I was never supposed to be at Queen’s. I didn’t even apply.
I was enrolled at Laurentian University in my hometown until they declared bankruptcy. I’ll never forget the spring day in Grade 12 when a family friend informed me, before I even opened Laurentian’s email, that the University had cut several programs, including mine, revoking my acceptance for the class of 2025.
The news hit me hard. Panic set in as I realized I hadn’t applied to any other schools, so sure of my path to stay home and save money all while getting my degree. But that path seemed to have disappeared in plain sight.
Two weeks went by, and I still didn’t have a plan. It was late April when, on a whim—compelled by something I still can’t fully explain—I decided to reach out to Queen’s University issions. I sent an email pleading to the istration, explaining my situation and sharing how eager I was to begin my post-secondary studies as soon as possible.
The pressure was debilitating. I didn’t want to fall behind my peers, especially my triplet brother and sister, who were already on the path to starting their degrees in the fall. I felt utterly lost.
I waited anxiously after they re-opened the application portal. After two weeks of even more waiting, I was notified I’d been waitlisted by Queen’s. I felt so defeated—like I’d done everything in my power, but the situation was still out of my control. Then, the very next morning, I received my acceptance to the Arts and Science Class of 2025. In an instant, the despair turned into excitement, and I finally felt like my future was back on track.
My journey to Queen’s taught me to embrace uncertainty and chase opportunities, even when the odds seemed stacked against me.
This mindset carried me forward when I applied for exchange, two years later. I knew I had nothing to lose, so when I was waitlisted again, I felt disappointed, though not entirely defeated. Weeks later, after I accepted it wasn’t meant to be, I was offered a spot at the University of Oslo.
It’s been a year since the day my parents dropped off a girl I barely recognize and her severely overweight purple suitcases at Pearson Airport. Although her parents were sobbing, she didn’t shed a single tear—she was ready.
Despite the saying, I never quite believed the world was my oyster.
The promise of endless possibilities always felt illusive. No one warned me the pearl might fall from the shell and hit me on the head before rolling just out of reach. Each time the pearl slipped further into impossibility, I realized everything worth having demands pursuit.
Norway, not just glistening white with snow, has become that iridescent and reflective pearl. In chasing it, my life has changed in ways I never could’ve imagined.
Although it’s cliché, studying abroad truly changed my life.
Norway challenged me to grow in ways I didn’t think were possible. I’d never lived alone, traveled alone, or even taken public transportation before deciding to move across the world for a semester.
In Oslo, I found myself navigating a completely new system of residence and public transportation. With lots of help and guidance from my friend Andreas—who grew up in Toronto and was familiar with metro systems—I gradually learned the ropes, even though all the signs were in Norwegian. There were countless times I got off at the wrong stop or realized I was on the wrong subway line, and those moments often led to spontaneous adventures. They gave me the chance to explore parts of the city I otherwise never would’ve seen.
Even though Andreas goes to Queen’s, we met for the first time in Oslo. It’s been amazing to maintain a friendship from exchange without navigating a lengthy time difference—unlike texting Mahora in or Lucas in and realizing they’re asleep.
I grew to love people who were strangers to me only six months earlier—Barbara and Stella. I still think about our trip to Tromsø and how I thought the train was moving backward, which we laughed at for what felt like forever.
I learned to appreciate the possibilities within the uncertainty of everyday life—like the time Mahora and I let two guys we met in the sauna take us out for dinner.
As I reflect on the year that has ed since I left for exchange, I’m filled with so much gratitude for the people I met. I miss Lucas’ niche fun facts and etymological knowledge about every word humanly possible. I still laugh thinking about the time he tried to “mansplain” why and Belgium share the same flag colours—only to get nervous, apologize for “mansplaining” mid-explanation, and leave us all in awe of his random yet fascinating knowledge.
I miss the quirkier moments, like watching a banana bounce in his back pocket as we wandered the streets of Stockholm and Copenhagen. Lucas loves bananas and always had one or two tucked so he didn’t have to buy food on trips. I thought it was odd, but now I find myself wishing the people walking ahead of me had bananas sticking out of their back pockets, too. It’s the little things like this that make me smile and remind me how much those friendships and experiences enriched my life.
Going into the exchange, I focused only on the places I would explore. I never stopped to consider that I would develop true friendships with the people I met on my travels—friendships whose absence I feel every single day.
On exchange, you get the opportunity to go somewhere completely new and grow in ways you never imagined. Every day feels like an adventure: new people, new art, new challenges. Living alone, taking on 100 per cent of your responsibilities, and navigating an unfamiliar environment forces you to grow fast. But when you return home, it’s hard to not feel like you’re regressing. The lifestyle you built—the rhythm of constant growth—becomes difficult to maintain.
Technology doesn’t let you forget your exchange either my Snapchat memories, along with my photo gallery, like to remind me of how awesome my life was this time last year, keeping those moments alive, even when they feel far away.
I can never look at snow the same way because of Oslo’s winters. Especially after a snowstorm cancelled public transportation, and Nicole and I had to hike 45 minutes uphill to our residence. I’ll never eat a taco without thinking of taco Fredag—taco Friday’s.
Every time I see a pair of cross-country skis, I think of Valdemar and how much fun we had skiing at Sognsvann. Every time I listen to “Another Love” by Tom Odell, I think of Mahora and I singing our hearts out in the kitchen every weekend. We became inseparable, cooking dinner together every weekend because my shared kitchen was always so dirty. It became our tradition, up until my very last weekend. We still talk every day, and I’m so thankful we’ve both kept our promise to stay in touch as much as we can—it makes it easier until the day we meet again.
I can see myself again, the girl who’s hauling her overweight purple suitcases back home from the Oslo Airport. Except this time, she’s crying uncontrollably, getting looks of pity, concern, and judgment from the hustling crowd of the people around her. This time she wasn’t ready. She didn’t want to come home.
There are days I’m unsure if studying abroad was the best thing I’ve ever done or the hardest. I feel a kind of ache like I’ve been ruined for anything less extraordinary. But in my sadness, I find comfort: It means I had something worth missing—a time and place that filled my life with joy, growth, and incredible people. If I wasn’t desperate to go back every day, I’d know I hadn’t lived it fully.
The experiences I gained abroad remind me that opportunities don’t end—they evolve. As I move forward, I carry the determination that brought me to Oslo, knowing the pearl is always worth chasing.
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