, and I don’t know how, but we never had arguments, us girls.” Kalpokiene says. In those days the girls would come together and sing, since one of the roommates had an accordion.

After her studies, Kalpokiene went on to become a nurse. She enjoyed the work as she was and always will be bound to help anybody, from a dying person to a wilting flower. As she finishes her coffee, her short yellow hair starts falling into her face and she smiles, “The past has its place, but it’s today that we live.”

Calm In Motion

by Hydia Jackson

The soft thrum of music pulses through the night air, drawing passers-by toward the warm glow spilling from the windows of Flying Felines Studio. The last students of the night slip onto the quiet street in North Aarhus, their footsteps fading along the polished wooden floor until the door clicks shut, leaving the studio steeped in calm silence.

Only 27-year-old Iris Karremans remains, with ten gleaming poles standing around her, waiting. She stretches, feeling her muscles awaken, as anticipation replaces any lingering fatigue from a long day of teaching. These late-night sessions are sacred to her, a rare time set apart from the business of instructing and managing the studio, a quiet retreat where she can focus purely on her own rhythm and flow.

Six months ago, Iris opened Flying Felines Studio with a vision: to build a community that fosters learning, support and personal growth, the same qualities that first drew her into pole dancing. Her journey began when she was 16, lured by the freedom of a non-traditional sport. From that first class, she was captivated, and over the years, pole dancing became woven into every part of her life, growing from a hobby into a calling. Now, her days are full of planning, organizing, adjusting equipment, and guiding students through their own journeys on the pole. But at night, with the studio empty and music filling the air, this is her time.

Her soft yet defined muscles glisten under the dim golden lights as she begins her routine, each movement deliberate, her body aligning with the slow, atmospheric beat she’s chosen. She raises a hand, fingers brushing the cold metal of the pole, and with a brief breath of concentration, she glides into motion. Her foot grazes the ground, then the other follows in a swift push, lifting her off the floor in a graceful ascent. There’s a delicate rhythm to her practice, a sense of soft, seamless transitions as she leans into each trick, allowing her body to flow like a ribbon, stretched and released with each beat. Her face, calm and focused, reflects no sign of strain or distraction; there is only Iris and the pole, moving as one.

Pole dancing also offers Iris a way to manage her ADHD. Often, she experiences what she calls “scatterbrain” ‒ an endless juggling of thoughts, rarely settling on a single task for long. But when she’s on the pole, her mind quiets, her focus sharpens, and she finds a rare sense of calm. “Sometimes there’s just too much going on in my brain, but when I pole, I only focus on pole,” she says. Pole dancing is her version of meditation, a place where her restless energy can settle into the rhythm and physicality of each movement. Her style ‒ a blend of sensuality and contemporary expression ‒ emerges as her own meditation, each motion an outlet for her mind.

“It’s like how some people can sit down and meditate,” she says. “When I’m on the pole, my brain finally shuts up.”

The soft thud of her phone on the couch echoes faintly through the empty studio, marking the start of another track, her signal to continue. Her moves are fluid and expressive, her limbs tracing the air in sweeping arcs, her body pressing and pulling against the pole as she transitions seamlessly from one position to the next. A look of serene focus remains on her face, her gaze steady. The studio, bathed in muted light, becomes a sanctuary where she can exist without distraction, letting her mind pour into the music, the choreography, the sensation of every hold and release.

Yet, this intense focus sometimes pushes her too far. Injuries, from torn hamstrings to shoulder strains, have held her back and even forced her to take breaks from training.

“There’s hardly a day where I’m not touching the pole or doing something pole-related,” she says. It’s a constant in her life, providing both discipline and a sense of calm, helping her manage the challenges of ADHD. She’s had to learn to listen to her body, an essential lesson in a sport that can test physical limits daily.

“With ADHD, it’s hard to recognize your limits,” she says. “I’ve torn my hamstrings seven times, and I’ve damaged my shoulders from overtraining.” Now, she makes it a priority to pass this wisdom on to her students, stressing the importance of injury prevention and the need to understand their own body signals.

For Iris, pole dancing provides not only mental and physical relief but also a sense of stability and purpose.

“Before I found pole dancing, I would drink a lot. I didn’t take pole seriously until I was 21,” she says. “If pole goes away, I’ll need something new to hyper-fixate on; otherwise, I´ll go back to drinking.”

Her commitment to her practice is unwavering; each session offers her a chance to push her limits and reconnect with herself. Pole dancing is her sanctuary, it keeps her grounded.”

WHERE THE FOG SETTLES

Minoo Hassanzadeh

The air is thick with mist, casting a hazy shroud over the world. The tips of tall buildings fade into the grey, while the vibrant red of the Hus Forbi building stands out like a beating heart, pulsating through the fog. The strains of Pink Floyd’s Hey You drift softly through the air, mingling with the sounds of construction echoing in the background. In front of the building, a group of people sit together, relishing their morning beers and cigarettes, laughter punctuating the quiet. Others slip inside for a hot cup of coffee, seeking warmth from the cool, damp morning. This is what a cold autumn morning looks like in Sydhavnen, a blend of the ordinary and the extraordinary, where moments feel suspended in time.

Throughout the day, a diverse cast of people gather in Sydhavnen, in the south of the harbour in Aarhus, Denmark. A grandfather, a restaurant chef, a former refrigerator factory worker, a music student who didn’t finish his education, a sex worker, a fisherman… each of them arrives with a different history, shaped by unique experiences and choices. Here, they find common ground drawn by unseen threads of loss and resilience. They’ve each known gains and losses, moments of connection and isolation. They’ve struggled through hardships, yet they continue to persevere, finding in each other a silent solidarity in the face of life’s shifting tides.

Lars, who was once a sailor, is one of them, sitting on a platform, as calm as the beach on a sunny day. He has a small red guitar and seems to be murmuring something to it. He lived on his boat, his home for 14 years, before selling it, and he’s been coming here for the past three years. Roger joins him, taking Lars’s guitar to play a song. They start singing together, and Roger immediately lights a cigarette. I ask him why he’s here today. With a tone full of sincerity, he speaks of losing two of his cousins this week, and grief has overwhelmed him. His sentences are short and repetitive, each one reflecting the heaviness of his heart and the struggle to articulate his pain. Though he knows people elsewhere in town, he feels a stronger connection with his community here, where he can express himself freely. It’s as if his heart has been wounded. Needing to be around others, he decided a few hours ago to go out. Sharing his pain with his friends has made him feel much better.

’’Unlike with conservative people who avoid acknowledging suffering, here i can roll a joint, smoke, and find comfort with friends,’’ Roger says. After spending time with them, he returns home feeling better, knowing he has done something positive.

