I wish I could say that the racism and bullying ended here. I wish I could say the things I told about in the previous chapters were all. But there were still many other examples — and more complex situations — that affected what happened eventually during my Erasmus exchange.
For example, I remember many situations when we had common parties with the faculty. Sometimes I was included; sometimes not. There were moments at these parties when I’d walk right up to classmates, smiling, trying to join a conversation or start one but they wouldn’t speak to me. They’d turn away, continue talking among themselves, or act as if I wasn’t even there. I’d be left standing awkwardly, wondering why I even bothered coming.
I also remember one occasion in class when we were dividing into small groups for a group project. I asked if I could join one group, and they told me there was no room. But later, one of the same group members posted in the class chat asking if anyone else wanted to join. That hit me hard — realizing they just didn’t want me there. It wasn’t about space or numbers; it was something more personal, something harder to explain but impossible to ignore.
These small moments, again and again, chipped away at my sense of belonging. Even when I tried to push past the rejection, even when I kept showing up, there was always this invisible wall keeping me separate. It was confusing, painful, and exhausting.
The inconsistency made it even harder. One moment, I was laughing alongside my classmates, feeling like maybe, just maybe, I belonged and the next, I was back to being excluded, belittled, or ignored. I never knew where I stood or what to expect from one day to the next. And that uncertainty became its own kind of weight I carried every day.
Looking back, I realize it wasn’t just the big, obvious moments that hurt me. It was the constant buildup of small, repeated experiences. Every time I was excluded from a conversation, overlooked in group work, or left standing alone at a party, it chipped away at me a little more.
At first, I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter. I made excuses for people: maybe they were just busy, maybe they didn’t notice me, maybe I was imagining things. But over time, the pattern became impossible to ignore. The inconsistency — being included one day, excluded the next — left me constantly questioning myself. Was I doing something wrong? Was I too quiet? Too different? Was there something about me that just didn’t fit?
Slowly, the energy it took to keep showing up, to keep smiling and trying, started to drain me. I became more hesitant, more self-conscious. I second-guessed myself in every interaction: should I join this group? Should I approach that conversation? Should I even go to this event, if I’m just going to end up standing awkwardly in the corner?
I started to internalize the rejection. Instead of seeing it as their behavior, I began to believe it reflected something about me. I wondered if I was boring, unlikable, or somehow fundamentally different in a way that others could sense but I couldn’t name.
The most exhausting part was the unpredictability. If I had been completely excluded all the time, maybe I could have accepted it. But the fact that sometimes people did include me, sometimes I did laugh and feel connected, which gave me just enough hope to keep trying, to keep opening myself up, only to be hurt again when the pattern repeated.
It was like being stuck in a cycle of hope and disappointment, again and again. And even though on the outside I kept showing up, on the inside, I was becoming more and more tired, more isolated, and more unsure of myself.
Sooner or later, I started noticing that I was having trouble sleeping. Evenings became the hardest part of the day. As soon as the sun began to set, I felt this terrible anxiety creeping in. My heart would race, my chest felt tight, and my mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
I would lie in bed replaying every little interaction, every word I might have said wrong, every look or reaction from others, wondering if I had somehow messed up or offended someone. I was constantly bracing myself, fearing what might happen the next day. Wondering how I would screw up next, what mistake I’d make, and how people would dislike me even more.
It became this exhausting loop: trying so hard every day to do things right, to fit in, to be careful with my words and then lying awake at night, convincing myself I had failed anyway.
But I want to be clear: it wasn’t all isolation. I did have friends inside the class — or at least, I thought I did. Having them around gave me moments of relief, moments when I felt seen and valued.
Yet even within these friendships, I didn’t always know where I stood. There were times I felt close to them, and other times when I wasn’t sure if I was truly part of the group or just someone they tolerated. The uncertainty wasn’t limited to the wider class. It sometimes followed me even into my closest connections.
This uncertainty would become even more important later, as things unfolded in ways I didn’t expect.
My first real friend in Oulu — or at least, that’s what I believed at the time — was my classmate Jens. But over time, the friendship between Jens and me began to crack. One big reason was his feelings towards our classmate Senni.
Back then, I spent a lot of time with Senni. What started to frustrate me about Jens was how he often only wanted to hang out with me if Senni was also involved. For example, I might ask him to join me for ice cream in the park, and he’d decline. But once he saw that I had called Senni and made plans with her, suddenly Jens would change his mind and want to come along.
Or I’d invite him to grab a coffee, and he’d turn me down. But when I happened to be at a café with Senni, Jens would text her and once he heard I was with her, I’d get a message from him, suddenly eager to meet up right then.
I often tried to bring this up with Jens, to tell him how it made me feel. But he didn’t seem to care or even want to understand.
One time, after a class party, my sister happened to be visiting me in Oulu. The night was winding down, and I was walking home with her when we found Jens lying drunk in front of my apartment door, mumbling something about love or whatever was going on in his head. We felt sorry for him, so my sister and I helped him up and brought him inside. But as soon as we got him inside, Jens looked around and immediately asked, “Where’s Senni?”
