Phew, are the days rushing by this season or what? The past couple of months I've onboarded a new client, popped over to Sweden for a weekend, acted as a dictator tour guide for visiting friends and became obsessed with making my own granola. Some days were rainy and cold, others I was sweating on the beach. Drank more coffee than usual which is not great for my deep sleep, but it does make me happy.
In my twenties, I learned that best way to avoid doing something is to spend infinite time trying out different tools to do the thing. It's remarkably effective. Can keep you busy for years without making any significant progress. In my case, note-taking and project management apps.
(Un)fortunately, I eventually saw through my own bullshit and have worked hard on rehabilitating myself.
Years of compulsively trying out new tools is not all bad though. Whenever I see a job ad with a requirement to have experience in a project management app I sigh. I can master that tool in less time than it took you to write this description, I think to myself. Years of experience with every single platform on the market make it easy to quickly jump in and get the lay of the land. Potential exception is Jira. (Mainly because the times I've worked in Jira, it has been so dreadfully slow to work with that I've moved the entire company to Linear before a ticket loads. More about Linear below.)
Long story short, the past years I’ve streamlined my workflow and chosen a few precious apps that does what I need them to do. I know there are many other productivity junkies out there who love reading posts like this instead of doing your work, so, here you go: My current stack, including more or less relevant context.
Obsidian has been my hub for writing, note taking, and tasks for years. It's what I default to, and I love it’s flexibility, where you can customize your experience with plugins, and privacy, where your data is stored locally. However ...
In Atomic Habits, James Clear writes about the importance of your environment when building habits. Say you want to meditate daily. If you create a dedicated spot for this, you remove friction to sit your ass down every day.
My dedicated spot for work over time became the digital equivalent to putting my couch on top of my meditation pillow on top of my desk and it felt like a tower that could fall over me at any time when I opened the app.
So I took Clear's advice to heart, and separated different types of work between apps. Journaling is not the same as writing an essay, or taking meeting notes for work. While Obsidian certainly can be used for everything (and that works well for some people), it is now where I keep my daily journal and general, more casual notes.
💁🏻♀️ A little sidenote about taking notes
For a long time I was hung up on the need for interconnected notes and thinking about my note taking apps as a second brain. I jumped on Roam when that was all the hype, read all about Zettelkasten, and starting to take notes like my life depended on it. Did it actually make a difference to me? Not really. If I was doing research for a book it probably would, but for my use cases, I think it rather made my thinking worse.
Writing essays is a focus for me now and I learned a simple process in an essay writing course I did in March: lists.
Yes, that's right. It's basic and for that reason it works. I have one document called Essay seeds, where I collect ideas and snippets. I brainstorm and work with a number of different lists on topics I'm interested in. It gives my thoughts some much needed structure when I force them into a container of sorts. It also gives me an overview in a way that I did not have before. Maybe it's a me (user) problem. But if you find yourself overwhelmed with doing the perfect set-up for notes, you might consider dumbing it down.
I’m gonna take a stance here: looks matter. Especially when we talk about apps I want to spend hours in, writing and thinking. You know, tool for deep work.
It also needs to work flawlessly, load fast, have seamless sync between devices, and the ability to share documents with others and collaborate in them. This, while having a calming design and UI. Craft does all this and more, and this app is now my digital happy place.
I organize my work in folders, have dashboard docs for important things, and on my phone I display recent documents as well as a quick link to my essay seeds doc.
With years of testing different apps for task management, I’ve learned that being able to do long-form notes interchangeably with tasks is crucial. I'm a compulsive note taker and I always need to document what has been said, decided and next steps. In normal task apps, this is usually clunky, where tasks are key and documentation an afterthought. In TickTick you have proper space to create a whole styled document, with subtasks of course, and the format suits my workflow perfectly. The habit tracker and Pomodoro timer are also useful features.
I also have shortcuts on my phone to add tasks either to inbox (actions I need to sort through when I have time) and today (when it's urgent).
As I’m writing this, I’m not leading a product team, but as soon as I do, I hope we can operate in Linear. At my previous role as Product Lead, we were using Jira when I started, and I quickly moved us to Asana (we were a team of three people — to say Jira was overkill is an understatement). When I discovered Linear I hesitated to switch again, but in the end decided the benefits would outweigh the hassle, and nobody in the team regretted it.
The filters to show different views, customised set-ups, and the speed makes it a pleasure to use. Seriously — do not underestimated the speed of a project management tool.
Claude is my preferred AI companion, since it’s writing abilities is better than the others I've used. Since writing is thinking for me, I generally write all content by myself, and then use Claude as my editor, giving it context and objective of my writing, and asking it for feedback. Not asking it to rewrite — I want notes that I can then chose to implement or not.
Pro tip: If your content sounds too AI, add “make the tone of voice more European”, which makes it sound more natural in all the LLM’s I’ve tried.
I save everything I want to read to Readwise and sometimes I remember to actually read them too. 🙃 This particular habit needs a bit of a habit reboot. To be continued!