Hus Forbi stands as a beacon of hope for homeless and socially marginalized individuals. This Danish organization provides essential support services, including social assistance, offering a legitimate means for people to earn an income, for example by selling the newspaper Hus Forbi. Open daily from 9 AM to 8 PM, welcoming a diverse array of visitors some stopping by for a brief respite, others lingering for the whole day. The association’s expenses are covered by sales of the Hus Forbi newspaper, calendar, income from quotas, public and private grants, contributions and advertising income.

The old lady says about her friend Tak: “People throw out plants because they think they’re dead. But he revives them, takes them home, gives them love, and they grow and grow.’’

It’s almost noon, and the smell of French fries drifts outside Hus Forbi. More people are coming and going. Christina, formerly homeless, is in the kitchen talking to the staff. Mari sits by the window, applying makeup to get ready for work. The sound of a ping-pong ball blends with the voice of the news anchor on TV, and a hum of scents and sounds fills the air in the house. Lars Christensen, who works as a social worker here, says, ‘’Here we have social counsellors. Every day, they help you with coffee or anything else you need. You can get three meals a day, as well as clean needles and pumps. We even have people coming in from Aalborg. It’s like a hospital in many ways. You can choose where you want to go. We also have clothing if you need a pair of socks, underpants, or a jacket, it’s all here. You get a lot of help here.’’

The sound of an ambulance can be heard in the distance. An old man has overdosed in the small nearby park, and a few staff rush outside to help him. Silence fills the house. In front of the house, David sips his first beer of the day, talking to Pinky and trying to calm her. She’s upset because her electricity supply at home has been cut off, her housemate is nowhere to be found, and she’s at a loss for what to do. Meanwhile, David’s phone keeps ringing because he’s looking for a job.

He says, “I’m so tired of having nothing to do. I’m tired, man.”

Suddenly, the sound of cheering and screams can be heard. A group of people have gathered on the other side of the street, behind the Skraldecafeen café, to watch football.

SydhavnsPedeller (janitors) is a working community where socially exposed people can participate in cleaning and maintenance tasks. The janitors are paid and work three days a week. Between 5-8 people are hired per working day.

Where Past and Present Converge

Just across the street, Skraldecafeen operates with a mission of sustainability and social inclusion. This community café addresses both environmental and social challenges by repurposing surplus food into nourishing meals, significantly reducing food waste. Open from 10 AM to 4 PM, it offers a warm and inviting space where everyone, especially those from marginalized backgrounds, can enjoy healthy meals crafted from rescued ingredients. The café serves as a meeting point for sharing stories, building connections, and participating in workshops focused on sustainability and cooking. This not only fosters social interaction but also equips individuals with valuable skills that enhance their employability, strengthening the fabric of this vibrant community. The association is financed by donations and funds.

Alexandra is one of the volunteers who comes here every day, even on weekends. Sometimes her little son, Ivan, accompanies her. She loves baking cakes, and the smell of her cakes often fills the air. She enjoys being here and cares deeply for the people who come. This is evident from her words and the sparkle in her eyes. She believes these people are valuable and unique, just as unique as the people passing by on the street or working in successful jobs. “They’ve faced the wrong people throughout their lives, which has broken them down. We all are somehow broken, and, in a way, we are all standing up and trying to fight every day,” Alexandra says.

The world outside may often seem indifferent, yet here, within these walls, acceptance reigns. Everyone here form a fragile support network that ebbs and flows, like the tide, ever-present but never stagnant. As dusk envelopes the city, the laughter and stories crescendo. In this small corner of Aarhus, where lives intersect, each person is a vital note in a complex arrangement unique yet united. They remind each other that it’s okay to be broken, to be healing, to seek connection amidst the chaos of life.

Breathing practice is on this week’s schedule at Sydhavnens Gadeteater (street theatre), a cultural project where the socially exposed people in Sydhavnen in Aarhus are invited to participate in an equal and empowering collaboration to create music and theatre performances that take a starting point in their own lives, themes, stories, places and experiences from Sydhavnen.

by Hassan Kamil

Between

the Longing of the Soil and the Sun

At times, I struggle with feelings of guilt when I think of my family in Sudan and the millions enduring the brutal consequences of a conflict they did not instigate. I was alone, burdened by the weight of my thoughts amid the stunning landscapes of Aarhus, Denmark, until the day I discovered a Sudanese community in Aarhus. This marked a significant turning point in my brief time here. I’m grateful to my newfound friend, Aamir, who welcomed me into this lively and engaging network of individuals from the community.

Nine years ago, my friend Aamir embarked on a perilous journey to Denmark, bravely crossing the Mediterranean Sea in search of a better life in Europe. He fled Sudan due to the brutal conflict in Darfur. During his ordeal, Aamir spent four harrowing days lost in the Sahara Desert, yet he persevered until he reached Libya. Unfortunately, upon arriving in Libya, he encountered even more instability and violence, which thwarted his attempts to

find work or settle down. Undeterred, Aamir made his way to Tripoli and then set his sights on Italy. Along this dangerous route, he and his friends split into two boats to navigate the Mediterranean. Tragically, while one boat arrived safely with Aamir aboard, five of his Sudanese companions perished during the journey. After a few weeks he left Italy and went to Denmark. Now residing in Denmark as a refugee, Aamir successfully learned the language and landed a job at McDonald’s years ago. Inspired to build a better future, he pursued higher education at Aarhus University, where he earned a bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering. However, he has yet to obtain permanent residency status, a situation that weighs heavily on him. Aamir perceives Denmark’s policies as restrictive towards refugees, which creates psychological strain and prompts him to contemplate relocating to another country.

From the conversations with people from the Sudanese community, I find all of us connected by a shared sentiment. Although our family situation and origin vary, we are united by a mutual concern. This worry revolves around the on-going war in Sudan, a conflict that has persisted for over 18 months. It feels akin to walking on an unhealed wound ‒ every time we receive news from Sudan or watch breaking news, that wound reopens, reminding us of our shared pain and hope. This war stands out from all previous conflicts in Sudan’s history, having caused the displacement of over eight million people and transforming the capital into a desolate shadow of its former self. Tragically, the death toll has surpassed 60,000 across the nation. The spectre of famine casts a dark shadow over the land, leading the United Nations to classify Sudan as one of the most severe humanitarian crises currently unfolding.