I told him she was probably at home. Without missing a beat, Jens announced that he wanted to go home too. I tried to stop him, worried about him riding his bike while that drunk, but it was no use. Later, Senni told me that Jens had called her around that same time and biked over to see her.
The fact that Jens had fallen for Senni wasn’t what bothered me. What hurt was the way he behaved toward me — how he used me, how he treated me like some kind of gateway to spending more time with her. I wanted him to treat me like a friend. I couldn’t understand why he felt the need to use me, instead of just arranging things directly with Senni.
Then there was Mikko. At first, I thought he was a friend. Me, Mikko, Jens, and Senni used to spend a lot of time together during our free time. But there were moments that made me question that friendship. I remember one time when we were watching an ice hockey game together. I made a casual comment about the game, just trying to join the conversation. Instead of engaging, Mikko snapped at me, telling me to shut up and that I didn’t know anything about ice hockey. What hurt even more was that no one else said anything. No one defended me or even seemed to notice.
That moment stung deeply. It made me realize that maybe my place in that friend group wasn’t as solid as I wanted to believe. Instead of being a friend, Mikko’s words felt like a reminder that I was still an outsider, someone who didn’t belong even among people I thought cared about me.
Looking back, these moments with Jens, Mikko, and the others weren’t just isolated incidents. They were part of a larger pattern that slowly chipped away at my sense of belonging. What hurt most wasn’t just the exclusion or the harsh words; it was the confusion and uncertainty. I never knew where I truly stood with any of them. One day I was “included,” the next day I was ignored or dismissed.
It was exhausting, emotionally draining, and deeply lonely. I found myself constantly questioning my own worth and doubting if I deserved real friendship at all. The inconsistency made it impossible to feel safe or at home in what should have been a supportive environment.
What made all these experiences especially hard wasn’t just the moments of being left out. It was the unpredictability of it all. When you don’t know if you’ll be accepted one day and shut out the next, it creates a constant state of uncertainty. You start second-guessing every interaction, wondering if you said something wrong or if there’s something about you that just doesn’t fit. This kind of inconsistency is emotionally exhausting because it keeps your mind on edge, always waiting for the next disappointment.
Humans have a deep, basic need to belong — to feel truly seen, accepted, and connected with others. This need is woven into our very nature. From early childhood, we seek out relationships and communities because they give us more than companionship; they give us a sense of identity and safety. Without belonging, we risk feeling isolated, invisible, and disconnected from the world around us.
This need becomes even more powerful in environments like classrooms or workplaces where we spend a large portion of our time with the same people. In these settings, belonging isn’t just about social comfort, it becomes essential to our emotional well-being and personal growth. When we feel securely part of a group, it builds a foundation of trust that allows us to relax, be ourselves, and take on new challenges with confidence. That sense of stability nurtures our motivation and opens the door for learning and collaboration.
But when belonging feels unstable or conditional — when acceptance depends on shifting moods, hidden rules, or unpredictable behaviors — it shakes the very core of how we see ourselves. Instead of feeling safe and confident, we begin to doubt our place in the group, and eventually, our value as individuals. This uncertainty can slowly and quietly wear a person down, like carrying a heavy weight that never fully lifts. Every hopeful moment of inclusion is followed by a painful experience of rejection, leaving us caught in a relentless cycle of hope and disappointment.
Over time, this pattern makes it harder to trust others or believe that we deserve to be included at all. It’s not just the moments of exclusion that hurt; it’s the way these experiences leave us feeling invisible, uncertain, and unsure about who we really are. We start to question if there’s something inherently wrong with us — something that keeps us on the outside looking in.
Because belonging is so fundamental, it isn’t merely a nice-to-have or an optional part of life. It’s essential to our mental health, our confidence, and our ability to connect deeply with others. Without it, the confusion and pain caused by unpredictable or conditional acceptance leave lasting marks. They can erode self-esteem, fuel anxiety, and make it difficult to form trusting relationships in the future.
Understanding this need helps explain why experiences of exclusion and inconsistent belonging cut so deeply and leave marks that last long after the moments themselves have passed. These are not just episodes of social awkwardness or passing discomfort. They reach into something fundamental about what it means to be human. That’s why these feelings stayed with me, shaping how I saw myself and how I understood the world around me.
For a long time, it was hard for me to fully grasp what had happened. The inconsistency I faced — being included sometimes, treated kindly on certain days, but then excluded or belittled on others — left me confused. I kept asking myself: was I really bullied? Could it count as bullying if there were also times when people were nice to me?
Now, I understand that the inconsistency itself was part of the harm. It wasn’t just about the harsh moments; it was about the unstable ground beneath my feet, the emotional whiplash of never knowing where I stood. That back-and-forth — welcome today, ignored tomorrow — made me doubt my own experience, making the pain harder to name and even harder to heal. But looking back now, I can see the pattern more clearly. And with that clarity comes a kind of relief: the knowledge that what I felt was real, and that the human need for steady, reliable belonging is not a luxury. It is a core part of what allows us to thrive.