In the United States, the word “socialism” has become less of an economic term and more of a political weapon. It’s often used to shut down conversations about healthcare, education, or social programs before they even begin. The word itself is treated like something people should automatically fear.
But after moving to Sweden, I’ve learned something important.
Sweden isn’t actually a socialist country.
Sweden has a democratic, market-based economy with a robust social welfare system. Private businesses exist. Entrepreneurs start companies. Corporations compete. People invest, own property, and participate in a capitalist economy. What Sweden has chosen to do is use tax revenue to provide certain public services, including healthcare, education, parental leave, and social safety nets.
Many Americans call that “socialism,” but that’s not an accurate description of Sweden’s economic system. It’s a mixed economy with extensive social welfare policies. You can certainly debate whether it’s the right model, but calling it socialism oversimplifies what it actually is.
That realization made me think about something.
If Americans are so afraid of the word “socialism,” maybe we’re asking the wrong question.
Instead of asking whether it’s socialism, perhaps we should ask:
Who is actually afraid of it?
Because it certainly isn’t the college graduate buried under tens of thousands of dollars in student loan debt.
It isn’t the family wondering how they’ll pay an emergency room bill after their child breaks an arm.
It isn’t the cancer patient anxiously waiting to see whether their insurance company will approve treatment.
It isn’t the person cutting pills in half because they can’t afford a refill.
It isn’t the diabetic rationing insulin.
It isn’t the parent skipping their own medication so their child can have theirs.
And it certainly wasn’t me.
After I recovered from COVID, I continued having breathing problems. My lungs simply didn’t feel right. As someone who had already dealt with respiratory issues, I knew I needed to follow up with my pulmonologist.
So I called.
The earliest available appointment was eight months away.
Eight months.
Not for a routine checkup.
Not because I wanted a second opinion.
Because I was struggling to breathe.
Eight months felt impossible. Every day I wondered whether my lungs were healing or getting worse. Every cough made me question whether I should be worried. Every flight of stairs reminded me something still wasn’t right.
Eventually, I canceled the appointment.
Not because I was feeling better.
Because I was moving to Sweden.
Once I arrived, everything changed.
I was able to see a doctor without months of uncertainty hanging over my head. I received testing, referrals when needed, follow-up appointments, and treatment. The focus wasn’t on whether my insurance would approve something or what surprise bill might arrive weeks later.
The focus was on my health.
That alone felt revolutionary.
For the first time, I wasn’t calculating what every appointment might cost before deciding whether I could justify going.
I wasn’t wondering whether I’d meet my deductible.
I wasn’t trying to determine whether a specialist was in-network.
I wasn’t choosing between financial security and medical care.
I was simply receiving healthcare.
Does that mean Sweden’s healthcare system is perfect?
Of course not.
No healthcare system is.
People in Sweden will readily tell you there can be waiting times for certain specialists, staffing shortages, regional differences, and bureaucratic frustrations. Every country continues trying to improve its system.
But perfection isn’t the point.
The point is that I experienced something fundamentally different.
I experienced a healthcare system where my first thought wasn’t, “Can I afford this?”
It was simply, “How do we help you get better?”
Many Americans hear stories like mine and immediately respond with one word:
“Socialism.”
But what they’re usually describing isn’t socialism at all.
They’re describing public investment.
They’re describing universal healthcare.
They’re describing a society that has collectively decided that certain services should be available regardless of someone’s income.
Reasonable people can disagree about how those systems should be funded or managed. Those debates are healthy.
What isn’t healthy is allowing a single politically charged word to replace honest discussion.
When I hear Americans say they’re terrified of becoming “like Sweden,” I can’t help thinking back to that phone call with my pulmonologist.
Eight months.
That wasn’t freedom for me.
That wasn’t choice.
That wasn’t peace of mind.
It was uncertainty.
Today, when I walk into a clinic in Sweden, I don’t feel like I’ve entered some frightening socialist experiment.
I feel like I’ve entered a healthcare system that assumes helping sick people is part of its job.
That doesn’t scare me.
Neither does knowing that children can see doctors, parents can take parental leave, students can pursue education without life-altering debt, and people aren’t automatically one illness away from financial catastrophe.
If anything frightens me, it’s becoming so accustomed to preventable suffering that we start believing it’s normal.
So maybe the better question isn’t whether Americans should fear what they call “socialism.”
Maybe the better question is this:
Who benefits when ordinary people are afraid of healthcare, education, and social programs?
Because from where I’m standing, after finally getting the care my lungs needed, I can honestly say this:
The people who are breathing easier usually aren’t the ones afraid.
Swedish Word of the Day: välfärd — welfare, well-being.
“Det är inte socialism som är skrämmande. Det är likgiltighet.”
“It’s not socialism that’s frightening. It’s indifference.”
