Tania Winther | Updates

The Strange Organ: Notes from a restless mind learning to be human

Tania Winther — Tue, 05 May 2026 17:00:45 -0400

The brain is a strange organ. It weighs about 1.3 kg, looks like a walnut that has seen things, runs on electricity and fat, and spends its days talking to itself in chemical whispers. It consumes roughly 20 percent of the body’s energy while doing absolutely nothing visible. No lifting. No walking. Just sitting there, thinking very loudly.

This particular brain belongs to a woman who is learning, slowly and sometimes unwillingly, how to be human. Her brain is both her oldest adversary and her most devoted ally. A loyal assistant with questionable time-management skills. A fire alarm that goes off when someone burns toast. A librarian who refuses to stop acquiring books, even when the shelves are collapsing.

Neuroscientists say the brain is not designed for modern life. It evolved to scan the horizon for predators, remember where the berries grow, and decide quickly whether to fight, flee, or freeze. It was not built for inboxes, notifications, or the expectation that one should optimize oneself before breakfast.

This brain, especially, never learned the art of shutting up. It observes constantly. It catalogues gestures, tones of voice, silences. It notices patterns where none were requested. It remembers conversations from ten years ago but forgets where the keys are. It produces ideas at inconvenient hours and insists they are urgent. Sometimes it teaches obedience when rebellion would be healthier. Sometimes it chooses silence when speech might have changed everything.

The prefrontal cortex is responsible for judgment and self-control, often negotiating with older, louder brain regions that are ruled by emotion, memory, and ancient instincts. The result is a civil war conducted in neurons. Yet this same brain is also unstoppable. Curiosity lights it up like a city at night. Dopamine rewards the pursuit of understanding. Learning becomes addictive. One subject leads to another, then another.

Science opens a door to language. Language opens a door to art. Art leads to design. Design leads back to people. Each discipline wires new pathways, building a dense network of connections that neuroscientists politely call plasticity and artists recognize as obsession.

This woman has studied widely. Worked broadly. Raised children while doing so. The brain adapted, as brains do. It multitasked, restructured, rerouted. Human brains are astonishingly good at surviving chaos. People often ask, How is it possible? The honest answer is that the brain doesn’t ask for permission. It simply does what it does. Some brains sprint. Some stroll. Some wander off the path entirely and come back with stories. But no system can run at full speed forever.

A brain that never rests eventually sends signals the body can no longer ignore. Cortisol stays high. Sleep becomes shallow. The nervous system remains alert long after the danger has passed. Exhaustion appears, not dramatically, but persistently,like a wall that was always there but only now becomes visible. Neuroscience apparently has a word for this: overload. The body calls it enough.

This woman once believed she understood her limits. The brain, however, is excellent at lying about those. It convinces its owner that rest can wait, that empathy has no cost, that taking on other people’s pain is a form of love rather than self-erasure. Mirror neurons make humans exquisitely sensitive to one another. They allow us to feel what others feel. They also explain why some people walk away from conversations heavier than when they arrived. Curiosity, it turns out, is not a neutral trait. It leads to connection, and connection leads to responsibility. Trust comes easily. Boundaries, less so.

The brain absorbs stories, grief, fears, hopes of raw material that later resurfaces as art, writing, performance. Nothing is wasted. Everything is stored somewhere. The brain and the woman wrestle often. It keeps her awake when she asks for quiet. It replays memories. It plans futures that may never happen. It resists stillness like a feral animal. And yet, after meeting the famous brick wall called exhaustion, a new understanding emerges. The brain is not separate from the body. Speed has consequences. Intelligence does not grant immunity. Even the most curious minds belong to mortal systems. This realization is both unsettling and liberating.

For the first time, the woman truly understands that being human is not a failure of potential but a condition of reality. Curiosity remains her oxygen. The brain still loves learning, creating, reading, observing. A chance conversation with a stranger still releases a small neurological celebration, one sentence lighting up entire regions of thought. This is how her brain works. Restless. Reflective. Occasionally reckless. A collector of stories. A quiet witness and a loud dreamer.

And though this strange organ has overwhelmed her more than once, it has also built her, layer by layer, synapse by synapse, into someone who keeps searching, keeps wondering, keeps listening. Because even with all its flaws, its fire, its refusal to rest on command, she would not trade this strange organ for any other.

It is, after all, the one that taught her how to wonder.

Author’s Note: "The Strange Organ: Notes from a restless mind learning to be human", explores the brain as both a biological system and a narrative force. Blending neuroscience with lyrical reflection, the essay examines curiosity, empathy, exhaustion, and adaptation. Asking what it truly means to live inside a mind that never stops learning, and how acceptance, rather than mastery, may be the most human skill of all.

Tania Winther is a Third Culture expat, writer, poet, and artist with a background in biology and genetics. Her work explores the intersections of culture, travel, identity, and the inner life.

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Trondheim, Norway: The Northern Creative City You Didn’t Know You Were Looking For

Tania Winther — Tue, 05 May 2026 16:50:51 -0400

Norway has been trending again lately.

World politics have a funny way of doing that. When global headlines turn loud, people start looking north, for calm, clarity, and countries that quietly get things right. Enter Norway. And if you follow that compass just a little further north than Oslo or Bergen, you’ll find Trondheim — a city that doesn’t shout for attention, but absolutely deserves it.

Welcome to Trondheim. Set in the heart of Trøndelag, a central Norwegian region shaped by Viking history, dramatic landscapes, and a strong cultural identity, Trondheim is a city that doesn’t shout for attention but absolutely deserves it. It remains the region’s unofficial heart: creative, historic, and refreshingly grounded.

Once upon a time, Trondheim was Norway’s capital. Viking kings were crowned here, pilgrimages ended here, and everyone agreed this was the center of the universe. Then the royal court packed up and left for what is now Oslo. Trondheim shrugged, muttered something vaguely sarcastic, and carried on.

Fast forward a thousand years, and the city is having a moment. In 2022, The New York Times T Magazine named Trondheim one of Europe’s most creative northern hubs. Locals barely blinked. Trondheim has always known who it is. Founded over a thousand years ago, the city balances medieval grandeur with modern life effortlessly. Colourful wooden warehouses line the riverbanks, cafés spill into cobbled streets, and students, scientists, chefs, artists, and musicians coexist as if this were the most natural arrangement in the world.

At the centre stands Nidaros Cathedral, a Gothic masterpiece and one of Scandinavia’s most important pilgrimage sites. Dramatic, humbling, and especially striking beneath shifting northern skies. Creatively, Trondheim punches far above its size. The art scene is open and accessible, blending established institutions with independent galleries and artist-run spaces. Street art is embraced rather than hidden, with a graffiti walk turning backstreets into open-air exhibitions.

Music runs deep here too. From jazz and classical to indie, experimental, and metal, powered in part by NTNU’s legendary Jazz Studies Programme (Jazzlinja), one of Europe’s most influential jazz incubators. Beyond clubs and small venues, Trondheim is also home to the Trondheim Symphony Orchestra, one of Norway’s most respected orchestras, performing classical and contemporary works in world-class settings. Add to that a packed calendar of festivals, jazz, film, food, and contemporary art, and the city’s cultural output feels anything but small.

Then there’s the modern Nordic ritual you didn’t know you needed: outdoor saunas. Floating along the fjord and dotted across the coast, these invite brave souls to alternate between intense heat and icy water year-round. It’s invigorating, slightly terrifying, and deeply addictive. A perfect reflection of Trondheim’s relationship with nature: respectful, playful, and unapologetically bold. And while Trondheim may be the beating heart, Trøndelag is its soul.

