My agenda includes meal prep, organizing, exercising, watering the plants, answering texts, reading a book, and somehow relaxing.
I got up at 6 a.m. with a solid plan:
Walk the dogs and get some work done before my 9 a.m. Pilates class.
It’s now 11:30.
I’ve taken the dogs on a long walk, gone to Pilates, gotten sucked into my current audiobook, spent way too much time comparing Apple Watches because mine is a Series 7, and somehow it’s almost lunchtime.
The work I got up at 6 a.m. to do? It’s still patiently waiting for me.
Funny how some days you can be busy for hours without touching the one thing you originally planned. Then again, the dogs had a great walk, I moved my body, and I got lost in a good book.
Maybe Sundays aren’t meant to be efficient. Maybe they’re just meant to be lived.
And after all… it’s only lunchtime. There’s still plenty of time to get a few things done.
At least that’s what the CEO of Good Intentions keeps telling herself while sipping tea and making absolutely no move toward her laptop.
Just wondering… am I the only one who creates a to-do list worthy of three people every Sunday?
I didn’t just move from Sweden to the United States. I moved from Stockholm to St. Marys, Georgia. Looking back, I’m not sure I could have picked two places that were more different.
I thought the biggest adjustment would be speaking English every day. It wasn’t. It was discovering that I had landed in a place with a completely different rhythm.
In Stockholm, the checkout line is all about efficiency. You pack your own groceries, and you’d better be done by the time the cashier has scanned the last item, or the customer behind you might start getting impatient. There isn’t much small talk because everyone has somewhere to be, and the goal is to get through the line as quickly as possible.
St. Marys was a completely different experience. The cashier knew the customer in front of me, and they chatted about family, church, the weather, someone’s tomato plants, pretty much anything and everything. Meanwhile, another employee packed the groceries while I stood there wondering if we’d ever get to the part where I actually paid. I remember thinking, “Are we still checking out?”
At the time, it drove me crazy. I wasn’t used to it, and if I’m being honest, I just wanted to grab my groceries and go. But somewhere between Stockholm and St. Marys, my perspective changed.
Today, I smile when I think about those checkout lines. I’ve realized they were never just about buying groceries. They were about taking a few minutes to acknowledge another person, catch up with a neighbor, or simply make someone’s day a little brighter.
Somewhere between Stockholm and St. Marys, I learned that not everything has to be efficient. Sometimes, slowing down long enough to connect with another person is the whole point.
Although I still silently hoped nobody brought up tomato plants when I was buying ice cream.
Thinking about patriotism today on Americas birthday.
Living here has made me think about it in a way I never really did growing up in Sweden.
If Sweden whispers, “We’re proud to be Swedish,” America says it with a microphone. Sometimes I joke that Americans want to make sure you never forget what country you’re in and all those flags certainly help.
The funny thing is, I don’t think Swedes are any less proud of their country.
We just seem to show it differently.
I’ve often wondered if part of the reason is that loud national pride can feel uncomfortable. There seems to be a quiet awareness that celebrating “us” too loudly can start to sound like excluding “them.”
You see it when Sweden plays in the World Cup or the Olympics. Suddenly the blue and yellow flags appear, everyone is glued to the TV, and strangers celebrate together.
One thing I’ve noticed over the years is that many Swedes seem to become even more patriotic after moving abroad.
When you grow up in Sweden, Midsummer, Lucia, crayfish parties, cinnamon buns, and those long summer nights when the sun barely sets and you’re complaining because you need blackout curtains just to sleep, are simply everyday life.
You don’t think much about them because they’ve always been there.
Then you move away.
Suddenly you’re explaining Lucia to your American friends. You’re driving across town to find Swedish candy. You get excited when you hear someone speaking Swedish in the grocery store. You celebrate Swedish traditions with a handful of other Swedes, trying to recreate a little piece of home.
Even IKEA becomes more than a furniture store, and H&M becomes more than a clothing store. They become little pieces of home.
It’s interesting how distance can make you appreciate things you once took for granted.
Maybe that’s one of the unexpected gifts of living abroad you don’t just discover a new country, you rediscover your own. 🇸🇪
This week, I was talking to my mom as she was preparing for Midsummer, one of the biggest celebrations of the year in Sweden, the longest day of the year.🇸🇪
She told me about her trip to the grocery store and how, this year, she wasn’t rolling her own meatballs. That may not sound like a big deal, but rolling meatballs for a large family gathering can be quite a chore.
There would be new potatoes with dill, meatballs, pickled herring, strawberries, and of course some kind of dessert.
There would undoubtedly be alcohol as well. After all, it wouldn’t be a Swedish Midsummer without it.
As she talked through her plans, I could almost picture it all. The grocery stores crowded with people buying the same ingredients they buy every year, and especially Systembolaget, the only place in Sweden where you can buy alcohol.