Does anyone even use bookmarks anymore? Well, I do, actually, quite a lot. This is where I save resources for things I’m working on, products I want to buy, recipes and so forth. I’ve tried different tools for this before, including the standard browser, and nothing works as well as Raindrop for me.
I've been a paying user of Pocket Casts since before podcasts were cool and can't imagine switching. I have of course tried others, out of mild curiosity and at times when something is only available on Spotify, and I quickly resort back. Pocket Casts simply gets the job done without fuss, which is what I need as a compulsive podcast listener.
* * *
That's it for the core stack! If you have any recommendations or questions about these or other tools (anything note or task related, I've probably tried), feel free to drop a comment or ping me on IG.
Fun fact: I asked Claude for some creative title ideas for this post, and "From Jira Jitters to Linear Love: A Tech Lead's Tool Tale" was a strong contender. I might need to do a deep dive on just that one day.
I don't know about you, but I'm starting to feel really done with therapy speak. We are constructing a fragile world where we are all broken, kids grow up thinking parents not letting them have ice cream for breakfast is a trauma, and somehow every single soul has at least one diagnosis, maybe two, which serves as an excuse to act like an asshole and not apologize for it. In a world of armchair therapists with huge audiences, what does truth matter anymore?
If I sound salty, apologies. It's been a week, bear with me.
This might be wishful thinking, but I sense a trend shift. More of us are starting to notice the bitter after-taste of the compulsive navel-gazing heal yourself-movement. Recently I heard a Swedish writer reply to a question on how to love oneself and she responded with basically saying, why do we fucking have to? Isn’t this a boring question? Are we not just tired of this self-centeredness?
She's right, I thought, I'm so tired of this endless conversation on healing ourselves. It felt refreshing. I later read a review of some new Swedish self-help book where the critic made a similar observation. This belief that we can cure ourselves from everything we experienced, turn ourselves into perfectly balanced humans without scars and triggers, and then we’ll somehow be protected from anything bad happening to us.
It’s a mirage, of course, which is obvious when writing it out like this. But it’s easy to get caught up in the hamster-wheel of self-improvement. Especially when TikTok and Instagram are filled to the brim with 22-year-old life coaches who have figured out all their trauma and with a snappy edit convince you that if you join their €300 masterclass, you can too.
What if all the fix-yourself-coaches and businesses would focus on how we can contribute better to the world around us? Maybe fixing ourselves in order to fix the world is the wrong way of going about it – maybe focusing on fixing the world will be what actually help heal ourselves? If nothing else, it might heal ourselves from the collective narcissism the western world can surely be diagnosed with.
Signed, Your Armchair Unlicensed Therapist without an audience
I'm back home in Lisbon after a vacation that covered a campervan, a festival in Germany, a multi-day hike in Austria, and some quality time with friends in Sweden. It was amazing, but also slightly exhausting.
In January this year I was weary. No, 'weary' is an understatement. I was done. Last year was one long drain on my nervous system for many reasons, one of them being too many trips, in too little time. By the end of it, all I wanted was to be home, sitting in the Sanna-shaped hole in our couch and not move unless it was to do something utterly mundane, like take a walk along the river or get groceries.
I was on a walk with a friend yesterday who thanked me for a recommendation I had given her. "I told my friend in California that she needs a Sanna in her life, who can recommend new things!" she told me. This obviously made my ego inflate into a middle-aged white male, but not quite enough to start a podcast, so I decided to pick my newsletter back up.
"I'm new as a freelancer and need a website, what should I use?" I see this question frequently in chat groups from excited creatives, with no coding skills, hoping for guidance. If I have time, I glance at the replies, and there they are, without fail. The Wordpress enthusiast. They have the best of intentions, but when following their advice, you might embark on a time consuming adventure when all you wanted was a landing page showing what you can offer the world.
Now, hear me out. I'm not throwing shade on Wordpress here. Me and Wordpress go way back. I started building my own sites in HTML before it was cool and my blog, built in Wordpress, was part of my application to the program I studied and probably the main reason I got accepted (it was certainly not my high school grades). I have since built and managed WP-sites for friends and clients* and project managed more sites than I can count, both in Wordpress and other CMS. I've also been the go-to person in my friend circle for any WP-related questions.
All this to say I have some experience here.
Why do people recommend Wordpress?
Wordpress has a reputation as a blog platform, but it hasn't been one in a long time. Wordpress is a full-scale CMS, with a lot of functionality. Some built in, most available as plugins.
I would consider Wordpress under the following conditions:
You truly need it to be very customizable, with possibility to connect it other services and API's. If you don't even know what I mean by that last part, chances are you should not chose Wordpress.
You have fundamental knowledge and interest in HTML/CSS/PHP. You enjoy playing with code and solving problems.
Or, you have one or two Wordpress developer you can work with long-term, ideally paying them (as a former "friend with tech skills who's happy to help friends out", it does get old pretty quickly with website which require ongoing maintenance).
Who should not go with Wordpress (and what instead)?
