One year ago today, I landed in Stockholm, Sweden. I had boarded the plane the day before, January 9, leaving Montgomery, Alabama with a one way ticket and a letter from Migrationsverket granting me a residence permit. Somewhere over the North Atlantic, my old life loosened its grip.
The flight itself felt like foreshadowing. The North Atlantic in winter is unforgiving, and the turbulence was relentless. It felt like riding a rickety county fair roller coaster where all the bolts are loose and everyone has agreed not to mention it. As the plane lurched and dropped, I kept thinking about water. About waves. About how this ocean has always demanded something from people who cross it.
My ancestors crossed this same stretch of water in the opposite direction, packed into ships, carried by hope and desperation and no small amount of fear. Some of them survived the crossing. Some did not. The ocean took its toll and never explained itself. Those who made it arrived in America changed forever, even if history later flattened that journey into a sentence or two.
Somewhere over that same dark water, buckled into a modern aircraft with turbulence rattling my bones, I felt the echo of that passage. This time I was going back. Back toward Europe. Back toward a life that did not yet exist but was calling anyway. At one point I messaged my husband mid flight, “If something happens to me, this is what I want done and here is how to get into my U.S. bank accounts 😆” It was half joke, half ancient human instinct. Prepare. Acknowledge the danger. Keep going.
The waves were different. The vessel was different. The risk was smaller. But the crossing still mattered. It always does.
A year later, I can say this move taught me more than any plan ever could.
I learned that starting over in my forties is not a failure or a disappearance. It is an expansion. Reinvention does not come with permission slips or applause. It shows up quietly, through repetition, confusion, and the stubborn act of continuing.
I learned that bravery is rarely cinematic. Most of the time it is practical. It is forms and appointments and trying again when you get it wrong. Sometimes bravery is just convincing myself to go pick up a package, not knowing if the person behind the counter will be patient with this very confused American. It is wondering if “Jag behöver hämta ett paket, tack” actually means I need to pick up a package or if I have accidentally requested something deeply strange. You open your mouth anyway. You survive. You repeat.
I learned that bureaucracy is its own ecosystem. Patience here is not a virtue. It is a requirement.
I learned that belonging does not demand fluency or perfection. It grows from repetition. From the same grocery store. The same walk. From being seen often enough that you stop feeling invisible, even if you still feel foreign.
I learned that silence is not empty. Sometimes it is peace. Sometimes it is grief finally catching up once the noise stops. Both deserve respect.
I learned that some grief comes from distance, but some grief comes from clarity. I had to let go of friends and relatives who chose a belief system that centers cruelty and harm to other human beings. That is not something I am willing to entertain, normalize, or debate my way around. Walking away was not dramatic. It was quiet and devastating. It is a particular kind of mourning to grieve people who are still alive. Maybe one day they will see the truth. Maybe one day they will understand what they gave up. But by then it may be too late, and I could not build my life around waiting.
I learned that independence can be lonely, but it is also clarifying. When no one is translating you or cushioning your choices, you meet yourself honestly.
I learned that America taught me speed. Sweden is teaching me scale. Life feels bigger when it is allowed to move slower.
I learned that strength and softness can live in the same body. I am tougher than I thought. I am also more open. Those things support each other.
And I learned what real partnership looks like.
My husband walked beside me through all of this. The logistics. The panic. The exhaustion. The moments when I questioned everything. He did not rush me, manage me, or minimize the fear. He stayed steady. When I could not believe in myself, he believed enough for both of us. I did not have that before. I know the difference now.
Love is not chaos. It is not something you earn by enduring pain. Sometimes it is just someone calmly saying, we will figure this out, and meaning it.
Home, I have learned, is not a single place you arrive at. It is something you build quietly, while living your life, one ordinary day at a time.
One year in, I am still learning. But I am no longer afraid of the not knowing
Swedish Wanderlust 