The day after I met Aamir, I received an invitation to a Sudanese/Somali wedding. Throughout the ceremony, everyone I met radiated kindness, generosity, and a truly inviting atmosphere. The wedding felt like stepping into another realm ‒ vivid, lively, and infused with East African culture. It felt like home. The bride and groom are Danish of Sudanese and Somali descendent. The couple entered the hall dressed in traditional attire; the groom wore a Jalabia, a white men’s dress, while the bride donned a beautiful Toab, a traditional women’s dress, both representing the rich cultural heritage of Sudan. The atmosphere was lively, with guests dancing to a mix of music from various countries, creating

an intimate and joyful setting. Friends and family travelled from Sweden, the UK, and Norway to celebrate, and show their support of the bride’s father.

In the face of the distressing reality of the war, the only moments of relief come from social gatherings and efforts to raise funds to support those in need and their families back in Sudan. During a visit to Mohamed’s home, which closely resembled a typical Danish residence from the outside, both he and his wife greeted Aamir and me warmly, ensuring that we left with full appetites. During this gathering, we enjoyed delicious Eritrean dishes, accompanied by generous amounts of coffee.

At the onset of the unexpected conflict in Sudan, Aamir found himself away from his home country, struggling with the pressures of schoolwork and exams. To relieve his stress, he often sought refuge in Gellerup Hills, a place where he could find a moment of solace and regain his focus for the day ahead. For him and many other Sudanese, the path to living normally remains long and challenging, especially in the face of the on-going turmoil in our homeland. Nonetheless, the commitment to embrace life fully and remain grounded in the present persists as a guiding principle in their pursuit of a normal existence and a happy life. Or as the Sudanese writer Tayeb Salih put it “I want to take my rightful share of life by force, I want to give lavishly, I want love to flow from my heart, to ripen and bear fruit. There are many horizons that must be visited, fruit that must be plucked, books read, and white pages in the scrolls of life to be inscribed with vivid sentences in a bold hand.”

A SHELTER FROM THE MENTAL STORM

by Anna Mensing

Michelle is at the table eating her dinner. Bread with liver spread and tomatoes lie in front of her in the unfolded package she has brought with her. It is dark outside. The warm lights hanging above the dining table and the many tea pots standing on it tell that fall has arrived. It is Friday evening, and it is Michelle’s first day back from her trip to Hamburg with her boyfriend. She has never been more in love, she says. Her eyes are sparkling as she takes another bite of her bread. She was so excited to tell everyone in this house about her experiences.

“I love to share how happy I am because they are like my family here.”

She meaningfully lowers her voice, “Every single person in this house is like my family.” A tear is coming from the corner of her eye, and she laughs. “These are happy tears,” she says and finishes her dinner.

Gallo Kriserådgivning in downtown Aarhus is a place for everyone in need of company or urgent mental support. Michelle has been coming here for years. She has faced many challenges in her life, like being in a wheelchair and bringing herself back to walking. She transitioned from being a man to a woman. After her husband died five years ago, she fell into a depression. Now she has her own radio station, a unique medium hosted by a transgender person with a disability. Today, Michelle is in the happiest state she has ever been, she says. “This house saved my life.”

The Gallo Kriserådgivning was originally born from an unmet need for therapy and socializing outside of opening hours at established social services. It turned into a day-shelter for people who feel they cannot get enough specialized help from the mental healthcare system in Denmark. The need for psychological treatment and social support is rising whereas the offers by public institutions cannot keep up with that. In an article from DR (Danish Broadcast Corporation) from September this year, Danish Minister of Health Sophie Løhde acknowledges that the waiting times to see a psychiatrist have increased. A graphic shown in the same article illustrates that the waiting time has almost doubled since 2022.

This means that more people in critical conditions are left on stand-by, Steffan Frydkjær Schaumburg-Müller, leader of the institution, says. He has been working here for ten years. The people who come are not clients, users, or patients. They are guests, he says. Most of them stay for hours every day, and Gallo has become their second home. What brings them back is the community, that they are being accepted the way they are. “At this house, people can be human. They feel safe here.” Steffan says. It is a place where they are always welcome and do not have to be alone. Besides community and therapy talks they can get help with paperwork or appointment coordination. “It’s an offer for people who need a bit of extra help,” he says. Henning, another guest, has been coming to the house for three years now. He always sits on the same chair at the big dining table in the kitchen, drinking hot tea or playing domino. He wears a huge brown coat, and a heavy silver cross around his neck. Silently, he watches people coming and going. It is Wednesday, the day of common dinner. Staff members and volunteers cook a meal, and the guests can eat together for 20 Dkk.

“I could never cook a meal at home for that small amount of money.” Henning says. He has been homeless for five years and has been diagnosed with PTSD. He has had some help from the Psychiatry, but it was inadequate.

There are not enough offers from social services, he thinks. “I don’t know where I would be without this House.”

According to an article from the European Psychiatric Association from August 2023, every four of documented illnesses in Denmark are mental illnesses. That exceeds cancer and cardiovascular diseases. Nevertheless, the healthcare and psychiatry sector are being highly criticized for not offering enough access to treatment and for the quality of therapy. In 2022, the Danish government decided to improve the psychiatry system with a 10-year plan which promises changes of laws and a higher budget to guarantee more help for people with mental illnesses. But so far nothing has happened. Among others there is still no annual report on the course of the plan as promised, and according to an article from Dansk Psykologforening right after the 10-yearplan was launched, too little of the money goes to direct work with people who need mental and social support.

“We have not seen much of a change since 2022,” Steffan claims.

Gallo is a self-governing private institution, which does not get much money from the municipality of Aarhus. It survives with the help of private sponsors and funding.

“Our goal is to be stable without the small amount of money we receive from the municipality. We are not highly prioritized, and it is uncertain if and how much support we can rely on in the future,” says Steffan.

Sara has been a regular to the Gallo House since 2018 and is the youngest of all guests. Sara is not her real name, but due to her paranoia disease she wants to be anonymous, because she is afraid of the consequences after sharing her experiences. The 22-yearold philosophy student from Aarhus is not happy, either, with the insufficient help from the Psychiatry and is criticizing the Danish

mental healthcare system. Not only the lack of financial support for institutions is an issue, but also lack of available options or quality when it comes to psychological treatment.

As she puts it,“I wish there was a place like Gallo where young people can get together,” she says. When she spends time in the house, she likes to talk to the volunteers, who are mostly psychology students her age. For the last five years she has been in psychiatric treatment and has had several different diagnoses. With every new diagnosis, she had to change therapists and medication plan. She feels like she is being treated as her diagnosis, and not as a human. The lack of trust in the therapists, after constant change of treatment, leads her to consider moving to another country for psychological help.

“It is not enough here.” Sara says.

Not all guests have negative experiences with therapists, though. Gallo Kriserådgivning has been recommended to Thomas by his former mentor. After being diagnosed with depression, the 61-year-old decided to visit the house and has been coming here ever since. His latest therapist changed his life, he happily reports. By reconnecting to his body and screening every single part of it from within, he was able to heal his depression, he says. He closes his eyes and follows the path of connection with his hands around his head. “It was just gone.” Thomas laughs.

