I crossed a border thinking I was simply moving from one country to another, yet the questions that travelled with me suggested otherwise. Somewhere between cultures, languages, and the versions of myself I thought I understood, I began to sense an unfinished puzzle taking shape. This blog traces the quiet, unexpected moments at Constructor University that nudged those questions awake - moments that made me reconsider what it means to belong, to change, and to search for a self that is always shifting just out of view.
Ever felt as though a small puzzle piece of your life has gone missing? A fragment so subtle that it is almost invisible, yet its absence whispers at the edges of your mind. It does not stop you from living, but it drains you quietly, urging questions that echo long into the night: ”Who am I? What is my purpose? Where do I belong?”
Those were the questions circling through my thoughts as I boarded the plane to Germany for Constructor University. Excitement pulsed beneath my skin, intertwined with nervousness and a trace of melancholy. I was leaving behind the place I had called home, though the word home had always felt uncertain, fragile, incomplete.
I was born and raised in Sri Lanka, yet my nationality is South Korean. This unusual combination formed the roots of an identity crisis that surfaced in my high school years. Although Sri Lanka shaped my childhood - the scent of rain on warm earth, the chatter of street vendors, the familiar hum of life - I was often viewed as an outsider. My passport and my appearance set me apart. I felt like the misplaced piece in a completed picture. People were kind, and I cherished the friendships I made, but a quiet question always lingered: “Do I truly belong here?”
When I finally visited South Korea, I expected that quiet ache to dissipate. Instead, it only grew louder. I blended in physically, yet everything else felt unfamiliar: the rhythm of speech, the social codes, even something as ordinary as public transport. I realized that I did not stand between two countries; I was floating somewhere in the space between them, undefined and unseen. Stranded. Eventually, it felt easier to tuck the question of identity away. I convinced myself it was a riddle I would simply never solve.
Arriving at Constructor University, however, created a shift I did not anticipate. Suddenly, I was surrounded by people who had crossed borders of their own, culturally and emotionally. I found it almost ironic. Here I was, in a country I had never visited before, speaking to people from every corner of the world, and yet this foreign setting did not make me feel out of place. This unexpected ease set off a quiet chain reaction within me, prompting me to reflect more deeply on who I was becoming.
One such realization came during my first meal in the servery. I sat down with a plate of food, warmed by the cozy atmosphere and energized by the possibility of new friendships. As we began to introduce ourselves, I noticed something curious: almost everyone mentioned their major first. It seemed natural in a university setting, yet the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I, too, had unconsciously anchored part of my identity to my major the moment I arrived on campus.
Each of us carries a different story about how we chose our field of study. Some follow the hopes of their parents, others pursue what they genuinely enjoy, and some choose a path simply because it feels like the only one available. Whatever the reason, our major inevitably becomes a significant part of who we believe we are, because it shapes the future we imagine. Yet when we think back on the people we have met, we do not remember them for their degree titles or their nationality. We remember them for their kindness, their humor, their warmth.
I should admit that I am terrible at remembering names, and even worse at remembering faces, so orientation day felt like a blur of introductions. Still, as the days passed, pieces I had never noticed before began falling into place. The people around me stopped being “the Business major” or “the Computer Science major” and became individuals whose company I genuinely enjoyed. What drew me to them had nothing to do with their academic path, nor their background, but with who they were as human beings.
As we progress into new chapters of our lives, we inevitably begin to wonder about the future. Is my major the right choice? What will I be doing in a few years? In a decade? The vastness of the unknown can feel intimidating. Perhaps that is the missing piece in our puzzle. I began to realize that I had been trying to complete a single flawless picture meant to fill that void, rather than appreciating the intricacies of the void itself. After all, the future is constructed from the present, and the present shifts with every passing moment. How can we expect to predict an ideal future when we cannot even foretell the events of tomorrow, or the next hour, or even the next second? Life is full of inconsistencies and mysteries. We are fascinated by the unknown - the world’s greatest enigmas, unsolved puzzles, unanswered theories - precisely because of the pieces they lack.
After all, no one buys a puzzle that is already complete. So, have I found myself? I think we are all walking contradictions. We seek attention yet crave privacy. We yearn for comfort yet long for adventure. We chase perfection yet feel drawn to the unknown. We are constantly renewing ourselves, replacing old pieces with new ones as we learn, grow, and experience the world. Perhaps something within us waits quietly to be rekindled, a spark ready to ignite. Missing pieces are inevitable. They are what drive us to explore, to imagine, to build and expand the universe around us. During my first year of studies, Constructor University existed under a different name. When I returned after two years of mandatory military service, the university had changed its title entirely. Yet despite the new name and new faces, the warmth and diversity of the campus remained unchanged. And perhaps that is the lesson. We change throughout our lives, but our core values often stay the same. When we stop insisting on a perfect future, a perfect life, a perfect puzzle, and instead allow ourselves to live in the present and appreciate the process of piecing it all together, I believe the missing pieces begin to reveal themselves - slowly, quietly, and beautifully. Not all of them will be found. But that is part of what makes us human.