Just beyond the city, the region unfolds into mountain towns, fertile farmland, windswept islands, and historic crossroads that shaped Norway long before the modern state existed. The UNESCO-listed mining town of Røros, founded in 1644, stands as one of Norway’s most evocative cultural landscapes, with preserved wooden houses, smelters, and transport routes telling a powerful story of survival and ingenuity. Along the coast, Hitra and Frøya reveal Trøndelag’s maritime character, dramatic seascapes, fishing communities, and some of the finest seafood in the country. Further north, Namdalen offers vast forests, powerful rivers, and rare silence, while Inderøy, often called Trøndelag’s “Golden Detour,” pairs rolling farmland with local food producers, galleries, and a slower pace of life. History lovers will want to stop at Stiklestad, site of the pivotal Battle of 1030. Food, unsurprisingly, is central to the experience.

Trondheim sits at the heart of Norway’s food region. From farm to fjord. Home to Michelin-recognised restaurants such as Credo and Fagn, alongside Bakklandet, a charming neighborhood where cafes, tiny shops, and pastel houses make you question why you ever thought Norway was all snow and fjords.

In Trondheim and Trønderlag in general, seafood arrives impossibly fresh, vegetables are treated with reverence, and even a simple carrot can feel like a small revelation. Nature, meanwhile, is never something you plan around, it’s simply there. Forest trails, fjords, rivers, and hills sit minutes from the city centre. Locals don’t brag about it; they just step outside. Frequently. In all weather. So when should you visit? Summer (May–August): Long days, midnight light, festivals, outdoor dining, swimming, and peak city energy. Autumn (September–October): Crisp air, golden forests, cultural events, fewer tourists, and dramatic skies. Winter (December–March): Snowy streets, cozy interiors, skiing culture, and that unmistakable Nordic calm wrapped in candlelight and the beautiful Northern Lights.

Trondheim isn’t flashy. It's a vibe. With its winding cobblestone streets, colorful wharfs along the Nidelva River, and a cathedral that looks like it’s straight out of a fairytale, this town hits all the “postcard perfect” boxes. But don’t be fooled—this place has personality. It doesn’t chase trends or try to compete with larger capitals. It’s authentic, quietly ambitious, and deeply rooted. And while the Trønders aren’t openly saying they’re coming for the crown, if you squint, you can almost see the Viking kings smiling from the cathedral walls. Let’s not call it a comeback. Let’s call it destiny.

Getting There & Around Trondheim is easily reached by air, rail, and road. Trondheim Airport (Værnes) offers direct flights from major Norwegian cities and select European hubs, with frequent connections via Oslo. The airport is just 30 minutes from the city center. Where you can easily grab the train or bus into town.

For a slower, scenic arrival, trains from Oslo and Bodø offer one of Norway’s most beautiful rail journeys, winding through mountains, forests, and wide-open landscapes. Coastal travelers can also arrive by Hurtigruten or Havila, docking directly in the city. Getting Around Trondheim is compact and highly walkable, with bike lanes and riverside paths connecting neighborhoods effortlessly.

Public transportation is efficient and easy to navigate, while ferries link the city to nearby islands and coastal communities. To explore the wider Trøndelag region from Røros to Hitra, Frøya, and Namdalen, renting a car offers the greatest flexibility and access to scenic routes. Though traveling with the bus, ferry and trains are available too. Distances are manageable, roads are well maintained, and the journey is very much part of the experience.

By Tania Winther, (Author of ‘The Trønders’, Interpreter, Artist.)

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The Accidental Linguist (or: How I Loved Language but Ghosted Grammar)

Tania Winther — Fri, 01 May 2026 14:13:52 -0400

I am a self-proclaimed linguist.

By which I mean. No one officially proclaimed me anything, and linguistics itself may wish to file a formal complaint.

I did, at one point, very seriously consider continuing my studies with a Master’s degree in linguistics. I imagined myself surrounded by heavy books on syntax, nodding thoughtfully at sentences like “Well, of course the morphosyntactic alignment…” and feeling intellectually superior at dinner parties. The dream was alive. Briefly.

Then the actual linguistics studies happened.

Somewhere down that noble academic road, I discovered that advanced grammar. Real linguistics grammar, the kind with trees, arrows, and aggressively committed brackets, was not nearly as fun as I had hoped. It turns out my passion for language does not extend to diagramming sentences until they resemble abstract art made by a deeply stressed octopus. (I prefer visualizing it in my head).

What I learned instead was something far more useful.

I don’t love language on paper.

I love it in the mouth.

I love how language sounds. How it bends. How it stumbles. How the same word can feel sharp in one accent and soft in another. I love picking up sounds, rhythms, and dialects. The musical fingerprints people carry without noticing. Put me in a room with someone long enough and my brain quietly starts trying on their vowels like outfits. I realized early on that I had a knack for imitating voices and accents, a skill that would eventually guide me toward a career as a voice-over artist. This skill doesn’t stay in a booth. It flows into my artistic practice, where I experiment with sound, rhythm, and expression across mediums.”

Grammar demands obedience.

Sounds invite play.

And I have never been very good at staying in one lane.

I have never been someone who settles for one thing. One discipline. One explanation. I need to keep learning—constantly, hungrily, sometimes chaotically. That’s simply how I function. I am curious by nature. Curious about people, about the world, about how everything works and, more importantly: How it all connects.

While formal linguistics wanted me to specialize and stay neatly within the lines, my curiosity kept wandering. Into biology. Into genetics. Because apparently understanding how we speak wasn’t enough. I also needed to know what we’re made of and why any of this exists at all.

Biology, oddly enough, made sense to me in ways advanced syntax never did. Bodies felt logical. Systems connected. Genetics felt like storytelling at a microscopic level- A language written into us. Accents of ancestry. Dialects of DNA. Suddenly, everything clicked again.

Add a degree in design and art to the mix, because of course—and I decided I was covered.

I notice the world visually before I ever put words to it. Design taught me to see systems; art taught me to break them.

This is where I start to side-eye the modern educational system. It likes tidy boxes and clear labels. One discipline at a time. But I don’t believe knowledge works that way. I don’t believe we work that way. All disciplines interconnect, and they should. Language informs art. Biology informs design. Culture informs sound. Identity runs through everything.

Just look at the old wise men like Leonardo da Vinci and his fellow glorious overachievers. Artist. Engineer. Anatomist. Scientist. Inventor. No one told him to pick a lane, and history is better for it.

What I ended up with is not a neat academic title, but something far more useful. An unholy hybrid brain.

I design. I write. I listen. I imitate. I observe. I connect dots that were never meant to be separate. I collect languages the way some people collect stories. Not perfectly, not formally, but with affection and curiosity. I may not be able to fully explain the theoretical framework behind phonological processes, but I can hear them, feel them, and reproduce them, and honestly, that gets you surprisingly far in life.

So yes. I am a self-proclaimed linguist.

An artist.

A language lover.

A sound collector.

A multidisciplinary menace.

A grammatical dropout.

And I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Luckily, I don’t have to decide.

I get to combine it all, and keep becoming.

The Renaissance was onto something.

Leonardo would probably approve. Or at least take notes.

-T. (Author, Interpreter and Artist).

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After the Fire, the Ruins Still Warm

Tania Winther — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 19:29:06 -0400

I didn’t know a person could die twice. Once in the body. And once in the people they leave behind.