Most people who post in chats, asking for advice, has a different set of requirements and not enough experience to articulate them. If they are a freelancer who's just starting out, they usually need a website that ...
... looks esthetically pleasing and modern, but have some flexibility with designing pages.
... is easy to manage by themselves with low risk breaking things.
... require no technical maintenance.
... possibility to build an email list, contact form, and online shop.
Which is why I more often than not, recommend Squarespace. (But there are plenty of other options if you prefer, I hear Wix being mentioned a lot.) Squarespace is boxed in and will not allow you have full technical control. It will, however, allow you to structure your content in an simple way, is easy to maintain, requires no updates from you or a developer, and the risk of breaking something beyond repair is almost non-existent.
But what about the pricing?
Sure, Wordpress is free. The tricky thing with free is that it seems to create a short-circuit in our brains. "Free?! Awesome, I don't mind putting in some extra work for something I don't have to pay for!"
Classic case of forgetting to value your time (and mental well-being). Say you work for clients for an hourly rate. You charge, let's go low here, say €30 per hour. You're just starting out, you have a few clients, maybe 40 hours per month. €1,200 is what you can invoice for your side hustle.
A platform that you can manage easily yourself might cost more. But are also considering the time and effort you need to spend? Is tweaking little details on your website the best use of your hours? Or should that time, just maybe, be spent on building your brand, creating content, market yourself, hustle to get new clients?
Squarespace's cheapest plan is €15 monthly for reference.
But what about SEO?
I'm not going into a discussion of the best platform for SEO. I know Wordpress is most commonly referenced as the leader here, but I'm no expert in this area. I do however want to point out that while SEO is something to consider, so is what business you have and how you are planning to market yourself. Are you selling products, SEO is likely more crucial than if you are a niche freelancer who mainly gets clients through network and your personal brand.
Ranking high on Google is difficult even with the most SEO-optimized platform, and even that won't help you if you are not updating your website. So, what is most crucial for you here?
Final note
There are always exceptions to any rule, but the amount of people I've met who ended up with a Wordpress site they feel overwhelmed with and ended up abandoning, is pretty significant. Usability, or joy of use, is an important factor. So please, dear tech nerds, stop recommending Wordpress across the board for people who just need something simple to get started.
*Shouldn't have done that, I'm not a developer, sorry past clients. I was in my twenties and didn't know better. 🙃
I had breast reduction surgery and now I want to talk about it.
* * *
It's 7.30 in the morning and I'm on my way to the hospital where a surgeon is going to slice my breasts open, cut out tissue and fat, and stitch them back together. This is absurd, I remember thinking, sitting in the passenger seat, watching the light change as the sun rose. Who spends a significant chunk of their savings on surgery they technically do not need?
Me. Apparently.
And all the women in the world as sick and tired of having large breasts as I am and decided to do something about it. We are many, I have found out since I went down the rabbit hole six months ago. Young, old. Before having kids, after having three. Women with cup sizes I did not even know existed who left their clinics two kilos lighter. Every single one, even the ones with horror stories about wounds that opened, leaking blood and pus, who required multiple follow-up procedures, still say they don't regret it.
* * *
Had my motivation been purely cosmetic I might not have been able to justify it to myself. But this was a case I had been building since my breasts suddenly appeared, and ambushed me into becoming a woman before the mature age of fourteen. One day I blended in, the next none of the boys would look me in the eyes.
(Guess where they looked instead.)
My friends bought their bras at H&M. Cheap, accessible. That was only briefly an option for me and I learned that comfortable bras above D-cups were not to be found in your average shop. At least not early 2000s. But not even paying €150 would spare my shoulders from the discomfort of the straps, leaving deep, red marks that lasted long after I freed them from their lacy prison.
And don't get me started on anything strapless. Years ago I bought the hyped Wonderbra which sat so tight around my ribs one could pop if I risked taking a deep breath, and it made my cleavage resemble two pieces of dough on a serving platter. I wore it twice, bravely, and it’s been collecting dust ever since.
The main reasons one does this is of course the pain and physical limitations it brings. Your back, shoulders and neck carry the weight, discomfort is the norm, and doing high-intensity activities can be a challenge. I was no exception in my twenties. These days it is less of an issue, since I built more muscles than the average person has the time and energy to do. I practice pole dance, yoga, and lyra, which has given me what my partner once called "bull shoulders" (sidenote: comparing your girlfriend to a bovine might not be the loving compliment you think it is).
In conclusion, the aesthetics was only a part of it, and anything making them smaller would be an improvement. Or, as I told the surgeon when I decided to go through with the procedure, "they can't really get worse".
* * *
I woke up after surgery feeling drowsy from what I assume was a powerful cocktail of drugs, but fine otherwise. No pain, no nausea. I was free to leave a few hours later.
Two days later I went back to remove the drains that were attached to each breast, gathering blood and other fluids. Not the most pleasant of experiences. After this I was allowed to shower again, and I could take a proper look at the result. I took off my surgical bra. Stared in the mirror. A little voice in my head whispered "What the fuck did you do?"