The living room is filled with people. Guests and volunteers sit together on a couch, knitting and talking. Others play board games around one of the small tables, a man sits in front of the computer and plays an online-game. The phone rings and Hanna, a volunteer, takes the phone and walks up the stairs to the therapy rooms. The carefully decorated rooms offer some privacy apart from the other guests. Every room is individually designed by a colour theme and guests can choose their room depending on their favourite colour.

Next to free and anonymous talk therapy in person, Gallo Kriserådgivning also offers telephone counselling. Sometimes people call just to say that they’ve had a wonderful day and are on their way home from work. Then Hanna only stays upstairs for ten minutes and comes back with a smile on her face. Other times, the phone counselling takes an hour. People mostly talk about daily problems, but as they are often mentally ill, their problems look different than the ones we have, Hanna says. Often people who call in, feel calmer and better after phone counselling. “It is important that someone cares for you. At Gallo we do that. We care about everyone who comes to our house. No one should feel left alone, sitting at home with no one to talk to,” says Hanna. When they come to Gallo, they can be humans. Somebody offers them tea, they get to talk to others and someone is cooking for them. They are cared for in a way. They can leave their heaviness on the doorstep and focus on the light and fun aspects of life, like playing games, chatting to friends and drinking coffee.

Johnny and Tina are freshly married. Guests and staff from Gallo Kriserådgivning attended the wedding, and Jane, part of the leading team, was their maid of honour. The married couple visits the house multiple times a week and loves it there. Tina is usually knitting or chatting to others, while Johnny plays chess online. Back in the days, he attended chess championships. Both suffer from strokes in the brain and wear the Sunflower Lanyards around their neck, an official sign for hidden disabilities.

Building Relations Brick by Brick

by Sil Moison

The community grounds seem dark and lifeless. Here and there, carts and toys are scattered on the ground, and the sandboxes are full of sand shaping little objects. The yellow and white houses show the soft contour of the people living inside. But they are not inside their own houses.

Voices turn louder. People are gathered in the community house. They are having dinner together, as they do six times a week. John and his wife, Anne and her family, and Randi are sitting at different tables, waiting for the food to come, made by other members of the community. The room fills with different vocal tones, from young people, old people and children when they all join in singing a traditional Danish song.

And then they eat.

The people at the dinner table are all part of the co-housing community Sol og Vind (Sun and Wind), named after the windmill and solar panels they used to get their energy from. Sol og Vind is situated in Beder, twelve kilometres south of Aarhus. The co-housing community seems like a small village with a large community house and the two small squares with playgrounds as the primary gathering places. The different generations living there are included in the day by day activities, and particularly the children enjoy the car-free common areas and the many opportunities to find playmates right outside the door. The community includes twenty-seven houses and about eighty residents ranging from babies to people up to eighty. The emphasis is on getting to know each other and creating a strong sense of togetherness across all ages. Even the people who moved out are still good friends of the community.

House 9

John Grege Andersen, 78, moved in from the very beginning of the community forty years ago. He likes living here, but he is very aware of the changes of the community over the years. It is not only the community that changes, but also John himself.

“My wife and I are participating less and less, I don’t climb on high ladders to fix the roof as I would when I was younger. We are pensioners, we are at home when everyone else is at work.”

But John is still part of the community: He goes to a lot of social activities, bridge, golf, badminton and his sports bet club. He may not climb on the roof anymore, but he helps out in the community where needed.

John Grege Andersen lives in house 9

Cathrine Kiær lives in house 18

However, John misses a lot of his friends from the early days of the community, and the new generations do things differently than they used to.

“I always said I wanted to be carried out from here, but I am not so sure anymore. There is a limit to what the community can cope with. I think it is okay to get old in this community, if you can fend for yourself. Once you can’t, which happens eventually to a lot of us, it becomes too difficult for the community to bear. I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on the community.”

All in all, it has been a good forty years for John. “Looking back, I am really glad we built this. We got friends for life and especially our kids got friends for life. All children should have a chance to live like this.”

Birthing a community

In 1967, Danish journalist and feminist Bodil Graae wrote an op-ed in the Danish newspaper Politiken with the headline “All children must have 100 parents”. The intention of the article was to draw attention to the fact that children who are surrounded by many responsible and committed adults, with all their differences, get something unique. The article was the starting point for Denmark’s first wave of co-housing, incidentally as the first country in the world.

In 1976 three young nurses in Aarhus came up with the idea of living together with other families in one place. A lot of people responded, and the project needed to be split up into two groups. One in Beder and one in Hinnerup, west of Aarhus.

Not realising quite what the families had got themselves into, they made groups to start the project. Much needed to be done before people could actually live there. Having small children, work on the side and needing to build up these houses brick by brick, it was mentally and physically demanding. But they did it. Young families came together and birthed a community.

“We had planks of five meters for the woodwork of our ceilings, which needed to be transferred. But we didn’t have anything with wheels to transport them on. So, one of the moms grabbed her stroller and put the planks on there. While having a break she talked to another resident and moved the stroller up and down, slowly, as if she put the wood tenderly to sleep,” John says with a smile on his face.

We do it together

In the community people work together. Be it in the kitchen, taking care of the kids or something totally different, they do it all as a group.

When it’s time for the seasonal cleaning the residents meet in the morning and discuss what needs to be done. Cleaning the common area, cutting down the outgrown bushes and throwing old wood and plants away that were supposed to be fuel for the Midsummer bonfire.

“If just one or two people were supposed to clean this, they would have spent the whole day, now we do it in a few hours,” says Cathrine Kiær one of the residents who helped during the fall cleaning.

House 6

Anne Gry Hemmersam, 47, has lived here since she was 30. She came from an apartment in Aarhus with her two children and her husband, Thomas Bendsen, 50. But before coming here, Anne and Thomas tried to build a community of their own. Unfortunately, it did not work out, so they started looking for houses in the south of Aarhus and stumbled upon a house at Sol og Vind.

“We were in the playground, and I was saying to Thomas that I really liked this place. We talked to some people, who told us this place was a community, exactly what we were looking for. We looked at the house and bought it pretty quickly. It was such a lucky punch, because we did not expect to find a place like this here,” says Anne.

But getting to be a part of the community was not always easy.

“We in our family are not really natural social people, so it took some time to bond with the community. Our oldest son, Tobias, 21, also had some trouble with this, because the other kids were older than he was. So, he never really found a place in the group. I think it was healthy for him to grow up here, because he learnt some useful social skills, but I do not think he enjoyed living in a community.”

