Why Swedish Summers Stress Me Out

Every year, as Midsummer approaches, I find myself looking around in mild panic and wondering the same thing: How did summer get here so fast?

After living in Sweden for years, you’d think I would have adapted by now. But somehow my internal calendar remains stubbornly American. In my mind, summer vacations don’t really begin until August, and they often drift into September. In Sweden, however, the summer state-of-mind seems to arrive around Nationaldag in June when everyone starts to hint that they’ll be signing off soon.

Meanwhile, I’m feeling energized by the light and longer days, motivated to finish projects, answer emails, and check things off my to-do list. I want momentum, creation, and feedback, not lethargy. But the country has essentially closed for business, and I’m swept into summer whether I’m ready or not. You’d think the prospect of four to six weeks of vacation would make me feel calm and carefree. Instead, it triggers a peculiar form of anxiety.

The Weather

Swedish summers are precious, but they’re also unpredictable. Will it be warm enough to sit outside? Will it rain for that 20-person lunch I’ve planned—and where will we sit if it does? Should I pack a bathing suit or a raincoat? I spend far too much time checking weather apps, hoping to find THE ONE that grants me non-stop sunshine. My fear of elements I cannot control—wind, chill, drizzle—verges on obsession and can ruin an otherwise decent day. On top of that, I still don’t quite understand the Celsius system: Is 15 °C warm? Um, yes, it is when the sun is high in the sky. I learned this the hard, sweaty way.

The Wardrobe

I have also never fully adjusted to Swedish standards of summer dressing. My Swedish friends seem entirely comfortable in light, airy outfits because they are following the calendar rather than the temperature. Meanwhile, I have goodebumps, wondering if anyone else feels that breeze. Since I’m always slightly cold, I usually wear a denim or lightweight down jacket and end up looking uncomfortably overdressed and seasonally confused.

Cold & Steam

Then there’s swimming. Every year I tell myself that this is the summer I’ll become a hardy person who joyfully dives into the sea and exclaims how refreshing it is. But without fail, I discover that the Baltic Sea is indeed very far north and very cold. It never warms up to my satisfaction. While 15 °C  may feel mild in the air, it is not warm in liquid form. And the insistence on a sauna afterward! A sauna with my hair type is out of the question. These strands cannot handle steam, and we want to avoid unnecessary frizz, so please don’t ask again...

Guilty Pleasures

Swedish summers encourage certain habits. Rosé wine, for example. A few glasses of that blushing pink elixir at lunch. Another at after-sail. One more while watching the sunset. After six weeks, my belly is inflamed and bloated, and I don’t want to see another bottle of Minuty.  But ice cream is my real weakness. I can have a cone or a bowl every day. Why should I deprive myself of this simple summer pleasure? Unfortunately, my jeans disagree. The extra kilos I gain during four weeks of indulgence require at least four months of determined effort to lose.

The Social Olympics

Perhaps the biggest stressor of all is the social calendar. Swedish summers are intense. There are lunches, dinners, boat outings, tennis matches, weekend guests, and spontaneous invitations that pop up at just the right moment. Adding to the challenge is the fact that I genuinely love hosting, but being in the archipelago requires a level of logistical planning akin to a military operation—timing purchases around island deliveries, creating rainy-day contingencies, coordinating schedules, and arranging transportation. If one detail is out of whack, it can sabotage my vision.

The Summer Checklist

Every summer, we move out to our cottage, and I create an ambitious plan for the season such as playing tennis several times a week, reading back issues of The New Yorker, and writing in my journal. Instead, the tennis courts are always fully booked, and I scroll instead of reading or writing. I inevitably feel like a failure, become frustrated that I haven’t accomplished any of my goals, and resent the fact that I’ve gotten bogged down in practical tasks like laundry rather than enriching leisure activities.

Summertime Sadness

One of the paradoxes of summer is that even though life slows down, there never seems to be enough time. I want to do everything and see everyone, accomplish something meaningful, and still leave room to be fully present. Somehow, however, the balance remains elusive. By the time crayfish season (I dislike those critters, by the way) rolls around in August, the air has cooled, and people start returning to town and real life. I sometimes stay a bit longer in the archipelago after the crowds have left, calmer yet melancholy and nostalgic for the summer that was. I take inventory of my experiences and start making mental notes for next year, promising myself I’ll finally crack the svensksommar code.

And Yet...

For all the stress, I wouldn’t trade my Swedish summers for anything. The endless light. The long lunches. The red cottages. The wildflowers. The family history, traditions, and memories on our little island. The moments when everyone stops working long enough to be loud and silly. Perhaps that’s why summer can feel so urgent. We know how short it is. We know how quickly it disappears. We want to squeeze every possible drop into a few fleeting weeks.

And maybe that’s the real source of my anxiety—not that Swedish summers are stressful, but that I have such high expectations that I’m afraid of missing the full experience. My inability to let go and just be. It’s a certain joie de vivre that we restless, hard-driving Americans aren’t conditioned for.

Luckily, it’s never too late to learn... Glad Sommar!

