Swedish Wanderlust

There’s something uniquely bittersweet about watching Christmas unfold in your soon to be home country from afar. Especially when your husband, who’s there, is sending you dreamy pictures of glowing reindeer and festive streets, reminding you of all the magical moments you’re missing. Moments like his walk home from the gym, where the Christmas decorations twinkle brighter than my current hope that the Swedish Migration Agency will finally make a decision.

Take, for example, the photo he sent me the other night. Two glowing reindeer standing proudly on a quiet Swedish street. Festive? Yes. Beautiful? Absolutely. A cruel reminder that I’m currently in another country, unable to share this moment with him? Oh, you bet.

While he strolls past fairy-tale streets lit with soft, golden light, I’m staring at the same four walls and refreshing My Page for the hundredth time that day. Sweden has glowing reindeer, and I have buffering screens and cold coffee. Not quite the winter wonderland vibe I was going for.

I’ve been dreaming about experiencing Christmas in Sweden for what feels like forever. The cozy markets, Julmust, the candlelit windows, and even trying to figure out exactly how Julbocken (the giant Christmas goat) fits into all of this. I imagined strolling hand-in-hand with my husband through the decorated streets, laughing about how many layers I need to wear to survive the Swedish cold.

Instead, I’m missing everything—the markets, the lights, and, most importantly, him. Every photo he sends feels like a postcard from a life I haven’t been able to step into yet. And while I love that he’s sharing these moments with me, it also makes the distance feel just a little bit wider.

It’s not just the big, festive moments I’m missing—it’s the everyday ones. Like his walk home from the gym, where he snaps pictures of decorations he thinks I’d love. It’s the casual way he says, “You’ll see this next year,” as if that somehow makes up for not being there now. It’s the inside jokes we could be making about glowing reindeer and whether they look like they’re headed to a Christmas rave or just waiting for Santa.

I miss being part of his world. The little things, like laughing together at how over-the-top some decorations are or complaining about how cold it is, are the moments I long for the most.

Despite the distance, I know the distance won’t last forever. The Swedish Migration Agency, in all its mysterious, bureaucratic glory, will eventually make a decision. And when they do, I’ll be there—not just for Christmas, but for all the walks home from the gym, the glowing reindeer, and every ordinary, extraordinary moment in between.

I know that someday soon, I’ll step off a plane and into his arms, and the Christmas lights will feel like they’re welcoming me home. I’ll finally see the streets he’s been describing, and we’ll walk through them together. No more blurry photos or wistful video calls—just us, in the same place, building a life that doesn’t require Wi-Fi.

So to the glowing reindeer of Sweden: keep standing tall and twinkling away. To my husband: thank you for sharing these moments with me, even when it makes me miss you more. And to the Swedish Migration Agency: I’m begging you—please don’t make me miss another Christmas.

For now, I’ll keep dreaming of the day when these moments won’t just be pictures on my phone but memories we’re making together. Because soon, very soon, we’ll never have to spend another Christmas apart again.