Swedish Wanderlust

Last night, I dreamed I was going to meet my ancestor, Rollo.

I felt excited. And terrified. The kind of fear that feels old—older than me. The kind of fear that comes not from danger, but from magnitude.

Then I woke up.

But the feeling stayed. Like I’d almost touched something ancient. Or maybe, something in me had been touched.

Rollo, also known as Ganger-Hrólfr, was no ordinary Viking. According to the sagas, he was so large he had to walk because no horse could carry him. He raided the coasts of Frankia, laying siege to Paris itself. But it wasn’t conquest that made him a legend—it was what came next.

In 911 AD, Rollo stood face to face with King Charles the Simple of West Francia. Instead of war, they struck a bargain:

Rollo would defend the kingdom against other Norse raiders in exchange for land—Normandy.

He pledged loyalty, converted to Christianity, and married into Frankish nobility. The raider became a ruler. The exile became a founder. His descendants, including William the Conqueror, would reshape the map of Europe.

This is not just a story of a man—it’s the myth of transformation through displacement.

And it echoes.

I left my own homeland—not to conquer, but to belong. Not to raid, but to rebuild. And yet, the pattern is familiar:

Cross the sea. Enter a new world. Take on new customs. Let go of what no longer serves you, and hold fast to what does.

In the dream, I never saw Rollo’s face. I only knew he was waiting for me. It felt less like a meeting and more like a summons—a reminder that the past is not behind us. It lives in our instincts, our dreams, our choices. In our bones.

Rollo is a symbol of what it means to start over and still carry your bloodline with you.

He is myth and man.

Ancestor and archetype.

He walked because the earth couldn’t hold him still.

And maybe I’m walking, too—not to follow him, but to meet him at the place where old roots reach new soil.