Some surgeons use tape to cover the wounds, which looks pretty neat from what I've seen on YouTube videos and people posting their healing journey on Reddit. Mine had opted for surgical glue. My breasts looked like they'd starred in a slasher movie and now an intern had to piece them back together. Hence; Frankenstein's boobs.
Healing is a process, I told myself, and stepped away from the mirror. I thought about when I was 12 and the time after my horse riding accident when my face was full of stitches, and I took down all mirrors in the house until it was healed and my reflection didn't scare me anymore.
* * *
Twice a week I went back for physiotherapy. The process becomes familiar: I take my top off, the clinician takes a photo to send to the surgeon, I lay down on the table, and she massages my breasts for twenty minutes. Her favorite playlist consists solely of 90's and 00's love songs and that's what we listen to, without exception.
My first time there I told her it looked pretty bad, as if I needed to prepare her before I took the bra off. My breasts were mostly various shades of yellow, but the bottom left one was bright blue and purple. “No, it’s normal," she said. “It’s probably where the surgeon tested the implants.” “Implants? I don’t have implants. At least I'm not supposed to?!" There was a slight panic in my voice. “Oh,” she said and poked one with her finger. “No, all natural! Very good job!”
* * *
Picture two balloons, filled to maximum expansion with water, the material almost transparent. That's what my breasts felt like for the first ten days. Not much pain, just the distinct sensation that if you poke them, they might explode. Which didn't happen, despite a few too-enthusiastic hugs from friends.
Sleep was, as usual, my greatest recovery challenge. I'm a side-sleeper, and even in the best of times a water drop falling on the floor in a different room will wake me up. Now I had strict orders to sleep on my back, slightly elevated, for at least four weeks. Sleeping pills, albeit in small doses, was what kept me sane.
These were all minor inconveniences that had little impact on my general spirit though. I've been in the best mood post-surgery. Maybe the low-key depression I’ve had since 2020 was rooted in the 315 grams of tissue removed.
* * *
It took two weeks to no longer be hyperaware of them. Another month and I was back at the aerial studio.
Today I'm two months post-op and I don't actually think about them much. I go upside down on my lyra and they don't fall out. I wear a tight t-shirt and it fits the way it was intended. I take my bra off and there are no red marks on my shoulders.
They are just there, part of my body, not an extra factor I need to consider. Going through surgery is a big decision, and it always comes with risks. It's not the right choice for everyone, but it certainly was for me.
My podcast app showed me how much I've spent listening to podcasts this year ... it's a lot guys. Almost 17 days. Yelp.
The difference between working full-time assignments and not.
As a Professional Recommender (it should be a job title, truly), here is the truffle mayo to my fries, complete with a few recommended episodes. If you're into science, writing, and the tech industry, there might be something that suits you.
It's educational and funny, what more can you ask of a podcast? Wendy Zuckerman brings a lot of personality to the show, and while it's entertaining, she also doesn't shy away from asking uncomfortable questions (like the Huberman episode).
I got hooked by the end of the summer and now I frantically update my podcast app every Friday morning until the latest episode pops up. Casey and Kevin are a match made in heaven as podcasts hosts, and Casey's hate towards blockchain and crypto is the cherry on top.
Listen to: Their AI coverage is probably what I sent to most of my friends, like the All Gas, No Brakes in A.I.. But since it's covering current events, I'd just pick a recent episode and see if it resonates.
Michael and Peter take bestselling airport books (business and pseudoscience) and dig into the research behind them. I love this pod even when they crack down on books I enjoyed, like the Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck. My favorite quote is when they dissected The 4-Hour Workweek and called it "the Bay Area tech bros' eat pray love".
Interviews with journalists and non-fiction writers. I have such respect for the Longform team as interviewers. They are knowledgable about their guests and their work, they ask thoughtful questions, give their guests space to elaborate, and every episode feels like an intimate and authentic conversation.
Hattie Crisell interviews all kinds of writers about their craft, background, and the space they write in. If you're interested in any form of creative writing, this is worth your time.
The hosts (and sometimes guests) of Writing Excuses have fun conversations about writing, and often gets into the nuts and bolts. Currently on season 19, meaning there is a huge backlog of episodes to go through.
Listen to: The NaNoWriMo series in season 18 is helpful, but go through the archive and pick a subject that intrigues you.
Picture this: The Spanish Mountains. A tranquil valley, green hills in all directions, and snow-covered mountaintops looming in the background. Like at the start of a story in which the main character is blissfully unaware of the misery they are about to endure.
One of these hills lies a Vipassana meditation centre. It is custom-built by the organization, consists of several buildings, and can host 120 students at the same time. 60 men, 60 women, firmly separated to avoid temptation. It's an environment made for peaceful introspection.
It is the perfect spot to lock yourself up and commit to living like an imprisoned munk, in what for some people is a last desperate attempt to escape their internal demons.