Their second child, Katrine, 19, was 2 years old when they moved to the community. She had more friends to play with when she was young.

“I still have some really good friends that I would not have if I didn’t live here. I also have a lot of friends in school, but it is not on the same level. The friends that I have from the community are more like family,” says Katrine. Their youngest child, Anders, 14, was born into the community, at a time when there weren’t that many small children.

“He was getting spoiled”, says Anne. “There was always an adult who gave him food and cuddled him.”

When people move out, there are often new young families moving in. So, more children came to the community for Anders to play with.

“I have four friends here and one really good friend named Aksel. We often play basketball together or play Counter-Strike on the computer. It’s fun to be with him,” says Anders. Now that the kids are growing up, the family is discussing what they could offer when their children move out.

“As long as we want to be a part of the community and put our energy in it, we could still live here. And we do that, we put energy in the community by being there, talking to people, helping at the communal dining, etc. But also things like Thomas fixing the bikes for everyone, and me being responsible for the bees,” says Anne.

But as Thomas says, when should they move out of the community, and leave their house to the next generation? Because to him it is really the children that drive Sol og Vind and make it the great place that it is. It is the children who get people outside to the common areas, it’s the children who are always at the common dinners.

“So, if you stay here without having young children then you should really consider your role in the community”, says Thomas, and Anne adds, “It might be a bit too early to become grandparents for the community. But leaving is not an option right now, we still love the community, we love our house, and we love Beder.”

Anne Gry Hemmersam lives in house

Eating in harmony

The community dinner is every day at 18:10, except Saturdays. Every house needs to sign up a day before dinner and put tags, with their house number, on the table where they want to sit that evening. There is also a pot in the kitchen where you can put your tag in if you want to eat at home.

“Some people in the community use this option more than others,” says Thomas. But on average about fifty people participate every night. Before every meal, the residents sing together. “Singing means a lot to the Danes. We would sing in school every day before class,”says Thomas.

The chef of the day, who leads the cooking for the common dinners, will choose the song for the evening.

House 2

Randi Jensen, 75, moved to Beder in 1981, she was 32 and came from Copenhagen. She loved Copenhagen in the 70’s, but she loved her husband more, so she moved to Sol og Vind to be with him.

Randi has found her role as the grandma of the community. She and her late husband, Tom, only had one child and no grandchildren. So, she can now put her energy in the children of the community. “I was a teacher, so I loved being around youngsters. I have been helping a lot of the kids in the community with their homework, German, Danish and so on,” says Randi. When she and Tom gave parties, they would invite the children, too, because it was lovely to have them around. They, in return, got invited as grandparents to the kids’ parties and confirmations. When Tom died, all the residents expressed their love for her and for Tom, especially the young people often came by.

“I am happy to live here, because when you lose your husband, you’re quite alone. Being alone at night and eating alone is very lonesome. But living in this community is so comfortable, because we eat together, and we live close to each other. My biological family is not that big, I have some friends in Copenhagen, but the people here are really my family.”

Both John and Randi know that they won’t be able to carry on like they did, but they are happy for the years already spent here, and they accept that a new generation is taking over.

“I would love to stay here forever, but I won’t stay if I can’t cope alone. I must be able to do something for the community. For example, I can still cook, look after the children and do things that grandmas do”, Randi says. “We have missed the small children here, watching them grow up brings new life into the community. My son never had any biological brothers or sisters, but because we lived here, he had many siblings.”

Randi Jensen lives in house 2

A Journey to

Acceptance

by Rhiannon Johnston

Soft morning light filters through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room. It catches on the cold metal and smooth rubber by Martin Jørgensen’s bed. Martin rubs his hands together, gazing at the blank ceiling above as he prepares for the familiar routine: the transition from his comfortable white mattress to the device he once resisted. He remembers the first time he stepped into a senior supply shop in his early 40s, reluctantly choosing a walking cane, a symbol he’d always associated with old age, not with himself. Reaching for it felt like crossing into a new life, one redefined by multiple sclerosis (MS). Eventually, the cane grew too heavy, like a burden pulling him down with every step. So, almost pragmatically, Martin accepted that his future wouldn’t include walking.

Now, the wooden floors in his home, once polished and flawless, are covered in track marks from his constant path. These marks remind him not just of where he is now, but of the journey he’s taken to get here. In the quiet, Martin closes his eyes for a brief moment

before, in a single motion, he swings his legs off the bed and maneuvers himself into the device that now defines his mobility.

Multiple sclerosis, or MS, is often categorized as, “the disease of a thousand faces”. Each person who is diagnosed with the chronic neurological condition experiences MS differently. Some experience psychological or cognitive symptoms, while others, like Martin, face physical challenges. In Denmark alone, 18,000 people live with MS, one of the highest rates worldwide according to The Danish Multiple Sclerosis Registry.

What began for Martin as a few stumbles here and there, soon turned to something more serious, a creeping numbness in his left shin that, one morning, spread until his entire leg could no longer support him. MS affects the brain and spinal cord (the central nervous system), which controls all bodily functions. In Martin’s case, the communication between his brain and leg muscles is impaired. Although his leg muscles are healthy, his brain no longer

sends the signals needed for them to move. “Going from walking to sitting in a wheelchair in four or five years, it’s like, ‘Wow,’” said Martin. “When that happens, you think, what will the next four or five years bring?”

After an initially aggressive progression following his diagnosis in 2007, his MS has slowed in recent years, allowing him to appreciate life’s smaller joys, especially time spent with his wife, Birgitte, his “Kæreste,” as he calls her affectionately. Together for nearly 44 years, they have become each other’s soulmates. “We fit well with each other,” Birgitte says. “I think we’re quite good at finding solutions.” From making huge life changes together, like moving from their original home where they raised their two boys, to a more accessible apartment, and finally to Ishøj, Birgitte has been there next to Martin as not his caretaker, but his supportive wife. “When he first got his diagnosis, I remember thinking, the worst part would be if he wouldn’t be the same person that I fell in love with, but he hasn’t changed much. He still forgets things like he always did. I think he’s the same person, but his body is not,” says Birgitte. “I was once a tall, agile, young man. And now, I’m an old guy with a potbelly in a wheelchair. I’m somebody else than I used to be,” says Martin.

Before Martin’s diagnosis, he and his wife raised their two boys, who are now in their thirties. Martin is grateful he had time with his kids before MS limited his mobility, allowing

them to travel without the challenges of a wheelchair. He also appreciates not having to raise young children while managing his condition. His sons remain supportive, the youngest often visiting to spend time with him and Birgitte.