You died. Suddenly, stupidly, in a way that still doesn’t feel real, but the second death was mine. Not fatal, just internal. A collapse so quiet that the world didn’t flinch. Buildings stayed upright. Trains came on time. People kept ordering their coffees with oat milk and too much certainty. Meanwhile, I was trying to learn how to breathe inside a life that no longer recognized its own shape.

Grief makes the familiar tilt.

Grief invents new syntax.

Grief turns the ground into a trapdoor.

And the worst part? No one prepared me for the way your absence would take up more space than you ever did when you were alive. You were a wildfire even then, too bright, too hot, consuming oxygen and reason. You’d walk into a room and I’d brace myself, already knowing something in me would ignite. You didn’t love gently. You didn’t enter anyone’s life without rearranging the furniture, knocking old walls down, erecting new ones, leaving fingerprints on the beams.

I thought it was passion.

Now I think it was hunger—yours, and mine.

When you touched me, it wasn’t tenderness. It was a match striking its own flint, proud of its spark, unaware of the forest behind it. And I was that forest—dense, long-neglected, pretending to be damp enough not to burn.

But I did.

God, I burned.

At the time, I called it love.

Later I learned the word was release, the kind that looks like freedom when the flames are still moving, but like ruin the morning after.

When you died, everyone told me, “Take your time.”

As if time was something I could hold.

As if time wasn’t the very thing that betrayed you, snapping shut like a trap around the ankles of your last breath. The silence that followed was not peaceful. It was invasive.

No one warns you that the dead continue talking, just not out loud. Their voice becomes a texture beneath your ribs. A pulse behind your thoughts. A grammar that rearranges your days.

You haunt me, but not like a ghost wandering the hallway. You haunt me like a scent that lives in the sheets no matter how many times you wash them. You haunt me in the way trauma remembers even after the mind forgets. You haunt me in the places I thought I had walled off, the soft ones, the foolish ones, the ones that believed people could be fixed with enough love or enough patience.

The truth is I was not mourning just you.

I was mourning the version of myself that still trusted fire.

People romanticize grief, but mine was feral. It had teeth. It arrived without flowers, without sympathy cards, without a single cinematic slow-motion montage. It showed up like a debt collector: no excuses, no mercy, no extensions.

I learned that losing someone you love feels nothing like the movies.

It’s not poetic.

It’s not transformative.

It’s not an invitation to become enlightened.

Grief is paperwork.

It’s cleaning out drawers that still smell like someone you can’t touch.

It’s deleting contacts you’ve memorized.

It’s explaining to strangers why your voice cracks in the detergent aisle.

It’s the humiliation of surviving someone who once made you feel alive, but almost buried you alive..

And I hated you for that.

For dying.

For leaving me in the rubble.

For choosing silence even before the silence became permanent.

You had already begun disappearing long before death took its final swipe. You had withdrawn into that cold, unreachable place where I could see you breathing but couldn’t find you anymore.

You said you needed space.

You said you needed peace.

You said too many things that contradicted each other.

And I—too loyal, too soft, too conditioned to hold what others dropped—stayed. I tried to read the smoke signals rising from you, thinking if I deciphered them fast enough I could keep the worst from happening.

But I am not a prophet.

I am not a firefighter.

And I could not stop you from walking into your own ending.

After you were gone, people said things meant to soothe:

“He’s in a better place.”

“Time heals.”

“You’ll find closure.”

“You’re strong.”

Strength wasn’t the problem.

Survival was.

No one tells you that grief changes your equilibrium. It moves in like a roommate who doesn’t pay rent, doesn’t sleep, and turns on all the lights at 3 A.M. No one warns you that your body will keep flinching at sounds that resemble the way they once said your name. No one warns you that anger and love can coexist so fiercely that you can’t tell which one is burning your throat.

I loved you.

I resented you.

Both are still true.

I kept waiting for the fire inside me to die, for the smoke to clear, for the emotional debris to make sense. But healing is not linear; grief is not logical. The ruins don’t rebuild themselves just because you’ve decided it’s time to move on.

Here’s what I know now:

Some losses don’t end.

They integrate.

They become the architecture of who you are.

Your absence became a blueprint.

Your silence became a language.

Your death became the measuring stick for every kind of pain that came after.

People like to talk about “letting go,” as if grief is a balloon and we have fingers light enough to release it. But letting go is not my concern. I’m more interested in living with the parts of you I never asked to inherit, the parts that cling like ash, the parts I cannot shake, the parts that still glow faintly when no one is looking.

I don’t want to immortalize you, but I also refuse to erase you. You were not all light, and I was not all grace. We were flawed in ways that made us human, fragile, combustible.

I’ve stopped pretending you were a lesson.

You were a wound.

And wounds do not always heal cleanly.

If anything amazes me, it’s this:

The ruins still warm when I touch them.

Maybe that’s the point.

Maybe the devastation you left inside me is not a failure to move on, but proof that I once felt something real enough to scar.

I don’t seek closure anymore.

Closure is a myth sold by people afraid of unfinished stories.

Our story will always be unfinished, half-built, half-burned, half-remembered, half-damned. A structure that stands because it refuses to fall entirely.

Sometimes survival looks like rebuilding.

Sometimes it looks like living beside the wreckage.

Sometimes it looks like placing your hand on the charred wood and admitting:

He was a wildfire.

I was the forest.

Yes.

The fire is out.

But the ruins remember.

And somehow

so do I

And I

I walk forward

not rebuilt,

but regrown.

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The Beautiful Chaos of Being a Multicreative: Balancing Inspiration and Overwhelm in a Creative Life

Tania Winther — Mon, 07 Apr 2025 17:58:05 -0400

Dear Creative Souls,

It’s 2 AM. I should be asleep, but instead, I’m scribbling ideas in the dark, trying not to wake the house. One project leads to another. An unfinished poem turns into a film concept, a painting morphs into a book. My mind is a carousel that never stops turning. Sound familiar?

The life of a multicreative is exhilarating and exhausting all at once. The thrill of new ideas fuels us, but so does the endless cycle of inspiration and unfinished projects. Some days, it feels like magic, when writing flows into visual art, when a conversation sparks a new direction, when creativity refuses to be boxed in. Other days, it feels like chaos. When the mental clutter takes over, when there’s never enough time, when the weight of possibility is almost too much to bear.

The Thrill & The Overwhelm

But let’s be honest. Being a multicreative isn’t just about making art. It’s also about the constant mental negotiation: Do I follow inspiration, or do I discipline myself to finish what I started? It’s about the pile of notebooks filled with half-written ideas, the canvases leaning against the wall waiting for their final strokes, the projects that live in your mind but never quite make it into reality. And yet, would we trade this chaotic existence for something simpler? Probably not.

I’ve come to accept that my creativity doesn’t fit neatly into one discipline. It moves between poetry, art, film, design and performance, each form feeding into the other. But with that fluidity comes the challenge of focus. When you live with an ever-expanding creative landscape, how do you choose which path to follow? How do you silence the nagging feeling that there’s always more to create?

I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: creativity isn’t meant to be tamed. It’s meant to be lived. Maybe the trick isn’t finding balance but learning to ride the wave, embracing the moments of wild inspiration and accepting the lulls as part of the process.

Finding Flow in the Chaos

So how do we navigate this beautiful mess? Some days, it means setting clear goals, carving out time for focused work, and reminding ourselves that completion is just as valuable as inspiration. Other days, it’s about surrender. Letting the creative current pull us in unexpected directions, trusting that every detour adds something meaningful to the journey.

