In Iceland’s Wild Embrace: A Tale of Fire, Friendship, and Finding Myself

Some trips aren’t planned. They just… happen. Like a happy accident the universe throws your way when you’re too tired to ask for one.

Mine began somewhere between wrapping up a soul-nourishing trip to Dharamshala and crashing at my best friend Ishita’s place. She was planning a solo trip to Iceland—flights booked, itinerary in place, full send. I was just listening.

And then, almost like a joke that stuck, I said, “I’m coming.”

She looked at me. “Fine. But this is still a solo trip.”

Fair.

To everyone’s surprise—including mine—my parents said yes. At my visa interview, the officer squinted at my passport and asked, “You’ve never travelled before. Why Iceland?” I shrugged, “I don’t really know what’s there. But my best friend is going. That’s enough.”

Visa approved in seven days.

Chasing Lights With Eyeliner and Apps That Never Agreed

The Northern Lights. Everyone says they’re magical, almost unreal. They’re not lying. But what no one tells you is how chaotic the chase is.

I downloaded five aurora forecast apps. None agreed. I had eyeliner on. The lights didn’t care. I stood outside our glass-roofed cabin in -10°C wind, spinning like a frozen compass needle, scanning the skies like I’d spot God. Some nights, nothing. Other nights, they shimmered.

Each attempt ended the same: numb fingers, woollen socks, warm chai, and late-night laughter. It wasn’t just the lights that made me glow—it was the gossip, the comfort, the knowing glances. Soul fuel.

The Bus, the Burnout, and the After-Hours Magic

Mornings were brutal. Wake up early. Hop onto a tour bus. Freeze at a waterfall. Squint at a glacier. Cry over volcanoes. Come back with snot in your scarf and joy in your bones.

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But the best parts? They came later—when the boots were off and the tea was on. We’d sit, sometimes in silence, sometimes untangling life. No pressure to speak. No need to explain. Female friendships are therapy without the awkward forms.

A Country That Feels Like a Whole Planet

Iceland doesn’t feel like one place. It feels like five different planets arguing over whose turn it is to shine.

Diamond Beach had ice chunks scattered like broken chandeliers. Behind us, a volcano quietly steamed. Glaciers stretched into the sky like time had paused mid-sentence. Our guide warned, “If you’re under 50kg, don’t walk too far out.” Naturally, I clung to Ishita like a Netflix heroine, one dramatic gust away from a musical number.

We wore sunglasses in snowstorms. Because, Iceland.

At the tectonic plates where continents drift apart, Ishita went charging forward like a Viking on Red Bull. I stayed back, clutching my camera like it owed me rent. We’re opposites. But opposites that work. That hold.

Blue Lagoon Diaries and the Beetroot Revelation

The Blue Lagoon was less spa, more dream. Warm mineral water, faces peeking through steam, silica masks like war paint for the soul.

We floated. We laughed. We eavesdropped.

And then there was the beetroot soup—hot, pink, earthy. One spoonful in and I nearly cried. It tasted like a memory I didn’t know I had. Like comfort wrapped in a colour I used to avoid.

The Snowstorm, the Cancelled Flight, and a Solo in the Snow

On the last day, Iceland decided to test me.

Ishita had flown out. A sudden snowstorm hit. Flights cancelled. My phone dying. Reykjavik buried in white. I dragged two bags through icy footpaths, got slapped by wind, checked into a new hotel like a sad protagonist in a French film.

And yet… I wasn’t scared. There was this strange stillness. Like Iceland was whispering, You’ve got this.

Þetta reddast: It’ll All Work Out

The Icelandic saying goes: Þetta reddast. Everything will work out.

And it did.

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I went chasing auroras and found a version of myself I’d lost. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. I found stillness in silence. I shared soup, tea, and secrets with my best friend. And then, when I was left alone, I realized I was still whole.

Because home isn’t always a place. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes, a shared thermos. Sometimes, it’s a stormy night with nowhere to go—but somehow, everything feels alright.

Would I do it again?

In a heartbeat.
Eyeliner, snowstorms, beetroot soup, and all.