Maintaining Mental Health as a Writer

I come from tough stock. My parents emigrated from Haiti to the United States in the late 60s with limited resources but boundless love, ambition, and pride in their heritage, building a life of opportunity from scratch for my sister and me. Growing up as the child of immigrants in the less inclusive 70s and 80s had its challenges, but those experiences empowered me. I then moved to Sweden and applied those learnings to my new, foreign surroundings. And when I suffered the greatest tragedy of my life—my mother’s terminal cancer diagnosis in 2004—her strength and graceful acceptance became my blueprint for navigating pain and adversity.

So why am I so deeply affected by the emotional volatility of my writing life?

Since May is Mental Health Awareness Month, I wanted to address the effects that writing and the pursuit of publication can have on one’s psyche. To be clear, I am by no means equating this chosen vocation with profound suffering and hardship—wars, illness, famine, abuse, poverty—but the psychological intensity of artistic work can still erode our emotional balance, affecting how we handle pressure and disappointment, which in turn shapes how we think, feel, act, manage stress, and relate to others.

As a writer, I put my mind, heart, and soul into every book, pushing through my doubts and insecurities to connect with readers. But the road to that communion is also fraught with creative blocks, uncertainty, rejection, judgment, and burnout. The thrill of creating art and presenting it to the public is intoxicating. Still, the agony of an “I’ll have to pass” letter from an agent or publisher, along with a poor review from a reader, can be like a punch to the gut and thrust you into a state of despair.

With my first three novels, the obstacles fueled my dreams of writing and publishing. I was adept at pivoting and found joy—and validation—in small wins and anything that enhanced my learning curve. However, by the time I completed the manuscript for my fourth novel, a difficult experience with my then-publisher tested me in jarring ways. My emotions ranged from confusion to desperation to anger to resignation. I did not recognize myself. Where was the stable, determined daughter of immigrants who had spent a lifetime defying expectations and the limitations others tried to place on her? She was shrinking inside. Behind my smiles was a sense of failure and embarrassment.

How did I get out of this funk? As part of Mental Health Awareness Month, I want to share some of my coping mechanisms from this challenging period of my life as an author. Although I knew what triggered my malaise, overcoming it demanded that I swallow my pride and actively participate in the healing process.

·       Talk about it. My husband is my biggest supporter, and I needed his forward-thinking attitude. He was sympathetic, but didn’t encourage shame or wallowing in sorrow. Eventually, that tough love helped me open up to trusted writer friends. Having a community makes a huge difference, and once you unlock the door and show some cracks in the woodwork, you’d be surprised how forthcoming others become.

·       Seek professional help. In my case, I enlisted the services of a Master Certified Coach who bolstered my author mindset with strategies for handling rejection, overcoming imposter syndrome, and strengthening my sense of self-worth. I’m not a big crier, but I sobbed at one of our sessions, releasing the anguish that my personal crisis had caused. My biggest takeaway was her advice to adopt a neutral mindset in the face of every professional setback—don’t overanalyze, don’t overdramatize. File it away, and move on.

·       Don’t compare yourself to others. Let’s be honest: with social media, especially Instagram, it feels like every other writer is clocking six-figure book deals, film options, celebrity book clubs, awards, and bestseller lists—except you. However, it’s important to remember that every success story is different and achieved through factors distinct from one’s own—talent, tenacity, timing, luck. Focus on being inspired, not demoralized by their journey.

·       Take breaks. A time-out can involve putting the manuscript aside for a couple of hours, days, or weeks. When the writing elicits more anxiety than satisfaction, it’s a sign to take a step back and recharge your mental and creative batteries.

·       Commune with nature. Shut down the computer, leave your desk, and go outside. Take a walk, go running, smell the fresh air, listen to the birds chirping, gaze at the ocean. Absorbing the vastness of the natural world is grounding because, while my book may be essential to me, the fate of the planet does not rest on it.

·       Develop interests outside of the literary space. Reading has always been my favorite pastime. However, once writing became my career, reading for fun no longer gave me the same carefree pleasure. I approached books with the critical eye of a reviewer or editor, not the generous spirit of a reader. And whenever I found myself in a reading slump, I felt like I had lost an integral part of my personality. I realized I needed to nurture other leisure pursuits. I rekindled my love of tennis, and chasing a ball on the court has been the perfect counterbalance.

·       Separate your Work and Self. Writing is my passion, but I cannot let it consume me; emotional distance is healthy and essential. If I want to be in this for the long haul, I have to develop professional survival strategies. A ghosted email does not make me a failure. Rejection is redirection, not a verdict on my ability or self-esteem. I can still be committed without tying my whole identity to the outcome. This perspective has given me clarity and confidence.

Maintaining my mental health as a writer requires continuous work. I’m only human, so sometimes I don’t follow my own advice. However, I do check myself, and I’m much better equipped to deal with the mercurial nature of the literary life than I was three years ago. So, I wrote this very long post to tell my fellow writers that they are not alone. I see you—and I feel you. Even emotionally resilient people can be destabilized by rejection and uncertainty, and having open, honest conversations will remove the stigma around it. The very act of putting one’s work out there is inherently brave and powerful. We mustn’t forget that when this path we’ve chosen delivers twists and turns.