Now, living alone, Martin and Birgitte’s routines differ: Birgitte, who works with kids with disabilities, gets up earlier, while Martin, who works from home, wakes up a few hours later. Yet, each night, they share a quiet joy as Martin insists on cooking dinner. In their small kitchen, Martin adapts to the towering countertops by creating a makeshift workstation on his lap, cutting fresh vegetables from their garden like parsley roots.

When boiling pasta, he scoots as close as he can to the stove to get a glance to make sure the pasta is boiling. The oven is another small challenge, and while he rarely asks for help, he sometimes braces himself to reach high enough to slide a tray in, as the oven is well above his height in his wheelchair.

Martin’s independent nature has remained strong despite his diagnosis. He describes himself as someone always adapting to life’s changes and looking at them through a pragmatic lens. Reflecting on the decision to start using a wheelchair, Martin says, “You know, if you can’t walk, your life begins in a wheelchair.” Since then, his life has seen several adaptations, including receiving a wheelchair-accessible van, which was paid for

by the Danish Healthcare System. The van provides space for both his wheelchair and Birgitte’s bike, allowing them to travel easier. Martin’s wheelchair is also lightweight enough for him to lift it in and out of the vehicle with one hand and use the other hand to chuck the car keys into a rotating seat, which he then sits into to drive.

He approaches these changes with optimism.

“I kind of look at the positive side, you know, I can park in disabled spots,” he jokes, “MS is my superpower, that’s what I’m really good at.”

At the grocery store, Martin often maneuvers through aisles without a basket, balancing items on his lap instead. On the streets, he navigates crowds smoothly, sometimes zooming past others with Birgitte speed-walking behind to keep up. She rarely has to push him but

shares in these moments, watching from nearby as they enjoy each other’s company.

Yet, despite his positive outlook, difficult moments persist. Twice a week, Martin attends physical therapy sessions. Though he knows his legs will never regain their full function, these sessions help maintain his muscles as much as possible. Over time, though, the disconnect between his brain and his legs grows, leaving him fatigued.

At home, Martin sometimes experiences a buzzing sensation in his fingers, which makes Birgitte worry about the future. After being together for so long, there are times when Birgitte feels that Martin may keep things to himself, to protect her rather than concern her for the future.

“He doesn’t always tell me when he feels it,” she says. “He just says, ‘It’s nothing.’ He’s not someone who talks much about himself or his feelings.”

“I’m just aware that it might become worse,” says Martin, “But, I don’t worry about my health and about all kinds of things. I have no reason to, and I try not to. The joy in my life is really just having a plain normal, stable, but still dynamic life.” But memories of his past sometimes come flooding back, too. He misses the joy of fishing, casting a line into the water with his friends’ laughter in the background. Though he can no longer fish like he used to, he has tried to adapt by using

a wheelchair-accessible pontoon boat. Yet, he’s also found peace and joy in simpler things, like being by the water, simply observing.

Nowadays, when he goes out in nature, there’ll be a hill or a tree trunk blocking the way, and he can’t go any further.

“I’ll just stop, and it might seem like I’m doing nothing, but I get into this meditative state, like I’m coming down, just being still. It’s very much like how I felt when I was fishing,” Martin says,

“I recognize this feeling when I’m just sitting there, looking at the horizon, in a forest, or anywhere really. It’s like clearing my head, It’s something I think is truly healthy,” Martin says.

As the warm light that welcomed Martin to the day fades behind the horizon and is replaced with the green hues from the couple’s fish tank in the living room, Birgitte embraces Martin, squeezing his arms and planting a huge kiss on the top of his head.

“Kæreste,” she says.

A few quiet glances pass between them, and a deep, familiar silence falls.

It’s a small ritual. Ordinary, yet comforting.

“These small moments are actually quite nice.

My wife and our relationship is really important and every day we agree that we have a nice life,” said Martin.

Where he once resisted every change, Martin now moves forward with quiet resilience. Simply beside Birgitte in their shared routines, or in the stillness of nature, Martin has found a deeper peace than he knew before.

IN THEIR OWN SKIN

Social norms, beauty standards and cultural expectations shape our self-perception.

Five stories, five perspectives, five voices go beyond self-image and reveal what it means to grow up with personal challenges, to cope with visible scars, to struggle with body dysmorphia or to find your own identity amid social pressures.

Lara Habor

Kora, 25

During childhood, Kora enjoyed a sense of freedom when it came to gender and identity. Their mother didn’t follow traditional roles, but created a home where Kora could feel at ease in who they were. But as they got older, they started feeling the weight of societal expectations. People began expecting certain behaviours and ways of dressing that didn’t fit Kora, because it made their freedom feel less like given and more like something they had to protect. Choosing baggy clothes and refusing to act in ways that were expected of girls, became part of a quiet rebellion. Kora says now that it was a way of saying, “I’m not who you think I should be.” They didn’t see it as bravery, more as a way to protect their true self when no one else seemed willing to let them be.

When Kora started university, things changed. Away from high school pressures, they found more space to be themselves. During this time, they came across the term “non-binary,” which felt like a revelation. It perfectly expressed their understanding that traditional gender constructs didn’t apply to them and that they didn’t identify strictly as a man or a woman. Kora had always sensed that the term “woman” didn’t quite fit, but until then, they hadn’t found the words to articulate that feeling.

Kora’s connection to their body has always been close and grounded. They don’t see their body through society’s lens of beauty or gender; instead, they feel it on a physical level. Being on the autism spectrum, they experience their body on an especially intense sensory level. They feel everything vividly. Their heartbeat, their breath, the sensations that run through their skin. This awareness is a source of calmness. In moments of stress, Kora finds calm by touching or squeezing their arms or hands, using their body as a way to self-soothe. But this awareness can also become overwhelming. Sometimes, sensations are too much, making Kora crave simplicity and calm. They find peace in quiet spaces, wearing soft fabrics, and limiting sensory input. Yet even in these moments, Kora sees their body as a home in which they can always return to themselves. For Kora, this journey isn’t about fitting into a category; it’s about finding harmony within and embracing the freedom to simply ’be’.

Marta, 24

Marta’s journey with her scars took off with rage and frustration. Initially, she felt intense anger toward those who openly stared at her scars. “People stare, oh my God, do they stare,” she says.

Marta hid her self-inflicted scars, always carrying a cover-up shirt, even on the hottest summer days. The negative reactions from others weighted heavily on her, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. This frustration was not just about her scars. She struggled with being defined by them rather than by her personality, “I wish they’d notice something else, like my curls, instead of fixating on my scars.” Her experiences ranged from long stares to invasive comments from strangers.

„The worst question is, ’What happened?’ It’s so frustrating! I usually just turn it back on them, asking, ‘What do you think happened?’ I refuse to explain my life to strangers.”