And then, of course, there’s the reality of balancing all of this with family life. As a multicreative, juggling art and motherhood isn’t just about time management, it’s about adding creativity into the day-to-day life. It’s writing while the kids are at school, sketching ideas between errands, and finding inspiration in the chaos of parenting. There’s an art to switching gears constantly, from deep creative work to the immediacy of family needs, and back again. The trick? Knowing that creativity doesn’t always happen in grand, uninterrupted stretches. Sometimes, it thrives in the in-between moments.

What’s interesting is how people often react to this balancing act. Some are in awe, wondering how it’s possible to do so much. Others are skeptical. Can one person really be doing all of this? And if so, how? The truth is, we don’t always have a clear answer. We just do. Because for a multicreative, creating isn’t a choice. It’s a way of being. It’s what keeps us alive, what makes the chaos feel meaningful. Maybe the better question isn’t how we do it all, but why we wouldn’t.

A Question for You

Do you ever feel like your creativity is both your superpower and your Achilles' heel? How do you navigate the wild, never-ending energy of being a multicreative? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please do reply, or let me know your thoughts on this. Let’s keep the conversation going.

Until next time,

Tania

The Poetic Designer | The Artful Exchange

P.S. I have some exciting projects brewing! More on that soon! Stay tuned.

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A poem for you: The Small Things Save Us

Tania Winther — Fri, 8 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I’ve started collecting moments.

Not the grand, cinematic ones not the fireworks, not the life-changing epiphanies people like to quote at dinner parties. No. I’m talking about the quiet revolutions. The soft, nearly invisible threads that hold a day together when everything feels like it’s falling apart. Like the morning I woke already tired, already aching, already unsure how to be a person in this world without breaking in half. And then out of nowhere a stranger reached me an umbrella. Just a simple gesture, a borrowed roof of fabric between me and the storm. But in that second, I swear they were an angel disguised in wet clothes. A reminder that not all rescue missions come with wings. Some arrive with a half-smile, sleeves rolled up, and the courage to care. And I thought how many times have I walked past beauty because it didn’t announce itself? Because it whispered instead of shouted? The old woman tying her scarf tighter as if bracing against life but still choosing to walk. The kid humming in the shop aisle like the world is secretly a concert. The barista who remembered my name on the day I forgot my own worth. The way the rain even the rain makes streetlights look like golden prayers falling from the sky. Maybe this is what hope really is. Not a thunderbolt. Not a miracle. But a collection of tiny mercies that arrive quietly, unexpectedly, like soft footsteps behind you saying, “I’m here. Keep going.”

And I’ve realized something:

The world doesn’t need to be perfect to be beautiful.

We don’t need to be whole to be worthy.

Sometimes, the universe speaks in small gestures;

an umbrella, a smile, a held door, a shared laugh,

and those moments save us.

Yours truly,

Tania x

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Sorry! I'm not done yet: Trønderland Revisited: A Manifesto to Trønderism

Tania Winther — Thu, 9 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

You may have thought my voyage into the wild, mysterious, linguistic landscape of Trøndelag was finsihed? That I had collected the last odd expression and documented the final "Hæh", and neatly bottled the essense of Trøndersk philosophy for eternity. Sorry...

Think again!

After The Trønders came out, something rather wonderful happened. The Trønders themselves started writing to me. With more words, more expressions and more stories. "Du glømt jo han"....."Å ka med ho da?"

Apparently I managed to forget quite a few important Trøndersk celebrities along the way. To whom which I express my utmost apology. In this region, which is filled with characters, it is a cultural crime. So here I go again. Updating my Trønder-series-books with loads more of information.

Because it turns out, there is no bottom to the well of Trønderisms. And definitely no shortage of Trønders who deserve space in my book.

So yes, my expedition continues.

So watch out people! Here comes the updated version:

In Trønderland Revisited: A Manifesto of Trønderism, writer and poetic outsider-insider Tania Winther returns to the land of deadpan smiles, dialectal mmm's and sideways rain. This isn't a guidebook.

It is a declaration.

A love letter.

A provocation.

This book asks: What does it mean to belong here, and how do you explain it to the rest of the world?

A huge massive thank you to you all for patiently following and reading my field notes turned into books!😊

Your humbled servant

-T. (The Poetic Designer.)

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Trønderland Revisited: A Manifesto to Trønderism

Tania Winther — Wed, 8 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Think again!

Because it turns out, there is no bottom to the well of Trønderisms. And definitely no shortage of Trønders who deserve space in my book.

So yes, my expedition continues.

So watch out people! Here comes the updated version:

It is a declaration.

A love letter.

A provocation.

This book asks: What does it mean to belong here, and how do you explain it to the rest of the world?

A huge massive thank you to you all for patiently following and reading my field notes turned into books!😊

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Hvorfor jeg har utviklet et kurs om Tredjekultursbarn(TCK)

Tania Winther — Mon, 2 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Ideen til dette kurset har vokst frem gjennom egne erfaringer, faglig praksis og mange år med dyp lytting. Jeg har bodd i flere land og jobbet tett med mennesker som har flyttet mellom kulturer og må finne fotfeste i nye systemer og samfunn. Som tolk har jeg lært å lytte ikke bare etter språk, men etter mening, etter identitet, tilhørighet og det som ofte forblir usagt.

Parallelt med dette har jeg utviklet prosjekter og undervist i kurs innen psykisk helse, samt kunst- og designbaserte undervisningsprogrammer. Denne kombinasjonen har formet måten jeg arbeider på. Tilnærmingen min er forankret i medmenneskelig forståelse, samtidig som den bygger på designprinsipper som handler om struktur, tydelighet og hvordan mennesker faktisk lærer. Over tid har et mønster stadig kommet til syne: Barn og voksne som strever med å sette ord på erfaringer som i det stille, men dyptgripende, har formet hvem de er.

Dette mønsteret har lenge manglet et språk.

I Norge begynte man først å rette et tydeligere blikk mot tredjekultursbarn som et eget fenomen langt inn på 2000-tallet. I mange år ble disse barna forstått innenfor andre kategorier som innvandrere, utvandrere, «internasjonale barn» eller barn som midlertidig hadde bodd i utlandet. Først etter utgivelsen av en norsk bok om tredjekultursbarn i 2019, med bidrag fra flere TCK-er i Norge, fikk begrepet større synlighet og gjenklang i offentligheten. Likevel er kunnskapen fortsatt begrenset i mange fagmiljøer, og erfaringene til tredjekultursbarn blir ofte oversett eller feiltolket. Jeg har utviklet dette kurset for helsepersonell, lærere, skoler og foreldre fordi tredjekultursbarn (TCK), også kjent som globale nomader, fortsatt er lite forstått og ofte oversett. Samtidig vokser denne gruppen raskt. Verden er mer sammenkoblet og mobil enn noen gang tidligere. Globale arbeidsmuligheter, internasjonal utdanning, familier med flere nasjonaliteter, migrasjon, diplomati, humanitært arbeid og fjernarbeid gjør at stadig flere barn vokser opp mellom kulturer, snarere enn fullt og helt innenfor én.

Mange av disse barna er svært tilpasningsdyktige, språklig sterke, sosialt kompetente og kulturelt bevisste langt utover alderen sin. Utad kan det se ut som om de «har det helt fint». Men å være et tredjekultursbarn , eller en global nomade, handler ikke bare om å ha bodd i utlandet. Det handler om identitet, tilhørighet og tap, som ofte er uerkjent tap. TCK-er blir ofte plassert i kategorier som ikke helt passer: innvandrere, utvandrere, internasjonale studenter eller barn som «har bodd i utlandet en periode». Men tredjekultursbarn tilhører en egen kategori.