* * *
Every other week a new group arrives and this December afternoon I was in one of them. I stepped off the bus, put my luggage down, and took a moment to soak in the sunshine. There was a vibration in the air, a frequency set between anxiety and excitement. We were all here by our own volition, knowing what we signed up for, yet also knowing how little we could be prepared. Regardless of this being our first or fifth time. Maybe it's a human quality before any big challenges, it doesn't matter if you're climbing a mountain or giving birth, something in our brains shields us from grasping the full picture of the pain we're about to endure, even if we've done it before and honestly should know better at this point.
After filling out the standard form, where I solemnly swear I have not done drugs recently or am actively suffering from depression, a slight creative take on the truth, I walked up to the woman managing the check-in. I gave her the form, put my phone in the plastic bag, and handed it over. In return, she gave me a key to a lockbox where I could put my valuables and told me my room number. No key is needed. She was friendly, as they always are, the volunteers.
I smiled at her, my stomach turned into a knot, silently asking why the fuck am I doing this to myself.
Again.
* * *
This was not my first rodeo. I’ve been kicked around, thrown off, stomped on by retreats just like this one twice before. Once in Italy, once in Switzerland. The first one was comparable to ten years of therapy and pardon the cliché, changed my life. The second was ... underwhelming. I was mostly happy to be unavailable from a toxic client situation and a bit bored. (If anyone is curious: there are easier ways to take time off work than committing to 100 of meditation.)
True to my nature I blamed myself for my lack of spiritual enlightenment. I was comparing my experiences, I was too stuck in my ways, I could not handle the freezing temperature in this Swiss mountain location, and if I only was more zen I would float out of the center in lotus pose, radiating love and light.
This time I vowed to not make the same mistakes. I was in desperate need of feeling balanced again, after two years of intense work and some recent drama in my personal life. This time I would do it perfectly. I was going to meditate so hard Buddha would look like Gen Z in comparison.
Because nothing says peace of mind as brute force determination and equating yourself to the founder of the most peaceful religion.
* * *
When entering my room I learned the true benefit of being a third-time student. A space of my own, complete with an ensuite bathroom. The luxury of this felt almost indecent. Did they know I barely meditated since my last retreat? The pandemic happened and from that moment on sitting in silence for more than five minutes felt incomprehensibly difficult. For the first five days I expected someone to come knock on my door, telling me it was a mistake, I was not liberated enough to qualify for this accommodation, I belonged with the beginner monkey minds in eight-bed dorms.
Nobody came. Not one single morning did anyone even knock on the door to make sure I was not oversleeping the 4.30am wakeup bell. That didn’t stop me from fearing it, though. Every morning I diligently got out of bed, put on clothes, sat back on the bed with the blanket wrapped around me, closed my eyes and within five minutes I tipped over to my right and fell back asleep. Not an ideal morning routine, but after three retreats I can confidently say that my brain is unable to meditate before 6am. The best I can do is sit up, slouching, while lucid dreaming about adventures with my latest sci-fi crush Murderbot.
* * *
A girl I met in Switzerland told me this was her third retreat that year and therefore she finally qualified to do the longer ones, 20 and 30 days. My response was “Wow, three retreats in six months” and that was all the encouragement she needed. On the tenth day, you are allowed to talk again and the meditators can be divided into two categories: the ones who get overwhelmed with the noise and interaction, and the ones who now have to voice every single thought they had and have not been able to share for nine days. She belonged to the latter, and me, well, you can probably guess.
She had done her first retreat only months prior and found it life-changing, as many of us do. When she came home she quickly panicked — staying calm and centered is easy in an environment as restricted as a Vipassana center, but in the real world, there are other people to interact with and to state the obvious, very few have the temperament of a Buddhist monk. So she signed up for another one. And another one. And here she was, high on her self-proclaimed bliss and wanted nothing to do with the real world. The next morning she told me she was accepted to stay for three months of volunteer work and wouldn't go back home at all.
Dedicating your life to meditating full-time and volunteering to create a sanctuary for others to do the same is admirable. But if you feel so strongly pulled to something that removes you from your previous life, it begs the question; is this you finding your path, or are you running away from something?
* * *
Twice per day, I put on my rain jacket and the trail running shoes I had packed with the logic "I don't need real rain boots and these will dry quickly". A deeply flawed assumption for anyone wondering. Walking was the only exercise allowed, and getting outside had been my sanctuary on each retreat, nothing short of a tornado could stop me from attempting to march away from my anxiety. This season sure did its best though. Every single day, the rain was pouring down. And every single day, I stomped my way through the muddy waters, soaked well over my ankles. Sometimes I made sad attempts to jump between small tufts of grass which looked dry, only to sink down even further into a puddle.
On day seven I realized the retreats had become a comfort zone in a bizarre way. It was hard and painful, but it was the devil I knew.
* * *
Equanimity is a word you will hear often in the teachings. In every guided meditation, you are reminded to be still, to remain perfectly equanimous. I struggled with this concept from the beginning: How do I know if I am equanimous or if I just checked out emotionally?
