There's a particular kind of homesickness that comes from having two homes. It's not the sharp ache of missing one place, but rather a gentle, persistent tug between two worlds that have shaped you in equal measure.
I write this from my kitchen table in Stockholm, watching the early winter darkness settle over the city at 3 PM. Outside, the world is painted in shades of gray and white, punctuated by the warm glow of windows lit against the Nordic night. Inside, I've recreated a corner of Texas: a pot of chili simmers on the stove, and country music plays softly in the background.
"Home isn't just a place—it's the delicate balance we create between who we were and who we're becoming."
When I first moved back to Sweden after years in Texas, I thought I was simply returning home. What I didn't expect was how much of Texas I'd carry with me, woven into the fabric of who I'd become. The directness I'd learned in Austin board rooms now felt almost aggressive in Stockholm's consensus-driven meetings. The warmth and openness that had become second nature seemed overwhelming in a culture that values quiet reserve.
The Art of Cultural Code-Switching
Living between cultures means becoming fluent in two different languages of being. In Texas, I learned to lead with warmth, to share personal stories as bridges to connection, to fill silences with friendly chatter. In Sweden, I've remembered the beauty of comfortable silence, the depth that comes from restraint, the way trust builds slowly but surely, like a house constructed to last centuries.
Some days, I feel like a cultural chameleon, shifting between these two versions of myself. I'll start the morning with Swedish efficiency—a quick fika, minimal small talk, straight to the point. By evening, I might find myself on a video call with Texas friends, my voice unconsciously picking up that familiar drawl, my gestures becoming more animated, my stories stretching longer.
What We Keep, What We Leave Behind
The beauty of living between two cultures is that you get to be intentional about what you keep from each. From Texas, I've kept the belief that strangers are just friends you haven't met yet. I've held onto the confidence to take up space, to share my ideas boldly, to believe that my voice matters. I've maintained the habit of saying "y'all" because no other word quite captures that warm inclusivity.
From Sweden, I've reclaimed the value of lagom—that untranslatable concept of "just enough." I've remembered how to find joy in simple pleasures: fresh cardamom buns, long walks in the forest, the ritual of Saturday candy. I've re-embraced the Swedish approach to work-life balance, where leaving the office at 4:30 PM to pick up your children isn't seen as a lack of dedication but as having your priorities straight.
"Perhaps home isn't about choosing one place over another, but about creating a life spacious enough to hold all the pieces of who we are."
Building Bridges, Not Walls
My children are growing up as bridges between these two worlds. They switch effortlessly between languages, between cultural codes, between ways of being. They eat tacos on Tuesday (a Swedish tradition, ironically) and celebrate both Thanksgiving and Lucia. They understand that there are many ways to be in the world, that different doesn't mean wrong, that home can be plural.
In raising them between cultures, I've learned that the goal isn't to choose sides but to expand what's possible. They can be both deeply Swedish and infectiously Texan. They can value both collective harmony and individual expression. They can find home in the piney woods of East Texas and the archipelago of Stockholm.
The Space Between
There's a Swedish word, "mellanrum," which literally translates to "space between." It's in this mellanrum that I've found my truest home. Not fully Swedish, not fully Texan, but something new—a hybrid identity that takes the best from both worlds.
Some days, this in-between space feels lonely. When Swedish friends don't quite understand my American enthusiasm, or when Texas friends find my Swedish reserve puzzling. But more often, it feels like a gift—to see the world from multiple perspectives, to know that there's always more than one right way to live.
As I finish writing this, the chili is ready, filling my Swedish apartment with Texas warmth. Outside, snow has begun to fall, transforming Stockholm into a winter wonderland. And here I sit, in my mellanrum, grateful for the richness that comes from calling two places home.
Maybe that's what home really is—not a single place or culture, but the courage to hold multiple truths at once, to build a life that honors all the parts of your story, to find belonging in the beautiful, complex space between.