Since my mom and her boyfriend were heading up to their summer house in Dalarna, and my sister would be driving up with her little boy, I reminded my mom that she should take him to one of the larger Midsummer celebrations where children dance around the midsummer pole.
As I said it, I could vividly picture it: an accordion and fiddles playing in the background, someone standing with a microphone leading the festivities, and children hopping around the pole pretending to be frogs during Små Grodorna(The Little Frogs).
That conversation made me think about how Midsummer has changed throughout my life while somehow remaining exactly the same.
As a child, Midsummer was about cousins, lakes, and dancing around the midsummer pole. I spent many summers in Dalarna, where my grandparents lived. My aunt, uncle, and cousins would drive up, and we would spend hours playing, exploring, and enjoying the freedom that comes with long summer days.
As a teenager, Midsummer became something entirely different. It was about friends, freedom, staying out too late, and, if I’m being honest, usually drinking a little too much. Like many Swedish teenagers, the holiday became less about tradition and more about celebrating the start of summer.
As an adult, I find myself appreciating the things I once took for granted the family meals, the conversations around the table, and the comfort of traditions that connect one generation to the next.
Living abroad, holidays like Midsummer have a way of reminding you just how far away you are.
Not because you cannot celebrate where you are, but because you realize that somewhere else, the people you love are continuing traditions that were once your traditions too.
Hearing my mom talk about preparing for Midsummer dinner made me realize that some holidays never stop feeling like home, no matter how many years have passed or how many miles separate you from them.
And somewhere in Dalarna this year, my nephew will be dancing around that same midsummer pole, creating memories of his own. 🌼
Most people talk about following your dreams as if it’s an inspiring quote printed on a coffee mug.
What they don’t talk about is what gets left behind.
Leaving family, lifelong friends, a successful career, financial stability, and the comfort of knowing exactly where you belong is rarely romantic. It is messy, uncomfortable, and often terrifying.
Recently, I came across the story of someone who made exactly that choice.
He left Sweden, where he had built a successful career and a comfortable life, and moved to Atlanta to pursue acting. Not because it was practical. Not because it was guaranteed. But because there was a persistent feeling that there was something more he wanted to explore.
I think many of us have a dream tucked away somewhere. Maybe it’s writing a book. Starting a business. Moving to another country. Learning a new skill. Changing careers. We tell ourselves we’ll do it when the timing is right.
The problem is that the timing is rarely perfect.
There will always be responsibilities, bills, obligations, and reasons to stay where it feels safe.
What struck me most about this story wasn’t the acting itself. It was the willingness to accept uncertainty.
Starting over means becoming a beginner again. It means building new relationships, learning unfamiliar systems, and facing the possibility that things may not work out the way you imagined. Most people focus on the outcome. Few talk about the courage required to take the first step.
Success isn’t always measured by reaching a destination. Sometimes it’s measured by having the courage to begin the journey.
Whether the dream is acting, writing, entrepreneurship, travel, or something entirely different, there is something admirable about choosing growth over comfort.
Because in the end, failure is often easier to live with than regret.
And perhaps that’s the real lesson.
Not everyone needs to move across the world to follow a dream.
But all of us eventually face a choice between comfort and possibility.
The question is: what dream are you still waiting to start?
The story that inspired these thoughts can be found here:
There are times when my mind becomes my own worst storyteller.
If you’re anything like me, you’ve probably replayed a conversation over and over, wondering why someone said something, why they did something, or whether you missed a hidden meaning. I know I do, especially when I’m feeling anxious or uncertain.
A simple comment can turn into an entire story in my head. Before I know it, I’ve connected dots that may not even exist, assigning motives and meanings without any real evidence. Hours later, I’m mentally exhausted over something that may have been completely insignificant.
I’ve realized that anxiety has a way of doing that. It tries to protect us by filling in the blanks, but it often fills them with fear, insecurity, or worst-case scenarios. The story can feel incredibly real, even when it’s based on very little.
That’s why one quote has stayed with me:
“Don’t believe everything you think.”
I first came across it in the Swedish book Du kan ha fel (You Could Be Wrong) by Björn Natthiko Lindeblad. To me, the quote isn’t about dismissing our thoughts or pretending our feelings don’t matter. It’s a reminder that thoughts are not facts.
When anxiety takes over, a delayed text becomes rejection. A short answer becomes anger. A forgotten comment becomes proof that something is wrong. Before long, we’ve created an entire story without realizing that’s exactly what we’ve done.
I’ve certainly done that.
The quote reminds me to pause and ask myself, “Do I actually know this to be true, or is this my anxious mind filling in the blanks?”
Sometimes my first interpretation isn’t the right one. Sometimes the story I’ve created exists only in my own mind.
After all, thoughts are just thoughts. We don’t have to believe every single one of them. We get to choose which ones deserve our attention.
Brain clear 