Et TCK-barn vokser opp med å forme sin identitet i rommet mellom kulturer, og utvikler en «tredjekultur» som kombinerer elementer fra foreldrenes kultur(er) og vertslandets kultur(er), uten fullt ut å høre hjemme i noen av dem.

Dette skillet er viktig. For når vi misforstår kategorien, misforstår vi også barnet.

Gjennom egne erfaringer, og gjennom mange år med foredrag, samtaler og lytting, har jeg sett tydelige mønstre gå igjen: Barn som strever med å svare på spørsmålet «Hvor er du fra?». Unge mennesker som føler seg dypt knyttet overalt og ingen steder. Voksne som fremstår trygge og kompetente, men som bærer på en vedvarende uro eller rotløshet. Barn som opplever gjentatte avskjeder uten å få et språk for sorgen. Følelsesmessige reaksjoner som feiltolkes som atferdsproblemer, angst eller manglende robusthet. Uten forståelse for TCK-erfaringen blir disse reaksjonene lett misforstått av skolen, helsevesenet og også av kjærlige, velmenende foreldre.

Hvorfor dette er viktig for fagpersoner og foreldre

Helsepersonell, lærere og foreldre er ofte de første tredjekultursbarna som henvender seg til bevisst eller ubevisst. Uten kjennskap til TCK-rammeverket kan selv god støtte bomme på det som faktisk trengs. Dette kurset handler ikke om å sette merkelapper på barn. Det handler om å gjenkjenne mønstre. Forstå kompleksitet. Gi språk til erfaringer. Og skape tryggere rom for identitetsutvikling.

Når voksne forstår hvorfor et barn reagerer som det gjør, blir støtten både mer empatisk og mer treffsikker. Gang på gang har jeg sett hvordan noe mykner hos både barn og voksne når erfaringene deres blir sett, navngitt og anerkjent. Det øyeblikket er grunnen til at dette kurset finnes. En forelesning kan skape bevissthet. Men varig forståelse krever tid, refleksjon og konkrete verktøy. Bevissthet alene er ikke nok. Anvendelse er avgjørende. I takt med at verden blir mindre, vil antallet tredjekultursbarn fortsette å øke. Vi kan velge å fortsette å misforstå dem. Eller vi kan lære.

Hvorfor jeg har utviklet dette kurset

Jeg har utviklet dette kurset fordi jeg gang på gang har sett hva som skjer når noen endelig får høre: «Det er ingenting galt med deg. Det finnes en grunn til at du føler det slik.» Det øyeblikket kan være livsforandrende. Dette arbeidet er ikke bare faglig for meg, det er også dypt personlig. Jeg er selv et tredjekultursbarn. Jeg har levd disse erfaringene. Flytting mellom kulturer, navigering i vennskap og skolesystemer, og det å forme en identitet mens grunnen stadig er i bevegelse. Jeg kjenner dragkampen mellom tilhørighet og tap fra innsiden. Gjennom årene har jeg også arbeidet med mange emigranter, immigranter, flyktninger og tredjekultursbarn, både barn og voksne. Jeg har lyttet til historiene deres, delt utfordringer og vært vitne til en bemerkelsesverdig styrke. Jeg har studert og reflektert over disse erfaringene, og jeg har jobbet tett med mennesker som har innvandret til stedet jeg nå kaller hjem. På tvers av bakgrunner og livsløp trer de samme grunnleggende sannhetene frem. Denne kombinasjonen, å ha levd det selv, studert det sammen med andre og arbeidet med det profesjonelt, gir meg et særskilt perspektiv. Jeg ser mønstrene tydelig, men også mennesket bak hver historie.

Dette kurset er mitt bidrag til økt forståelse, og en invitasjon til foreldre, pedagoger og helsepersonell om å se litt dypere, lytte litt lenger og støtte litt klokere.

FAKTABOKS

Hva er et tredjekultursbarn?

Et tredjekultursbarn (TCK – Third Culture Kid) er en person som har tilbrakt store deler av oppveksten utenfor foreldrenes opprinnelige kultur. De vokser ofte opp i flere land, lærer ulike språk og normer, og utvikler en «tredje kultur», en identitet som er en blanding av alle stedene de har tilhørt.

Typiske kjennetegn:

Flerspråklighet og kulturell fleksibilitet
Evne til å tilpasse seg raskt
Følelse av rotløshet og identitetsforvirringSterk global bevissthet og empati

Av Tania Winther, tredjekultursbarn, tolk og forfatter.

(Illustrasjonen er funnet på google.)

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The Accidental Linguist (or: How I Loved Language but Ghosted Grammar)

Tania Winther — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I am a self-proclaimed linguist.

By which I mean. No one officially proclaimed me anything, and linguistics itself may wish to file a formal complaint.

Then the actual linguistics studies happened.

What I learned instead was something far more useful.

I don’t love language on paper.

I love it in the mouth.

Grammar demands obedience.

Sounds invite play.

And I have never been very good at staying in one lane.

Add a degree in design and art to the mix, because of course—and I decided I was covered.

I notice the world visually before I ever put words to it. Design taught me to see systems; art taught me to break them.

What I ended up with is not a neat academic title, but something far more useful. An unholy hybrid brain.

So yes. I am a self-proclaimed linguist.

An artist.

A language lover.

A sound collector.

A multidisciplinary menace.

A grammatical dropout.

And I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Luckily, I don’t have to decide.

I get to combine it all, and keep becoming.

The Renaissance was onto something.

Leonardo would probably approve. Or at least take notes.

-T. (Author, Interpreter and Artist).

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Today, I’m celebrating myself.

Tania Winther — Sun, 11 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Today, I’m celebrating myself.
Patting my own shoulder with a glass of champagne, because yes, I absolutely deserve it.

I did it.

Over the past two and a half years, I have restructured three different businesses. (You question why? Yes, well, that is a longer story for another time.) I changed financial systems, switched accounting programs, rebuilt the entire financial frameworks from the ground up. After countless advisor meetings, and working day and night, I actually did it.

I should be allowed to scream that I am proud of myself.

I have been a shadow of who I used to be. So tired and exhausted that unless you know me well, you could never imagine what it took to keep going. I’ve hardly had a proper weekend off in years. It wasn’t until last summer that I could finally start breathing again. Just barely.

I took every extra job I could to stabilise everything, to get back on level ground and eventually ahead. People kept asking, “Why don’t you just get a normal 8–5 job?”
But giving up wasn’t an option. I’ve spent too many years building what I have. Letting it all go was never on the table.

So instead, I pushed through. I worked like a maniac. I endured.

I know I carry a drive in me that might be more than most. I’ve heard it my whole life: You do too much. How is that even possible?
I don’t know. I’m just me. A brain bursting with ideas and relentless drive. Some things have worked. Some definitely haven’t. But I learn fast, and I keep moving.

I made it through a f***ing awful storm that lasted nearly three years.
And I survived it.

I even taught myself accounting on top of everything, and now, for the first time in years, I genuinely have control over my business situation.

And damn, it feels good. Almost euphoric.

The seeds planted in the hardest years are finally beginning to bear fruit. 🌱

So undeniably grateful.