Sending comfort and care, but if you are in immediate distress or crisis, please reach out to a professional counselor or a crisis hotline.

HOLDING TWO WORLDS AT ONCE

I recently returned from spending my longest consecutive time in the United States since I moved to Sweden in 1997—almost three whole months! Yes, I have become a middle-aged cliché and escaped the lengthy, gloomy Swedish winter for warmer climes in Florida. It was wonderful to be in the same time zone as my children and to spend quality time with them, extended family, and friends. I tend to overthink things, so I was a bit nervous that this prolonged stay would not meet my expectations. Almost as though I had lived in Europe for so long that I would find fault with typically American things—another unfortunate cliché. Luckily, that wasn’t the case at all!

I'm proud of my Swedish fluency, but I can't overstate how liberating it felt to express myself fully in English and crack jokes without worrying about whether they made any sense or if I had made a grammatical error. There were no blank stares or furrowed brows or a Swede's reflexive switch to English. I also reconnected with my inner suburban girl, the teen who hung out at malls and related to the same pop-culture references. I loved going to Costco and marveled at all the things I could buy in bulk. I adored shopping for discounted household items at Target and Home Goods. I was obsessed with the deli that served ginormous bagels filled with lox, tuna, or chicken salad. Yes, it didn’t seem humanly possible that I could consume such a big serving—yet I did. I embraced, wholeheartedly, walking around in Lululemons and flip-flops. I welcomed how people weren’t afraid to make eye contact, break into a smile, or say hello. I joined the small talk at check-out lines and appreciated the generous invitations we received from friends of friends or people we had recently met. I treasured the diversity, the hum of different languages, and the proximity to my Haitian heritage.

I still feel a strong connection to the country where I was born and raised, despite its imperfections. No place is perfect, and I cringe at the snobby expats whose years abroad have made them condescending towards their fellow Americans. Ironically, I feel more American than ever on foreign soil and inevitably become a sounding board for people's positive and negative perceptions of the country. Since my return, I’ve fielded many questions about the state of affairs in the United States, and I’m always fascinated by how up-to-date Swedes are in what’s going on across the pond. Some may even argue that interested Swedes may know more about current events stateside than many Americans do. Could it be because our politics have become a form of entertainment? Each day, there is a new headline that can make your head spin. I often think that, as a writer, you couldn’t credibly make this stuff up!

More importantly, Sweden and the rest of Europe have long considered the United States a partner and reliable ally, and must now navigate a new dynamic in their relationship. People are so invested because, for better or worse, what happens in the US impacts their lives—economically, geographically, militarily, and personally. Many Swedes who broach the topic with me have traveled, lived, worked, or studied in the United States and still hold fond memories of their time there. It’s as though the US is an old friend who suddenly ghosted them, and they have no idea why. Keep in mind, these are my anecdotal observations. Sentiments surely vary.

Since I majored in political science, I do have strong opinions, and if you’ve known me or followed my feed, you may have an inkling of what they are. However, I intentionally avoid discussing hot-button political topics on social media, preferring face-to-face conversations where points of view can be expanded upon, allowing for nuance rather than toxicity. I firmly believe in the old-fashioned tradition of civilized debate, one where we can disagree without being disagreeable.

As a writer, my goal is to entertain and resonate with readers while also addressing issues that are important to me. Every one of my novels touches upon race, class, and society through my characters’ backstories, conflicts, and desires. I’ve often questioned if this—no matter how subtle—is a good approach. Aren't readers looking for an escape from politics and polemics? And what if my perspective—no matter how layered—turns them off? But the months I spent in the US only reaffirmed that politics is inevitable; it's the lens through which we view our lives. It seeps into our everyday discourse, whether in casual comments or full-fledged conversations.

I want my stories to reflect where we are at this moment, albeit wrapped in an engaging narrative, riveting characters, and atmospheric settings. That was certainly my intent with Sommaren på Nornö / A Norn in Bloom, where I tackled the topic of outsider-ness through a mixed-race daughter and a troubled single mother who don’t conform to Swedish behavioral norms of lagom—characters who are struggling to fit in and resist the pressure to suppress their emotions and truth. I take it a step further in the sequel, Nornöns Eko/A Norn’s Echo, by shifting the action to the United States, following the characters as they seek family and community in the post-pandemic era.

I’m thrilled to report that my re-entry into Sweden has been incredibly smooth. As our days in Florida drew to a close, I began to yearn for my old routines and to get started on my Swedish to-do list. Love led me to build my life here, raise a family, publish my novels, and make wonderful friends—and I have no regrets. It also helped that we came back at the best time. The increased daylight is a joyful beacon, and the flowering cherry blossoms are like welcome bouquets scattered around town. Lately, the sky has been a vibrant, azure blue mirroring the Swedish flag. Stockholm has come alive, and these weeks before everyone disappears after Midsummer are among my favorites; sidewalk cafes overflow, parks are full, and people instinctively lift their heads instead of looking down—meeting each other’s gaze, open to one another and to new possibilities. External conditions may change from day-to-day, but the underlying optimism remains.

One world does not have to replace the other. I’m grateful that I get to experience both—in all their complexity and contradictions.