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.

I Miss My Attention

I don’t think I’m busier than I used to be; I'm just more distracted.

In our high-tech, high-speed, noise-saturated world, I sometimes can’t understand how I once managed to raise two children, write four books, and maintain some semblance of an intentional life.

These days, I feel pulled in a thousand directions. I start tasks, get sidetracked, and stop midway. Before I know it, I’m checking something, answering something, reacting to something, struggling to remember what I was doing in the first place. It’s easy to blame the midlife brain fog, but I also sense I’ve allowed my attention to thin out, my mind to grow too scattered.

For the past several years, I’ve felt as though I’ve been living under a perpetual deadline. There were daily word counts to hit, first drafts to complete, and manuscripts to turn in. I was adept at working on demand, but I knew deep down that my flow had changed for the worse. Even now, without an immediate book project on the horizon, I still approach everything as if I’m racing an invisible clock, fuelling an unfounded anxiety.

How did I get this way? Perhaps it’s because we’ve been fed so many productivity narratives, where quantity often overshadows quality. I approach my novels with the latter in mind, but the publishing industry—and the broader culture—reward speed, output, and constant newness. I’ve become so frustrated by these expectations that I’m no longer willing to accept them as the price of living in a hyperconnected universe. My mission moving forward is to regain my focus, to create my own rhythm within the algorithm. By that I mean not merely scratching the surface of what I want to accomplish, but devoting real time, effort, and patience to my assignments, big and small.

Recently, I’ve been examining the concept of deep thinking: the deliberate practice of going beyond surface-level understanding to explore ideas, problems, or experiences with depth, structure, and reflection. It’s less about speed and more about the quality of attention. The conscious choice to slow down, probe deeper, and ask better questions about the things I truly value.

In our scroll-heavy, on-to-the-next existence, I’ve fallen prey to its opposite: shallow thinking. Surface-level processing. Engaging with information just enough to react, like, or emojify, but not enough to truly absorb it. Part of that is sheer overload, an unfortunate byproduct of our social-media-driven age. There is so much happening around us—politically, socially, culturally—that it can feel as though there isn’t enough bandwidth for depth. Hence, I often stop at the first layer and move on.

But that learned mindset began spilling into other aspects of my day-to-day life. I thought I was being efficient, yet I made careless mistakes. I thought I was being expansive, but I was simply poor at setting boundaries. I thought I was staying well-informed, but I was mostly absorbing other people’s urgency. It became the mental equivalent of skimming instead of reading closely.

This shift began to matter. I feared it was affecting my creativity, my ability to let ideas and emotions germinate long enough to unfold beyond their first, easy form. To follow that evolution through trial and error, layer upon layer. I want to apply deep thinking and move to a more meaningful rhythm of deep work. Back to sitting and imagining and writing without an internal stopwatch ticking in the background. Back to completing a task without resenting the time it required. A headspace before multitasking was considered a virtue. To a moment when my attention wasn’t a commodity, but whole and self-directed.

The fact is, I miss the version of myself that read slowly instead of scrolled mindlessly before bed. I miss longer stretches of quiet. I miss when I could sit with my work without rushing it.

Even as I write this post, I have to resist the urge to open another tab or check my phone at the flash of a notification. Reclaiming deep work will require unlearning the bad habits that have crept up on me. But if I want to be more present, selective—and inspired—it will be worth the time and effort.

We’ll see if I can ignore the next notification...

Echoes from 2025

This past year has been...a lot. Maybe it’s because we’re at the midway point of the decade, but it felt like consequential events happened at dizzying speed, and at this stage of midlife, my emotions are porous, and I tend to fixate on the very things I cannot control. As a result, I found it difficult to focus on the things that normally give me pleasure: reading, writing, cooking, exercising. Don’t get me wrong, I have much to be grateful for. My family. My health. The publication of Nornöns eko. But I found myself particularly affected by the somber mood permeating the world. Wars. Inequality. AI. Gun violence.

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I am seriously worried about where humanity is headed, and I would wake up in the middle of the night riddled by anxiety and spinning thoughts. All of which made my creative efforts feel paltry in comparison. Writing could be therapeutic, but I was not in the mood to organize all that my mind was processing. But as the year draws to a speedy close, I have chosen to keep those dark thoughts in check. It’s not that I’m no longer concerned with the existential questions of the day, but I cannot let them dominate me. Therefore, I’ve decided to reassess the past year and identify what has moved or positively inspired me. In some cases, it was finding moments of grace in the face of tragedy, and in others, it was that reflexive tingle of excitement and delight. Here are the reflections that have helped me end 2025 on an uplifting note.

