Jördis Lindblom

The first snow came quietly during the night. When I pulled back the curtains, the street outside was draped in white, muffling the usual city sounds. It was beautiful, but I felt nothing. I made coffee, out of habit more than desire, and sat by the window. My phone buzzed with messages from colleagues, friends, my sister. I ignored them all. Even Mom’s “Good morning, älskling,” went unanswered.

I had moved to Malmö, Sweden, two years ago, chasing a promotion in marketing I thought would make me feel accomplished. I turned 29 last month, and I realized I didn’t know what that accomplishment was supposed to feel like. My days were full of presentations, campaigns, and reports, but they felt hollow. The kind of hollow you don’t notice until you stop moving.

Last week, during lunch, Johan from accounting told me I seemed “distracted lately.” I wanted to tell him he was wrong; I wasn’t distracted. I was hyper-aware. Hyper-aware that I was working overtime to fund a life I didn’t have time to live. Hyper-aware that the travel photos I posted on Instagram were carefully curated illusions of spontaneity. Hyper-aware that I’d bought a beautiful apartment filled with furniture I rarely sat on.

The snow kept falling. I thought about getting dressed and walking through the park, but the thought exhausted me. Instead, I opened my laptop and pulled up a folder labeled “Old Photos.” There was a picture of me at fourteen, standing by the lake near our house in Dalarna. My cheeks were red from the cold, and I had my arms stretched out like I could catch the entire sky. That girl in the photo looked free. Not like someone counting her steps and measuring her worth in productivity.

I closed the laptop and finished my coffee. By the end of the day, I’d booked a week off work and a train ticket home. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew I had to go back to where I’d last felt it.