It’s a strange thing, to belong to a place and still feel like a guest in your own language. I’ve given it time. Given it space. Given it wool, windproof layers, and cautiously optimistic smiles. And still, the recognition, the resonance, the yes we see you!—it always seems to arrive from somewhere else.

Abroad, they get me. They always have. The doors open. The ideas flow. The conversations spark and crackle with curiosity. It’s where my work is seen, heard, and held. It’s where I feel most understood.

And that, my friends, has been one of the hardest balancing acts of my life. Especially when my kids were younger. You know the deal. Heart in two places, roots in the air, trying to grow a life across hemispheres of belonging.

Now, with more time, I thought perhaps… maybe Norway would catch on. Maybe she'd finally nod in my direction and say, Ah yes, we’ve known her all along. But still, no dice.

Is it because I’ve refused to sell my soul? Because I haven’t picked one neat little label and stuck with it until it fossilised? Or...let’s be honest, is it just that Norway is always a bit… behind?

We know this. We’ve always known this. Norway doesn’t rush. Norway waits. Observes. Takes 50–100 years before it feels safe enough to admit the rest of the world may have had a point.

It’s a bit like a small reunion with friends. (ONLY in Norway!) They don’t show you they liked the show until they’re absolutely sure everyone else does. THEN you can clap. THEN you can show your enthusiasm or approval. THEN you can pretend you were always into it.

It’s oddly endearing. Slightly maddening. And, okay—kind of funny.

But I’m still here. Still putting together words. Still dancing between worlds. Still waiting for that slow, glacial nod of approval. Maybe one day they’ll catch up. Maybe one day they’ll say: She was always one of us.

Until then, I'll be over here. Thriving in the meanwhile.

-T