I’ve made no secret of my frustration with the publishing industry and the struggles I faced to publish Nornöns eko. I join other authors in lamenting the volume of books published each year, making it difficult to break through. The lack of marketing support and the pressure to have a robust social media presence. But despite these stressors, some authors emerged triumphant, renewing my belief that good writing and genuine reader endorsement still matter. So kudos to Virginia Evans and her novel, The Correspondent, and Allen Levi’s Theo of Golden. Thank you for not giving up.

Another artist who deserves applause is painter Amy Sherald, who held fast to her principles and withdrew her planned solo exhibition from the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery after the museum raised concerns about including a painting depicting a transgender woman as the Statue of Liberty. Sherald said proposals to remove or “contextualize” the work amounted to censorship and compromised the integrity of her art. As creators living in a democratic society, we must defend artistic freedom, resist subtle forms of censorship, and insist on the right to tell complex, sometimes uncomfortable truths without compromise. Sherald demonstrates this commitment with dignity and resolve. By the way, I had the privilege of seeing Trans Forming Liberty at the Whitney Museum, and it is a strikingly brilliant interpretation of American values of diversity, equality, and belonging. Values we should celebrate, not fear.

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I did enjoy watching a lot of tennis, and I was as mesmerized by Carlos Alcaraz and Jannik Sinner as everyone else. Admittedly, I’m on Team Sinner — but their rivalry is a testament to sportsmanship — and, as a mother with a son about the same age, good manners! But I was also impressed by other amazing players on the tour (Felix Auger-Aliassime and Amanda Anisimova), who gave their all and, even in the face of defeat, stayed positive and confident, getting back out there. Similar to writing, singles tennis is a solo sport that requires enormous skill, mental fortitude, passion, and a belief that victory (or publication) is within reach. Again, not giving up.  

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I was deeply saddened when Tatiana Schlossberg, daughter of Caroline Kennedy and granddaughter of JFK, revealed her terminal leukemia diagnosis in an essay for The New Yorker. That she is a mother of two in her mid-thirties, previously healthy and active, made the news especially hard to comprehend. I could scarcely read her gut-wrenching piece. Many wrote about it at the time, but I couldn’t. My mother was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer in 2004, and the ordeal Ms. Schlossberg and her family are enduring brought my mother’s illness—and our fear, anger, confusion, and yes, the unfairness of it all—back to the surface. However, even though we feel our loved ones’ pain, they are the ones suffering the physical effects, and Ms. Schlossberg does not shy away from describing her symptoms and the emotional toll.

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My mother’s passing three months after her diagnosis was relatively, perhaps mercifully, swift. Most of that time, I was heavily pregnant in Sweden with my second child, so I don’t know how she came to terms with the grave prognosis or took stock of her remarkable life. Mom didn’t leave anything in writing, and I cling to our final conversations like a lifeline. However, since my selfless mother was more concerned about keeping it together for us, I do remember that she was at peace with her fate toward the end. While I hope for a miracle or medical breakthrough, Ms. Schlossberg seems to be on a journey toward that peace; she appears to be a person of faith with a tremendous support system. But in the realness of her essay, she demonstrates strength and a true profile in courage. And a reminder not to take the days we have been given—and our loved ones—for granted.

Finally, the most unexpected highlight of the year was my daughter Yasmine’s new Substack, Yaz, I Said That. I had no idea she was contemplating this new project, and her entry into the writing space thrilled me for several reasons. First of all, she must have caught the writing bug from her mother, right 😜? But I also know that her career has drawn her into the media world, placing her in proximity to exciting publications and inspiring contributors. However, what fills me with the most pride is hearing her excitement as she brainstorms a topic or seeing her concentration as she taps on her keyboard. I’m impressed by her voice and her keen powers of observation; her choice of subject matter and her culturally savvy Gen Z sensibility. I’m so proud of her desire to express herself boldly and authentically, twice a week. Unlike me, she writes with speed, meeting her self-imposed deadlines like a true journalist, always striving to connect the specific to a larger context.

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Most of all, reading her work reminds me of the deep satisfaction of recording one’s thoughts and offering them up for all—or no one—to see. The urgency of putting words into the world, even if only for oneself. Seeing her joy in writing, something I’ve struggled to access these past few months, gives me hope. Words still matter. They help us make sense of tough times and uncertainty. Writing enables us to foster connections and to dream of brighter days.

As I write this now, I feel stirrings of the writing bug, the flexing of muscles that have lain dormant. I will step into 2026 ready to trust my voice again—and to write my way forward. Sending all my best wishes for a healthy and happy New Year!