But as time went on, Marta´s view on her scars shifted. Her anger dissolved as she grew into a mindset of acceptance. She learned to appreciate them as a part of her journey and her uniqueness. “Now I actually feel comfortable, even proud. Being different makes me…me.”

Marta credits much of this shift to her supportive partner, whose unwavering acceptance made room for her to confront her scars without judgment. He helped her see her

body as whole, something not to be erased, but rather embraced in its complexity.

“I used to care so much about what others thought,” she says. “But my partner’s acceptance taught me that my scars don’t define me, they’re just a part of my story.“

Today Marta no longer hides her scars. When people stare, she finds herself less affected, even seeing it as a reminder of her resilience. Although anger was part of her path, it also led her toward confidence and self-empowerment. Her scars may catch people’s attention first, but for Marta, they are no longer the centre of her story, only a chapter that led her to where she is now.

Josephine’s relationship with her body has been complex since childhood, marked by insecurities and a constant struggle with selfimage. She became aware of her physique early on. A pivotal moment occurred when the school nurse weighed her and her classmates. When she returned to class and other children asked, “Oh, what do you weigh?” she felt the pressure and lied. “Everyone else weighed around 28 kilos, and I weighed 35 kilos”, Josephine recalls. This difference weighed heavily on her, and at eight, she started her first diet with a friend, “We decided to stop eating sweets and to exercise more.”

Despite having a loving and supportive family, Josephine developed an eating disorder by the age of ten. A hospital-stay further compounded this issue.

“When I was ten, I was hospitalized for the first time, not for an eating disorder, but at the hospital they told me I had an eating disorder. At ten, I didn’t know what that meant, so I began secretly changing my behaviour.”

This marked the beginning of a long journey through various diets and an ongoing inner battle that persisted into adulthood. Over time, Josephine also developed deep body dysmorphia.“

It was no longer just about being thin,” she says, “I just felt foreign in my body, as if something was inherently wrong with me.”

This alienation led to impulsive actions, such as the urge to remove skin blemishes with sharp objects, not out of vanity, but to “correct” her body. “I just wanted to cut parts of my body off,” she explains.

Her drawings, often depicting distorted bodies, reflect her dysmorphic perception.

“Sometimes I draw myself, and then the image turns into something strange,” she says about her sketches. Her art provides a deep insight into her inner world, where she processes the struggle with her body and the desire to distance herself from it. “It’s like I fantasise about getting rid of body parts, even though I know it’s absurd,” she explains.

Today, Josephine reflects on her long journey

with her body image. She says that she can accept her body if she doesn’t constantly make it the centre of her thoughts. “The only thing that helps is not always thinking about it. I just want to have a normal relationship with my body,” she says. Although this path is not easy and the inner struggle persists, there are phases when she feels she succeeds in freeing herself from the constant thoughts about her body.

Paula, 22

From a young age, Paula felt immense pressure to conform to specific beauty and body standards dictated by those around her. Her sister’s focus on thinness and strict dietary control significantly shaped Paula’s self-image. She recalls participating in a group chat with other women, where they were encouraged to follow extreme diets and frequently reported their meals and weight, further reinforcing these harmful norms. Moving from Latvia to Denmark marked a turning point in Paula’s life. This change has profoundly impacted her relationship with her body, as she distanced from those early influences. Paula feels liberated to define her own standards of health and beauty. This change has given her the opportunity to explore what feels right for her, rather than merely trying to fit in.

Social media complicates this journey, though. Paula appreciates platforms like Instagram and TikTok for their creative potential but also recognizes the toxic atmosphere they can create. While she admires the confidence some display, Paula is aware of the pressure these images impose. When she feels good about herself, she can view these accounts without being affected. Yet, in vulnerable moments, such as when she’s feeling down or critical of

herself, she finds it easy to get caught up in comparison, which sometimes leads to negative self-criticism.

Paula has established meaningful daily routines that nurture her well-being. Each morning, she identifies three things that will bring her joy, whether it’s wearing a favourite outfit, preparing a comforting drink, or practising mindfulness through breathing exercises. These rituals help create a positive space, allowing her to prioritise her needs and cultivate a sense of self-acceptance. Paula is determined to build a strong connection with her body, free from external pressures, and to find confidence and acceptance from within. However, when Paula returns home to Latvia, she notices that she falls back into familiar patterns. She becomes more self-critical and sensitive to comments about her weight. The influence of her surroundings at home pulls her back into old habits, making it difficult to maintain a healthy mindset. These trips serve as reminders of how deeply her environment affects her view of herself, often challenging the progress she’s worked hard to achieve.

Amelia, 30

With her Mauritian heritage, Amelia’s darker skin tone and thicker body hair often set her apart from the European beauty ideals around her. This contrast became even more prominent during puberty when her polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) intensified these features. PCOS is a hormonal disorder that can cause excess body hair, irregular periods, and other physical symptoms. She recalls feeling pressure to conform to beauty routines.

“Bleaching moustache hair or straightening my hair wasn’t even a question, it was just part of the routine.”

During adolescence, Amelia often felt distanced from her body, adhering to beauty standards yet growing increasingly resentful of them. In her twenties, however, Amelia began to openly question these norms.

Engaging in feminist and queer spaces provided her to embrace her natural appearance without judgment. This journey through self-exploration allowed her to let go of the need to alter herself for acceptance. Today, Amelia has built a peaceful and affirming relationship with her body. She speaks of finding “quiet peace” within herself, an absence of the critical inner voice that once drove her to conform. Embracing her body fully, she no longer feels compelled to meet external standards. In her work with women in retreats and workshops, she draws on her own journey to connect deeply with others, offering a space where they can confront their own relationship with self-image. For Amelia, selfacceptance is no longer a challenge but a daily, quiet affirmation of gratitude and authenticity.

RACING AGAINST HER OWN TIME

by Katja Hasenöhrl

A warm breeze with a mixed smell of chlorine, shampoo and French fries is blowing out of the ventilation shafts of the red brick building that holds the Frederiksberg swimming hall in the centre of Aarhus. Indistinct chatter is bouncing off the walls and a lot of young athletes in swimming club jerseys stretch and flex their muscles down the neon-lit entrance hallway. A lively hullabaloo of eastern Jutland youngsters, who have come together to compete over four days. Among the uniform looking swimmers with their broad shoulders, dark sports suits, alien goggles and slick caps is 18-year-old Freja Kvist, a talented swimmer from Ebeltoft, who will start her race around 11am.

On the billboard Freja’s name and number appear: She walks up to her starting position, calm and focused, stretches her arms and splashes her bathing suit with water. Some of the other competitors hit their big biceps and barrel chests with their flat hands to enhance blood circulation in a way that looks intimidating, almost painful.

