Thanksgiving

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Here I am, sitting at the desk that I’d only seen in pictures a few months prior. My daily chores are completed. I’ve enjoyed my breakfast, morning fika, and lunch. My space is clear of all distractions that could break my concentration.

I listen to the rain as it washes away Saturday’s snowfall. Here I am, in Sweden, just as I said I would be.

Why am I here exactly?

To be honest, moments of panic have resulted from this question. Brief episodes of anxiety when tunnel vision has set in, black fuzzies have danced around my periphery, and I’ve chugged a glass of water to steady myself from the dizziness.

Embracing freedom isn’t easy, at least not for me. I’ve heard countless times from friends and family “I’d give anything to not be on a schedule, accountable to others, meeting demands left and right. The quiet must be amazing.”

Amazing. It’s one way of describing it. Amazing is translating into not having an escape from the incessant chatter in my head and a feast of issues served before me from which to fill my plate. I may be in Sweden, in the quiet, but I’m still celebrating Thanksgiving this year, eating from a cornucopia of past that’s not quite letting go in a deafening present. It’s like holiday dinner with your gregarious family that you avoid the rest of the year.

It’s why I’m here, in Sweden, just as I said I would be. The amazing quiet isn’t allowing me to escape with distractions and excuses and the numbness that comes from drinking too much wine. Sweden’s saving my soul. Sweden’s making me sober.

Growth and comfort never co-exist, remember? Happy Thanksgiving, Bek. You’re getting exactly what you asked for with a dollop of whipped cream on top.

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