In just three weeks, I will be setting off for England for maybe the last time in a long while. And in two additional weeks, I will be sitting my final IB examinations, the occasion for which my entire secondary school life has been leading up to. Considering the breakneck pace at which everything seems to be flying by, I often envision a wave gathering height and momentum, only to break against rugged rocks on an unfamiliar shore. I know I sound terribly hyperbolic, but the murky depths of my uncertain future still cling to me, not least because the admissions decisions of two of my universities will not be made until our results are released.

The closer the examinations are getting, the more I simply withdraw to old pastimes (reading, writing) that had gathered dust since last summer, when internal assessments and the notorious Extended Essay began. The very fact that I am spending a considerable amount of time composing my thoughts for this post is proof of my latest bout of procrastination. I keep catching myself admonishing, is this really the time? What if these wasted hours cause me to lose an offer? But another voice reinforces the well-worn excuse that, like any self-respecting spring, I ought to relax now so that I will be able to effectively stretch myself when it will matter the most. As a dear friend once said to me, she told a professional marathon running sitting next to her on a flight back to Spain, “I’m running a marathon too! But it’s called the IB.”

I came across the Swedish word gökotta a week ago, when I was reflecting on my aspirations for the next stages of my life. It is impossible to translate, but roughly means to wake up early in the morning to hear the first birdsong. Immediately, the lush image of rolling out of a queen-sized bed in an airy lodge, gazing out of wooden windows at the vast expanse of the Tanzanian plains popped into my mind. The crown of the sun is just beginning to lick the horizon, and the clouds are still brushed with the colours of fine-spun candyfloss. This scene was what I had hoped to be experiencing in my early twenties, having settled into a stable, enjoyable career and acquired enough money to regularly travel on my own.

Other deliciously specific words that inspire similarly vivid daydreams flitted through my mind. Petrichor suggests exploring dense rainforests and stunning displays of unbridled vitality. Hygge conjures comfortable evenings in front of a crackling fire, winding down in a swanky high-rise apartment overlooking a sprawling, sleepless metropolis. Less glamorously, however, a word more applicable to my current predicament is probably kummerspeck – excess weight gained from emotional overeating. Literally translated from German, it means ‘grief bacon’, which actually sounds strangely appealing, like the melancholy lozenges in Because of Winn-Dixie.

I had always imagined my 25-year-old self to be financially independent, hopping from continent to continent and living in a penthouse in some cosmopolitan city or other. Looking back, these grandiose goals fuelled largely by enviable Instagram accounts seem infinitesimally unlikely. Of course, having the freedom and means to choose between universities spread over three continents, and having been in a position where those aspirations seemed to have the slightest possibility of coming true, are privileges that I should never take for granted. I probably sounded entitled, and for that I apologise.

Maybe our fairy-tale scenarios will never come to pass. But just like any other vague ambitions of a young teenager, you soon realise that there are much grander and more meaningful things that you will want to achieve and can definitely work towards – things that will give you much greater rewards a few decades down the line. Besides, who knows what the next step will bring anyway? We can only keep brewing more vorfreude as we look forwards at the road ahead.

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