Warmly,

T.Winther

PS: Thank you for subscribing to my newsletter or mailing list. You can unsubscribe at any time. But I hope you stay.

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No More Wolves: What I’ve Learned About Boundaries. - Happy New Year!

Tania Winther — Sun, 4 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I am tired of Presumptuous People. So this year, I say no.

With a new year comes reflection. Not the glossy, perfect kind, but the honest, sometimes uncomfortable kind. The kind that makes you look at patterns you’ve repeated and mistakes you’re no longer willing to make.

Last year, once again, I did something I have done too many times before: I was too kind, too giving, too ready to help. I offered support, guidance, and care, and in return, I was fed to the wolves, so to speak. I am tired of manipulative people.

I am constantly baffled by how some people speak about themselves. People who, in reality, are not working or earning an income, living off the state or supported by partners, yet presenting themselves as superior, untouchable, almost untouchably clever. People who intellectualize themselves to the point of seeming in love with their own reflection. Last year, I met a few of these individuals. Again. People who made me feel inadequate. Less worthy. People who put me down publicly, confidently, unapologetically, as if their loud voices automatically carried more value than mine. One person even genuinely believed they were a celebrity-level, superior being. Experiencing that is surreal, and exhausting.

I’ve always been very shy about showcasing myself. Anxiety has been a constant companion my whole life. It has led me into situations where I accepted more than I should, which in turn made me lose myself, made me feel unworthy, sometimes even useless. I have not been the person shouting the loudest when winning awards or achieving something meaningful. I let my accomplishments go quietly, almost afraid if anyone were to notice them. (Yes, I know it sounds strange. Being an artist means constantly putting myself out there, often into the wolves. So how does that fit with being agoraphobic? Honestly… it’s complicated.) The truth is, it doesn’t exactly “fit.” Being agoraphobic and having a public-facing life as an artist are often in direct conflict. For a long time, it meant pushing myself beyond my comfort zone in ways that were exhausting and scary. But I realized that if I stayed hidden, I would never grow, I would never share my work, and I would never fully claim my voice. So I learned to take it one step at a time, exposure, support from friends, and small risks that slowly built confidence. It’s still hard, but it’s worth it.

So, a few years ago, I woke up. I realized one never knows how much time we have on this earth. I decided to confront my insecurities and anxiety head-on, through exposure. To put myself out there fully, publicly, painfully even. And yes, it has been hard, so hard at times that it hurt. But with the support, smiles, and cheers of good friends, and new ones, I’ve learned to become slightly more confident, slightly more okay in my own skin.

Which is why I am still so amazed, and sometimes incredulous at the opposites of me. Those who seem to have won the lottery of confidence, who seem almost inherently superior to the rest of us. People who assume their voice is louder, more valuable, more deserving. And yet, their loudness doesn’t make them wiser, kinder, or better.

So this year, I will not:

Diminish myself to make others feel bigger.
Stay quiet while being spoken over, belittled, or used.
Give endlessly to people who take without reflection.
Confuse arrogance with authority or self-promotion with depth.

This year is about boundaries. About self-respect. About trusting my own voice even when it’s quieter, even when it’s less performative. About acknowledging my worth and refusing to let others overshadow it.

And I hope this year you will do the same for yourself: take care of your energy, speak up, and claim the space you deserve.

Happy New Year.

I’m done being fed to the wolves. And so should you.

-T.Winther

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Oceans of Hope – From Art Project to Published Book

Tania Winther — Thu, 11 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Every creative project has its own tide, its own pull, its own rhythm. Oceans of Hope began as a small idea of how to bring awareness. An artistic and poetic response to a global crisis that affects us all. What started as an art and poetry collaboration about marine litter slowly grew into something larger, deeper, and far more urgent.

Oceans of Hope is my sincere attempt to capture the wonder, melancholy, devastation, and, yes - hope that surround the issue of ocean pollution. Through both poetry and prose, the book confronts the environmental catastrophe of marine littering while still honouring the resilience of the oceans and the tenacity of the human spirit. It is more than just a book; it is an appeal for reform, a call to awareness, and an invitation to rethink our relationship with the seas that have carried humanity for thousands of years.

But this project was never mine alone.

From the very beginning, Oceans of Hope was a collaboration. A binding together of words and visuals shaped by four extraordinary Norwegian artists. Their perspectives, talent, and creativity added layers of emotion, urgency, and beauty to the work.

This project would not exist without them.

Initially self-published in 2022, Oceans of Hope has now found a new home with a more deserving design, a stronger format, and a wider reach, through Pegasus Publishing. Seeing this project finally rise to the surface in the form it always deserved means more to me than I can express.

A heartfelt thank you to Pegasus Publishers for believing in me, my vision, and my words.

Your support gave this book the platform it needed, and I am deeply grateful.

A heartfelt thank you to the contributing artists:

Knut Løvås

Liv Fjellsol

Mariel Mikalsen

Linda Kristiansen

Your art transformed this book from a personal mission into a collective statement. Thank you for lending your voices, your vision, and your hearts to this cause.

At its core, Oceans of Hope is an invitation to care, to act, and to protect. It asks us to look more closely, reflect more deeply, and imagine a cleaner, healthier, and more peaceful relationship with the waters that sustain life on Earth.

Thank you to everyone who has supported this journey so far. And to those who are just discovering Oceans of Hope: welcome. I hope the book inspires you, challenges you, and perhaps even changes you, just as this project has changed me.

— Tania Winther

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Warning: (In Norwegian) For en reise det har vært! "Trønderen" er endelig ute til salgs.

Tania Winther — Thu, 4 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Altså… for en reise det har vært å gi ut min aller første sakprosabok!

Ja, jeg har skrevet mye opp gjennom årene. For magasiner, aviser, poesiantologier, litterære magasiner, men jeg hadde faktisk aldri gitt ut en faktisk bok før nå. Kun poesi tidligere. Så dette har vært en bratt (og ganske brutal) læringskurve, men også utrolig moro.

Spesielt når så mange av dere faktisk har kjøpt boken, lest den, ledd av den, humret av den, og delt den. Tusen, tusen millioner takk. Jeg mener det.

Boken ble opprinnelig skrevet på engelsk, for utlendinger som enten skal flytte til Norge (les: Trønderland), allerede bor her, eller bare er nysgjerrige på denne delen av landet. Men den er like mye for trøndere og nordmenn selv, som en slags kulturguide, kjærlighetserklæring og mild erting i samme pakke.

Og la meg bare si det rett ut: Det var ikke enkelt å navigere i det norske systemet etter å ha gitt ut boken med et engelsk forlag. Det føltes som en vill og opplysende affære. En slags byråkratisk fjellklatring uten tau. Jeg oppdaget fort at for å i det hele tatt slippe gjennom nåløye etter norsk standard for utgivelser, måtte jeg ha en norsk versjon også.

Så den norske versjonen ble til i hui og hast. Men nå, altså! Nå er den endelig ute. Ja, faktisk fra og med i dag i mye bedre stand enn noen av de tidligere testutgavene, med god hjelp til rettskrivning, bedre innmat og et trykk som gjør meg oppriktig stolt.

Og igjen: tusen millioner takk for alle bestillinger.

Jeg beklager så mye at det har blitt forsinkelser med den norske versjonen til dere som allerede hadde forhåndsbestilt, men nå er den ute, tilgjengelig i alle norske bokhandlere. I tillegg til den engelske versjonen, så klart.

Så nå, folkens: Bare løp og kjøp den norske versjonen av The Trønders, nemlig:

Trønderen – En løssluppen guide om Trondheim, Trønderland og trøndere.