* * *
2023 was a year of therapy and one thing that became hauntingly clear to me was how oblivious I could be to my own emotions. I used to think that suppressing emotions meant you were aware of them and chose to ignore them. But some people, like me, are not even getting that option. Our minds choose for us, a safety mechanism from an early age, it was better to not even bother us with that information. Like an overly eager assistant, which means well, but fundamentally fucks up our ability to make informed decisions.
My first Vipassana experience served me well, but the second and third seemed to push me further away from myself. I tried my very hardest, and afterward, I kept blaming myself for emotions that came up. Thinking I should just be able to handle it better. Be more equanimous.
A couple of months after my last retreat I did a weekend course in connecting with others. Those two days gave me more insight into myself than the two previous Vipassana retreats combined.
* * *
The final day arrived. I had survived the mud, the back pain, the dreadful long hours sitting on the cushion, and even the agonizing scenes that kept playing the moment my mind drifted. I avoided the loud dining hall and sat in one of the chairs overlooking the little forest I knew intimately. The sun peaked out from the clouds, at last.
A woman sat down next to me. It was her first time. I recognized the bliss she felt. She asked what my experience was like. "Absolute hell," I told her. We both laughed. It felt liberating, to speak, to laugh, and to know I would soon leave.
I know, 22 days late to the party, but 2023 was a lot to process, so here we are.
For the past six weeks, I've been grinding my teeth trying to get an essay together about my latest (and last) Vipassana experience. Last night I threw my laptop on the floor (metaphorically speaking) and decided to take a break. There are times when pushing through the discomfort gets you where you need to go, and there are times when that course of action will only result in a mouth guard and you better take a break and try something else.
Here I am, trying something else.
///
One thing that will change this year is my writing practice. After the non-fiction writing course I took last year I realized a couple of things. One, reading and discussing well-written stories, fiction or non-fiction, makes my fingers itch to write. Two, writing is a muscle I need to practice, and attempting a novel when I've barely written anything creative since the pandemic started is like going for a marathon when I need to learn the fundamentals of walking again.
This a long-winded way of saying I will start treating my little internet nook with a little more respect this year.
///
Another thing that is new for 2024 is my office. I've been based in Lisbon since 2020 and despite trying a number of coworking spaces, none of them have been right and I kept finding myself hunchbacked on the couch at home. But that has changed!
One week into Second Home and I think I've found my match. The natural light and the excessive number of plants create a garden vibe, which turns out to be the optimal setting for productivity. At least for me. And look, here I am, writing a casual post about nothing, just like it was 2012.
Thank you past self for pouring a glass of orange juice all over the keyboard of your brand new Macbook Pro in the summer of 2011. It taught me two things: I need a safety distance of one meter between my laptop and any beverages and back ups should be done religiously and often.
Seriously, kids, back up your shit.
2.
The sun was setting and I stood at the back of the bungalow boat, with one hand on the anchor rope, the other holding the depth measuring stick to see if it was shallow enough to stay.
I leaned ever so slightly forward and my phone jumped out of my pocket. It didn't fall, I swear it actually leapt. It was not an accident on its part; this phone was done with me.
This was Saturday November 21. My partner and two fishermen did a rescue attempt, but it was too cold, too deep, and the current too strong. Well, that's a bummer, I thought. I guess I was overdue for a phone detox, and assumed I would just get a new one on Monday.
We got the fireplace going, did a quick swim in 7 degrees, opened a bottle of red and made ourselves comfortable on the couch with our books.
3.
Timing was ... unfortunate. Apple released the iPhone 15 Pro a month ago and it was currently sold out everywhere. My partner suggested it would be a great time to switch to Android. I consider that to be a deeply offensive suggestion.
Found one place which promised to deliver in three days.
4.
After roughly 72 hours I noticed my mind becoming slightly less fragmented. My thoughts more coherent. I felt bored, but calmer. Fair tradeoff.
I brought my old iPad with Google Maps downloaded everywhere I went, in case I got lost.
I scribbled addresses and directions on pieces of paper when I left the house.
I sat in a cafe with my flat white and tried to figure out if the couple next to me were on a first date or something else.
I thought about how inconvenient life without a phone is. When you're not able to be on smooth autopilot you're forced to pay attention to what happens around you.
It is not all bad.
5.
Closing my laptop means being out of reach.
There is a strange sensation of no longer being part of society.
Usually, I check my email and messages several times per hour. Without even being aware. Open, close, open close, read something here, something there, open, close and on it goes.
I noticed all the times I would, without real awareness, stare on my screen: in line at the supermarket, past seven stops on the subway, between switching tasks while working.
I was mostly out of reach for 11 days and nothing happened. Nobody got mad that I wasn't available. Nothing important was missed. Life went on.
6.
New phone finally arrived. I had missed taking photos of little moments, scribbling down notes with thoughts as the came up, feeling connected with friends I rarely see. The dopamine rush was intense.
One hour later (and ever since) I miss the freedom and I keep thinking about what the fuck we are voluntarily doing to our brains.
