Freshly back from Washington, D.C., and officially rehydrated from my emotional dehydration, I’m reveling in the fact that the interview process is finally over. But, of course, now my brain is playing an endless highlight reel of all my answers. Could I have said something better? More charming? Less “me”? Probably. But here we are.
Let me set the scene: I walked into what I thought would be a formal panel interview, ready to dazzle a room full of stern-looking government types. Instead, I found myself in what can only be described as a DMV-meets-Social-Security-office vibe. Glass partitions, fluorescent lighting, and an interviewer who seemed more like a translator than a decision-maker. She asked for my passport, smiled in a way that said, “Welcome to bureaucracy,” and proceeded to relay questions from the migration agency. My job? Answer honestly and hope for the best.
Most of the questions were straight off the application form, but there was one curveball: “Why aren’t you planning to live in the United States?” Ah, the pièce de résistance. I could have gone full sociopolitical commentary, but instead, I kept it practical. I explained that my husband has permanent employment overseas, housing ready for us, and, well, moving there just makes sense. Also, “Mango Mussolini.” (Ha. You know who I mean.)
So now I wait. The Swedish government has four weeks to do one of three things: (1) approve my application (cue celebratory fika), (2) deny it (cue existential crisis), or (3) stall for more evidence (cue me scrambling to find a more persuasive way to say, “I swear, I’m a decent human being!”). If approved, I have a month to pack up my life and move—no pressure.
At this point, my answers were genuine, heartfelt, and—dare I say—pretty solid. It’s out of my hands now, and firmly in Sweden’s. Time to channel my inner IKEA instruction manual: stay calm, trust the process, and hope all the pieces come together.
Swedish Wanderlust 