(Finnes hos ARK, Akademika, Norli og ja, mange mange flere:-))

Takk for at dere leser. Takk for at dere støtter. Og takk for at dere heier på kreative prosjekter i en verden som ofte beveger seg litt for fort. Jeg håper dere fortsetter å le litt av (og med!) Trøndelag sammen med meg.

– Tania

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What a ride it has been writing about Trønderisms!

Tania Winther — Wed, 12 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

What a ride it has been writing about Trønderisms!

Discovering the words, expressions, and wonderfully curious language and attitudes of the Trønders — and sharing it all with you has been such a joy.

Since finishing the book, I’ve discovered even more phrases and expressions (believe it or not!). It seems there’s truly no end to the charm of Trønderland and to the creativity of its people.

This year, I’ve searched Norway high and low and stumbled upon so many new dialect books. Treasures that have sparked fresh inspiration and new ideas for what might come next. The latest word I learned is: 'Fäyslais' which is practically impossible to translate and apparently means that things we plan may not happen?! Mmmm, yes another totally awkward and peculiar Trønder word.

Okay... I rest my case.

So… I think an update to my field notes is in order and perhaps even an updated edition of the book. Maybe it’ll be ready in time for Christmas… or just after New Year’s. Let’s see!

I’m deeply humbled and grateful for all of your support along this journey.

Sending love your way ❤️🌸

Yours truly,

T.Winther

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The Art of Being Many!

Tania Winther — Wed, 12 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

In a world that demands clarity and specialization, I have always resisted definition. Between science and art, language and design, I have learned that curiosity is not confusion. It’s connection.

I have never been able to settle for just one thing. From a very young age, I was endlessly inquisitive. Thirsting for knowledge, fascinated by ideas, languages, cultures, and the mysteries of both science and art. Perhaps that explains why I have studied so widely and worked in so many different fields.

To some, this makes me unusual, even confusing. I have often been asked: “Why don’t you just concentrate on one thing?” But how could I, when my head is always brimming with new ideas, constantly absorbing impressions and seeking new ways of understanding the world?

For me, learning has never been a straight line. It is a web of many things. I have studied biology and genetics, interior architecture, art, and languages, anthropology. At first glance, these subjects may seem unrelated, even contradictory. To me, they belong together. Historically, this was not strange at all. The great thinkers of the Renaissance moved fluidly between science and art, mathematics and poetry. Only in modern times have we separated these disciplines, placing them into tidy boxes. But reality is never that tidy, and curiosity doesn’t respect boundaries.

Languages, too, have shaped me. Each one I have studied, some deeply, others less so has opened a new way of thinking and seeing. Every job I have taken, every role I have stepped into, has added another layer to who I am. So why is this viewed as wrong? Why must we define ourselves by a single profession, a single skill set, a single title? The world loves clarity, but clarity is not the same as truth.

I believe that being many at once is not a flaw but a strength. It allows connections that others might not see. It brings resilience, creativity, and perspective. It creates a life that is not confined to one label, but enriched by many. I may never know what I want to “be” when I grow up. But perhaps that is precisely the point. I am not meant to be one thing. I am meant to be many.

Yours truly,

T.Winther

To be many is to be whole,

though the world prefers one name,

one shape, one path.

But I was not made for one.

-T.

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Yes friends, this is me and my peculiar accomplishments!

Tania Winther — Fri, 12 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Yes friends, this is me and my peculiar accomplishments! 🌸

I have spent years observing, laughing with, and (let’s be honest) sometimes scratching my head at the people of Mid-Norway: The Trønders.

Their accent is as charming as it is impossible to fully decipher, their traditions delightfully odd, and their everyday quirks endlessly fascinating. And me? I’ve been writing about them in various forms and versions: essays, little books, even a blog (because really, there can never be enough info about Trønder peculiarities 🤭).

Somewhere between my hobby anthropology, my keen language geekiness, my sometimes over-the-top creative outbursts and ideas, and pure affection, these stories are my way of celebrating a culture that is both stubbornly itself and quietly hilarious.

So here I am, sharing a bit of my observations over the years, my world, my words, and the wonder I’ve found in the peculiar people of Trøndelag. 💛

@atelierwinther

#trønderism #trønderisme #trøndelag #trønder #trondheim #trønders #scandinavian #norwegians

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Mayor Goes Back to School. Only in Trønderland…!

Tania Winther — Thu, 28 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

(Photo taken from Adresseavisen, August 28.)

Move over, students. Trondheim has a new scholar in town. Meet Kent Ranum, the mayor who decided that running a city wasn’t quite enough mental stimulation. So, he’s taking a three-month leave to join a prestigious study program.

Do not worry though. We can afford it.

Here’s the fun part: the program is completely free. Norway’s public higher education doesn’t charge a thing. The only cost? His own board and room. And for a man who earns way more than the average mayor and has a comfortably deep pocket, that’s basically pocket change. Meanwhile, the rest of us are still calculating whether we can afford rent and avocado toast.

While Ranum is off hitting the books (literally), Erling Moe will step in as temporary mayor. Three months. Think of it as a political understudy situation, only with slightly fewer musical numbers and slightly more city council meetings. Is this Admirable or Absurd? - I can’t quite decide.

On one hand, I suppose it’s good that our mayor wants to excel as a leader and learn from the best. Lifelong learning is a noble goal. On the other hand… I just can’t seem to decide if I find this inspiring, slightly hilarious, or a little bit of both. So while the rest of us are voting for politicians who promise to improve the school system for our young and hopeful, this is what’s happening now!

Aaaaah, Norway…Still, you’ve got to love how down-to-earth it all feels here. Things that might cause uproar elsewhere are handled in Norway with that calm, stress-free shrug: “Ja, ja, of course the mayor can go study, we’ll sort it out.”

Ah, Trønderland. Aaah, Norway. The land of equal opportunity.

No, wait… wasn’t that supposed to be America?

So confused right now!

Anyhow , the moral of the story is that even mayors deserve a sabbatical. Even in city hall, brains need buffing. And if you happen to be a wealthy Norwegian mayor, cashing out millions a year, you can do it without asking anyone for money. But, apparently still get paid his normal mayor wages too while going on his fancy study break.

Because only in Trondheim can you run a city one day, run to class the next, and still get applauded for extra credit.

The land of Fair Play or Just Privilege?

Do let me know!

Yours truly,

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Trøndelag 2025: Sodd, strøm og stemmesedler

Tania Winther — Tue, 26 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

(Apologies in advance – this post is in Norwegian and relates to the upcoming election.)

Velkommen til Trøndelag. Ett fylke, mange meninger og enda flere dialekter. Selv om Nord- og Sør-Trøndelag ble slått sammen i 2018, er det fortsatt like stor forskjell på nordtrønderen og sørtrønderen som det er mellom sodd og fårikål. (For ordens skyld: sodd er trøndernes stolthet, fårikål får bare være hele Norges nasjonalrett.) Trønderriket er altså langt fra ensartet. Men nå er det valg, og plutselig snakker alle trøndere mindre om det, (og til og med mindre om
været!) og mer om strøm, vindmøller og reindrift.

Nordtrønderen vs. Sørtrønderen: Den stille konflikten
Ja, det er forskjeller, selv om de kanskje er litt mer i ferd med å jevnes ut i dag.
● Sørtrønder: mer by, tempo, universitet, politikk.
● Nordtrønder: mer jordbruk, bygdefellesskap, tradisjon og natur.