There comes the sign from the referees –Ready? – the music stops, the crowd turns silent in attention, the competitors step up onto their starting blocks – Set? The swimmers simultaneously squat – a bloodcurdling honk tears the tense atmosphere: Go! Freja cuts through the air and her streamlined body pierces the water surface like an arrow.

The athletes plow through the pool, heads and arms pop up and down at a breathtaking speed until their bodies dissolve in ten parallel rocket trails of splashing water. Freja is the only para swimmer competing for Aarhus today and in this moment all eyes are set on her. The arena vibrates and the volume rises again. A commentator mentions her name: She has broken her own record! A big applause rouses from the rows of spectators. She gasps for air, rises up her head and smiles, slowly drifting over the lanes to the pool ladder. Her trainer, Line Petersen, a slim, freckled woman with a strict ponytail, congratulates her with a comradely fist bump. Her mum and dad, both overwhelmed with joy, hug and kiss her proudly.

BECOMING A PARA ATHLETE

Freja was diagnosed with cerebral palsy on her right side, when she was one year old. She came six weeks prematurely and lacked oxygen during birth. Symptoms vary from person to person and over time but may involve stiff or weak muscles, impaired walking ability, balance and coordination issues. When Freja was little she tiptoed and had to walk with a splint on her right leg, which was replaced as her foot grew. Regular hospital visits became part of her life as a child. When she was 14, she had her achilles tendon lengthened and screws inserted into both of her knees. Today her walk is unhindered, but for swimming she had to develop her own technique for her leg kicks.

Freja started swimming at the Ebeltoft Club in 2018 just for fun and because it was recommended for her disability. Her exceptional talent was soon discovered and one year later she switched to the bigger Aarhus Swimming Club (AGF), which changed her life completely: She now has 7–8 training sessions a week, 2 gym sessions and competitions. Weekdays are strictly structured into training, going to school, eating, homework, sleeping and repeating. Her parents

are fully involved. They drive her to trainings at 04.45 am and also follow her abroad to support her at competitions. Luckily most of her friends and her boyfriend are also part of the swimming club.

Focusing on her career at AGF, she quickly developed her skills and today she attends elite competitions nationally and internationally. When she competes with able-bodied swimmers, she ‘races against her own time’, she gets a dispensation so she can‘t be disqualified. In the para swimming contests she is classified category S10 (least affected by handicap) and finds it even more exciting, as all athletes start on an equal level. In any case, she has to be a really fast swimmer. She can swim in all the required styles but her speciality is breaststroke with a newly set record from the race last year. Freja has been working very hard for a long time to reach her goal and has already won several significant Nordic medals and awards on her way. Para swimming helps her mentally as she gets the chance to go all over the world to meet other para-athletes who train with the same or different disabilities. She learns from them and enjoys following how people progress and thrive in their sport and lives. Denmark actively supports inclusion and representation of para swimmers in major international events and supports initiatives which recruit new talents at grassroots level in local swimming clubs. At the Paralympics 2024 in Paris, two Danish athletes started for their country.

“I think it’s important for other para athletes to know that it’s perfectly okay not to be like everyone else, we fight just as hard as normal people in their sport.”

FREJA KVIST

IT’S ALL IN THE PLANNING

After her race Freja relaxes her muscles with low intensity exercise in the back area of the pool. Later she walks up to her colleagues to analyse videos on an iPad and talk about their performances. For the start of the next round her cheerful teammates line up to clap and sing a chorus, which soon transforms into hearty laughter. Freja’s club means a lot to her, as they push and support each other to reach their personal goals and cheer each other up, when training gets tough. Just recently she had some problems with her back, which makes her tired even faster. Walking lots of stairs or very far is a challenge for her. The cerebral palsy will always stay part of her life, but as Freja says, “I learned to live with a little pain and exhaustion in my body and I don’t really notice it anymore.”

Swimming is what she loves most and she doesn’t want to spend her time differently. It gives her peace of mind: If she has a bad day, she can shut herself up in the pool and concentrate again. She alone controls how the training or competitions go: If she wins, she did the work herself and if it doesn’t go well, she can work harder and improve, she explains. Freja grabs her fins and towel and heads to the changing room. Tomorrow is the last day of competition, and she needs to get some rest.

The next day Freja walks up to her starting position with her headphones on. She has a detailed plan before her race starts that she follows meticulously. It tells her when to get dressed, warm up, go to the start and much more. Her special playlist of upbeat pop music usually gives her an extra energy boost for the race. This time she swims a little bit slower and looks disappointed coming out of the water. Her coach tries to cheer her up. Freja wants to go straight home, because she feels very tired after she has been pushing her limits the last days. There’s a lot of homework that needs to be done, before she is going to the intensive training camp in Spain the following weekend.

GROUNDED AT HOME

Freja got sick with an ear infection after her journey to Spain and must stay away from the water for two weeks. Her family’s modern summer house is set in a chic golf resort, as they are passionate golfers. Freja is not into the sport but she likes driving around in the golf car with her brother and enjoy the scenery. The whole family will soon move closer to Aarhus, which will make it easier to commute to her trainings. While running up and down the hills for some cardio workout, she is breathing heavily, still fighting against her illness. Back home she has to finish schoolwork for tomorrow. Although it is a challenge to juggle her schedules, she enjoys learning, especially English and social studies, which she will major in next year. When she was little, Freja wanted to become a nurse, but now she isn’t sure, what to study after her final exam. Half of her classmates at high school are sports people and don’t have much time for leisure activities besides training.

It is already dark outside when she is done with her biology report, and she must get some food. Before competitions, she sometimes changes her diet to more meat and proteins. Usually she loves ‘what her mom puts on the table’, but her parents are on holiday, so a fast snack from the supermarket will do for tonight. She has to sleep early anyway as her swim training tomorrow starts at 5:30.

EAT, SLEEP, SWIM, REPEAT.

It’s dark and cold and the swimming hall is one of the few buildings in the neighbourhood already awake, lit up and ready for the day. The club members gather for a quick introduction at the poolside. Everybody is happy to see Freja back again after two weeks. Line hands her a swimming board with the training plan sticked on the back. She puts her fins on, adjusts her goggles and takes a deep breath. Freja is still a little exhausted, but she wants to get fit before her next competition. After the first cold plunge, her face lights up, and with every single stroke she gains back her power.

Freja has set big goals for her professional future: She hopes to make it to the World Cup in September 2025 and to the Paralympics in 2028 in Los Angeles, one of the biggest events in the sport with 600 competitors from more than 60 countries. She believes that with hard training and mental strength you can do anything, if you really want to. “It may be extra tough in parasport sometimes, but there are so many people ready to support you in fulfilling your dreams.”