I bought a new coat. It has a strange shape to it, much like a cape, oversized and black. Add hat and cigar and I will look like I spend every night at the neighborhood bar, sustaining myself on nothing but absinth and red wine, writing poetry that gives readers nightmares. By skill or lack thereof, who could tell. Maybe I'll recite it out loud in my corner, raspy voice, pausing only to blow out smoke.
Typical Berlin, people would say.
Too bad I don't smoke and am more likely to order a pumpkin spiced latte over absinth.
When dusk comes I walk from Schöneberg to Bergmannkiez. Navigate to an alley, walk up three floors, sit in an office filled with books and half-broken chairs with twelve strangers. We talk about the first two pages of In Cold Blood. A brilliant book when I read it five years ago, but going through Truman Capote's prose in detail together takes it one step further.
I take notes with my scribbly handwriting. Resonant details. I will remember that, even if I can't read it afterwards.
We leave the building chatting.
Where do you live, finding a place is impossible, what are you writing, science fiction but the pieces are hard to fit together, see you next time.
Let me start by providing some context. Tom, my partner, is a foodie who will eat anything. I mean that in the most literal sense; he could win any Fear Factor eating challenge as long as it doesn't include anything with banana flavor (I know, don't ask).
Tom eating living shrimp salad in Thailand. Me behind the camera, traumatized.
I, on the other hand, am on the opposite side of the spectrum. I'll eat anything vegetarian, but I'm particular about meat (grew up spoiled eating mostly wild elk, and lean meat cooked to perfection) and while I can eat fish, it better not look like a fish on the plate or taste fishy, and any shellfish is strictly out of the question. I'm happy to eat the same thing every day for weeks at a time as long as it gives me the nutrients I need and that's about it. My tastebuds likely stopped evolving when I turned five.
In March we were in Bangkok at the same time as another foodie friend and the two of them conspired to go to a famous restaurant with two Michelin stars. Tom asked me to join. I said yes, on the condition that he would eat anything I did not.
A few days before we were going, I looked up the restaurant. It's called Sorn, and on their website they have a list of terms and conditions you have to agree to when booking. Item number five on that list stood out.
5. Sorn is also unable to serve guests with seafood allergies or who do not consume seafood. The southern cuisine consists of mostly seafood as the whole southern region is surrounded by water
I made it abundantly clear to Tom that inviting me to this would be a waste of money, but ever the optimist, he again promised to eat everything I would not. So, I decided to put on my best girlfriend hat and join with an open mind.
Also, he was paying.
Time for dinner
This is a fancy restaurant, and as soon as we sit down, the waiters surround us. One woman asks if we have any "allergies or dietary restrictions”. Tom and our friend look at me and I feel the pressure to be honest.
“Well, I don’t eat seafood. But no worries, they will eat it," I say. It’s not you, it’s me, I wanted to tell them, but that would sound too desperate.
“It’s 90% seafood,” the waitress replies. Deadpan. She knows as well as I do; I am an imposter. I should not be here. Maybe they'll ask me to leave.
“I know," I say. "I'm sorry."
She does not kick me out, just nods and leaves the room. Yes, we have our own little room. It's a thing here.
A minute later another waiter comes in and puts a glass bowl with a living giant lobster on the table and tells us this will be the main ingredient in our first dish. I shrink in my seat and for a second consider sliding down under the table and staying there until dessert. Dessert I can do.
But I am an adult, more or less, and stay.
Zoom in and try to find items without seafood.
Then it begins. The menu consists of 22 dishes, mostly seafood, and I nibble on the things that can be safely removed from the contaminated parts. The drink menu keeps me full enough until we get to dessert.
The first item I eat: A cashew nut on cucmber!
Midway through Tom realized the advantage of inviting me: he got two sets of each bite he liked.
It's not a bad combination actually, being a picky eater dating a foodie. It's like I have a dog with me to eat anything I don't like on my plate, but it's socially acceptable to feed him at the table. He has other advantages too, he can hold better conversations and rarely barks*.
10/10 would recommend.
Here are some photos of food I didn't eat.
In all seriousness, the experience was a bit underwhelming. I can't personally review the food, but the foodies left feeling slightly disappointed. The wine pairing I can speak to though, and it was not impressive. The taste was fine, but out of five drinks, one was beer, one was sake, and none came with a more detailed introduction than "This is a white wine, from France, enjoy".
At a place like this, I expected a little bit more.
Here are things I did eat. And drink.
In summary, is it worth going to a Michelin star seafood restaurant if you're a picky eater with a fear of seafood?
Time for another reading report! As you might have figured from my last post, February and March were travel hectic, but I still managed to finish five books. Yey me! In no particular order, here they are.
Two months later and I still don't have a clear opinion about this book. It's about loneliness and taking responsibility for one's life. If you enjoy slow-paced books about a person's internal life, this could be your jam. The ending made perfect sense.
“Their so-called spirituality is completely self-serving, designed to make them happy, or make the people around them think they’ve found some kind of happiness. It’s this shallow belief in immediate profit. They go around talking about seeing something big. As if everything they feel, everything they’re thinking, is so big, bigger than all of us. That’s what they do. They act like they’re all big, ready to share their happiness with everyone, when the only happiness they care about is their own. Like, why can’t they just keep all that stuff to themselves and leave the rest of us alone? I’m fine, I’ve had some drinks, but I’m not even close to drunk. I’m like a sponge, I swear.”