Men spør du en trønder selv, så er den største forskjellen ofte formulert som en vits eller lun kommentar: «Nordtrøndere har jord under neglene, sørtrøndere har latte i handa». I nord snakker man sakte og drar ut vokaler som om hvert ord må tygge seg gjennom vidda. Sørtrønderen? Kort og kontant. Men når det kommer til politikk, er begge like ivrige til å mene noe, særlig når det gjelder hvem som skal ha vindmøller i fjellet, eller om soddgryta bør stå på kjøkkenbordet hver søndag.

Trøndere er samlet sett bekymret for strømkrisen. Kraft, vind og “et nytt Melkøya-scenario”. Tenk deg: elektrifisering av olje- og gassfelt som gir kraftmangel og setter hele Trøndelag på sparebluss. Samtidig vil noen bygge vindmøller på fjell og myr, mens andre svarer: «Itj på min
reinbeite!» Lokaldemokratiet står i skuddet, og hele fylket diskuterer hvordan man kan kombinere grønn energi med tradisjonelle rettigheter. Alt dette mens man tygger sodd.

SV og andre partier roper ekstra høyt om reindrift, samisk kultur og inkludering. Trøndere nikker, smiler og tenker: «Jauu da, men vi skal jo ha vår sodd først.» Samtidig minner denne debatten oss på at Trøndelag har mer enn dialekter og mattradisjoner. Fylket har historie, identitet og levende bygder som vil bli hørt.

Kontaktlærere i Trøndelag har mer enn nok å gjøre, og alle partiene er enige om at tiden til oppfølging må økes. Høyre og Frp ønsker fleksibilitet, mens Ap og Sp vil beholde normen. Bygdefolk rister på hodet og sier: «Det e no itj lett å pass på ungan når bussen går annenhver time og strømmen plutselig blir dyr.» Politiet tilbake på bygda?
Ap og Sp vil gjenåpne lokale politikontorer, men skeptikerne minner om at flere kontorer står tomme. Typisk trøndersk problem: man vil ha tjenester på tunet, men må også forsikre seg om at de faktisk fungerer. Som å passe på at soddgryta er varm når man setter seg til bordet.

Hele 20 partier stiller til valg i Trøndelag, inkludert nye navn som “For Fred og Rettferdighet”, “Generasjonspartiet” og “Partiet DNI”. Samtidig engasjerer unge velgere seg sterkt i klima, likestilling, dyrevelferd og rettferdighet, mens bestefar mumler: «Det va no beire før… og sodd e sodd.»
Trøndelag er en dialektcocktail: kystfolk med sjøsprøyt i setningene, fjellfolk som drar ut vokaler til uendelighet, byfolk som kombinerer «æ» med urban snert. Alle er stolte, sta og litt rare, men det er nettopp det som gjør trøndersk mentalitet til gull.
Konklusjon
Så hva opptar trøndere mest i disse valgdagene?
● Strøm, vind og kraft
● Reindrift og samisk kultur
● Skole og lærernorm
● Lokalt politi og velferd
● Nye partier og unge stemmer

Alt dette diskuteres med samme glød som man diskuterer soddgryta: «Det e no viktig, men det må smake godt også!» Og husk: selv om Trønderriket offisielt er samlet, vil nordtrønderen, sørtrønderen, kysttrønderen og fjelltrønderen alltid krangle litt, med humor, stolthet og en stor dose sodd på bordet. Midt i politikken lever den trønderske sjela videre.

Så selv om vi er ett Trøndelag nå, er det viktig å huske: forskjellene lever i beste velgående. Og kanskje er det nettopp det som er typisk trøndersk? At man kan være så mangfoldig og likevel rope i kor: Heia Trøndelag!

Skrevet av Tania Winther, forfatteren bak “The Trønders”, en sann trøndersupporter og ei som stadig forsøker å tolke, forstå og lære seg trønderske glosa. Om æ har fått med mæ ting feil, får dokk berre unnskylde mæ. Dette va mi eiga meining.

#trøndersk #trondheim #trøndelag #valget2025 #trønderisme #trøndere

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Breaking News: Trøndelag Melts (The Trønder Summer of 2025.)

Tania Winther — Wed, 23 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Let’s be honest. When you live in Trøndelag, you don’t pack for summer with the same blind optimism as your southern counterparts. You know better. You've learned to keep a raincoat in the same drawer as your bathing suit, just in case. Because here, summer is often a fleeting whisper, a two-day miracle sandwiched between sleet and mild despair.

But this year?

This year, the summer gods gave us a plot twist.

2025 delivered a Trønder summer so hot it made history, and possibly a few people faint. What started as a warm June surprise has now turned into a full-blown tropical affair. Not just warm-for-us hot. We’re talking bake-your-skin-on-the-bench, sleep-with-the-freezer-door-open, drink-melted-ice-cream-with-a-straw kind of hot.

Yes, you read that right: Tropical summer waves in Trøndelag. It’s a phrase we never thought we'd write without irony. But here we are.

Ice Cream became gold!

The first signs were subtle. People started walking around in shorts without looking uncertain. The fjord shimmered, not with wind—but with the unmistakable stillness of heat. Then came the vanishing of the beloved isdisken (ice cream freezer). First at Bunnpris. Then Coop. Then even the little kiosk down the street with the weird opening hours.

Gone. All of it. As if Trønders everywhere simultaneously rediscovered joy in frozen dairy.

Forget cryptocurrency. In July 2025, the real currency was Krone-Is and Daim.

Air Conditioners? LOL. Try Next Year.

You know it's serious when the traditionally frost-hardened Trønder begins to say:

"Æ må kjøp mæ ei vifte."

Or more drastically:

"Æ trur vi må ha air condition."

But alas, by the time we all reached that conclusion, it was too late. Every fan, aircon unit, and makeshift cooling system from Namsos to Oppdal was gone. Sold out. On backorder. Some were allegedly being auctioned off on Finn.no like rare relics.

From skepticism to sunburn

Something magical happened, though. People started swimming without hesitation. Beaches filled up with towels, radio music, and overheated dogs. Facebook groups were flooded with people asking for tips:

"Kor e det varmest i dag?"

"Nån som veit om ein badeplass med skygge?"

Even the skeptics among us gave in. There were reports of sunburns in Levanger, tan lines in Røros, and people in Trondheim walking around looking slightly dazed—sun-drunk and delighted.

But Let’s Be Real…

We're not built for this. Most Trønder homes were designed to trap heat, not escape it. And our beloved wool socks and fleece habits? Not very heatwave-friendly. We've had to unlearn everything: how to dress, when to sleep, and how many times it’s acceptable to shower per day (answer: unlimited).

But despite the sleepless nights and the quiet weeping for more ice cream, we have to admit: this heatwave has made us feel a little more alive.

The fjord has never looked better. The kids are laughing in sprinklers. The elderly are sitting outside long past 10 p.m., watching the sun hover at the horizon. And for once, we don’t need to travel south to feel summer on our skin.

A Summer to Remember

No one knows how long it will last. It might all end tomorrow, with thunder and hail and a collective sigh of, "There’s the Trønder summer we know." But until then, we’ll keep soaking it in, squinting at the sun like it’s an old friend we never expected to return.

So here’s to sold-out ice creams, nonexistent fans, and the glorious absurdity of a tropical Trøndelag.

Let’s mark this one in the books. The summer we didn’t see coming, but will never forget.

Until next time,

Yours truly

T. Winther

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