Mila Agnarsdóttir

I took the bus home from work today, standing near the door as usual. The city felt gray, the air thick with rain. I watched people around me—some glued to their phones, others staring blankly ahead. I wondered if they felt the same quiet pressure I did.

I’m 29 and live in Reykjavik, a city I love but one that has become absurdly expensive. I work at a daycare and earn a good salary, but by the time rent, food, and bills are paid, there’s little left. When I travel, I’m always shocked at how cheap things are elsewhere. It’s strange—money only has value if life itself is affordable.

I didn’t always plan to do this work. At first, I studied law because my parents wanted it. But I was bored, detached. It took two years to admit it wasn’t for me. When I switched to education, my parents worried. "Will you make enough?" my father asked. But here in Iceland, being an educator is an academic profession. I studied for it, and now I have a stable job. My parents see I’m happy, and that’s enough.

Yesterday, I watched a documentary about India. A woman there worked from dawn to midnight and still couldn’t afford proper housing. My monthly salary was more than she earned in a year. But comparisons like that never feel real. Everything is relative.

Someday, I want children of my own, but even in Iceland, that thought feels expensive. More rent, more food, more responsibilities. But I don’t want to measure my life in costs.

The bus stopped, and I stepped out into the wind. My apartment was a short walk away, past cafés glowing in the dark, full of people talking, laughing, living. I pulled my coat tighter and walked on, thinking of the life I wanted to build—one where money mattered less than meaning.