Alive Beneath the Northern Lights

An Icelandic night to remember

There are night skies—and then there are nights when the sky breathes. Here in Iceland, under this vast Arctic canvas I’ve come to know so well, the aurora borealis doesn’t just appear; it moves with intention. Even after years of living here, every single display still catches me off guard. The sky opens, and suddenly, I’m five years old again, staring up in disbelief.

The phenomenon

The northern lights might look like magic, but they’re born from something profoundly real—a meeting between the sun and our planet. When charged solar particles stream toward Earth and collide with atoms high in the atmosphere, roughly 100 to 250 kilometers above us, the sky answers with light.

Because Iceland sits beneath the auroral oval, we’re blessed (or spoiled!) with some of the best seats in the world for this show. From late September through April, the nights grow long and dark enough for the aurora to reveal itself. And when solar activity peaks, what scientists call a geomagnetic storm, the lights don’t just appear—they take over the sky!

October nights

For most of October, it felt as if the whole country had fallen under a shared spell. Forecasts warned of a powerful solar storm, but no prediction could have prepared me for what actually unfolded. When the Kp-index spiked to five or six, the sky erupted—an aurora spilling across the island night after night.

I stood outside our home, watching ribbons of green twist into violet flame. They pulsed, folded, and breathed like living things. I’ve seen many auroras—dozens, maybe, but the night of October 18 made me feel small in the best possible way. It was as if the sky itself had decided to remind me who was truly in charge.

Why it never gets old

1.  No two nights are the same.

Every aurora feels like a different language. Sometimes it’s a quiet whisper—just a soft green haze over the mountains. Other nights, like that October one, it’s wild and loud and fills every inch of sky.

2.  It demands stillness.

You can’t rush an aurora. You have to meet it halfway–with patience, quiet, and a willingness to stand in the cold. The world feels suspended. The crunch of frost underfoot, the wind brushing past….it’s all part of the symphony.

3.  It connects you to something bigger.

There’s something deeply grounding about knowing that the light you’re watching began as energy from the sun traveled millions of kilometers and ended its journey above your head. It’s cosmic, and yet it feels intensely personal.

4.  It becomes a ritual.

Even after all this time, I still do the same thing: layer up, step outside, tilt my head back, and wait. The anticipation never fades. When that first flicker appears, my heart still leaps…every single time!

The last flicker

Yes, I’ve seen the aurora countless times here in Iceland. But that doesn’t dull the magic. If anything, it deepens it. On October 18, it felt as though the universe was being generous—unfolding light after light, color after color, as if to say, “Here! Take this moment. Remember it!”

Because no matter how many times I see it, I can never predict the exact way it’ll move or the feeling it’ll stir. Maybe that’s what keeps me going out there, night after night: chasing that one show that’ll stay with me forever.

Come see for yourself

If you’ve ever wanted to know what it feels like when the sky comes alive, come to Iceland. There’s nothing quite like standing beneath that quiet expanse, waiting for the first flicker to appear. Sometimes it happens all at once, like someone turning on a light inside the heavens. Other times, it’s slow, a shy green shimmer that grows bolder by the minute.

You don’t need to chase it far. Step beyond the city glow, find a dark stretch of sky, and look up. The air will bite a little, the ground will crunch beneath your boots, and then—if you’re lucky—the lights will find you.

No photograph, no video, no words can really prepare you. But when you’re standing there, wrapped in cold and wonder, you’ll understand why some of us never stop going out to meet the night.