All the different things that I was feeling slipped away without actually disappearing from my mind, and I loosened up, as if a pane of glass had been placed between me and my experience, blurring things.
I read the first book in the Outline series last year, and after reading A Life's Work in January, I'm officially a member of the Rachel Cusk fan club. I love her way with words and Transit is no exception.
Likewise, his sister would sometimes ask him to look after his little niece for a day or two, which gave him as big a dose of parenthood as he needed, as well as having the immense advantage that the child – who he liked a great deal – was returnable. I asked him what he used his freedom for, since he defended it so assiduously, and he looked somewhat taken aback.
Slightly more rooted in the narrator's perspective than the first one, it still mostly tells the story through interactions with others.
Loneliness, she said, is when nothing will stick to you, when nothing will thrive around you, when you start to think that you kill things just by being there.
I said it seemed to me that most marriages worked in the same way that stories are said to do, through the suspension of disbelief. It wasn’t, in other words, perfection that sustained them so much as the avoidance of certain realities.
I read this book in conjunction with doing my first Level 1 course in Authentic Relating, and I'll share more about that experience in a separate post. But if you want to connect better with people, this book is a good start.
“People become interesting when you become interested.” This is a constant reminder that my experience of the depth and vitality of a conversation is up to what I actively bring to it, not what is passively happening to me.
One simply can not not love Terry Pratchett. The Discworld series is my mental comfort food, but the healthy kind. That does not leave you feeling bad about yourself afterward.
It wasn’t that he was unhelpful, but he had the kind of vague, cheerful helpfulness that serious men soon learn to dread.
‘It would seem that you have no useful skill or talent whatsoever,’ he said. ‘Have you thought of going into teaching?’
I don't know, guys. I sort of liked it, and at the same time, it sort of bored me. Maybe because the character of a depressed privileged American is not particularly interesting to me at the moment, no matter how well-written and clever it is.
That was how I mourned, I guess. I paid strangers to make me feel good. I might as well have hired a prostitute, I thought. That’s kind of what Dr. Tuttle was years later, I thought—a whore to feed me lullabies.
From Koh Phangan to Chiang Mai to Singapore to Koh Phangan (again) to Hoi An to Bangkok.
Three countries, three months.
Flights, ferries, busses, trains.
Too many.
And now, finally, Lisbon. I'm home. For the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe again. Doing basic things, like putting a succulent in the owl pot we got in Chiang Mai and walking along the running path with the best bridge view, is soothing to my nervous system. Even when the latter is already crowded by British bachelor parties on beer bikes.
This year marks a new beginning in more ways than one. Most significant is committing to being more settled. When your partner has the same travel bug as you, and your friends are spread out from Östersund to Ubud, it's hard to stand still. If we go here, we might as well pop by your brother's place and I really want to show you this place I visited five years ago, it's just a short flight away, why not?
(Hey, present Sanna to past Sanna, let me tell you why not: it is exhausting.)
When we landed in Singapore, where neither of us has been since pre-pandemic, we both smiled. "I love this airport," we said, simultaneously. Then we both shook our heads; how absurd are our lives that we have a favorite airport on a different continent and it sort of feels like home.
I remember that this sounded romantic to me at some point. The world is there for you to explore, new cultures, new experiences, a never-ending adventure. No limits when you are privileged with a Swedish passport. But nothing tastes good in excess. Not even chocolate. And while a nomadic lifestyle* has the flavor of freedom, it comes with a bitter aftertaste.
March is almost over, which means I'll soon be 37. Turns out that is the age when I have to do the math to figure out how old I actually am and at the same time come to terms with the fact I'll never feel older than 33**. Hopefully, it will also be the year I'll look back on and say that was how old I was when I finally was brave enough to put down roots.
* In my defense I was involuntarily nomadic from the start. Location commitment issues should be a legit diagnosis.
** My injured hamstring politely disagrees and considers my physical age to be closer to retirement at the moment.
This year I'm aiming to read 40 books. Why this arbitrary number and goal, you might ask. Or not. But I'm happy to share either way! Reading one book per week sounds reasonable, but I'm old enough to know that life often gets in the way, so subtracting 12 from that number feels like a realistic compromise.
Having a reading goal also serves as a reminder to read more books than scrolling social media. Goodreads have kindly pointed out that I'm already behind schedule, but since I'm taking a break from Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter this February, I feel exceptionally motivated.
I started a book club with a couple of friends last year, partly as an excuse to catch up regularly, and this was our latest pick. I went into it knowing only that it had been well-received by critics in Sweden. It didn't take too long to realize it was a memoir of Karolina's troubled relationship with food and the role it played for her in relationships.
This felt like reading a complicated love story where food is the main character. The writing drew me in and I could relate to the descriptions of using food to comfort and numb emotions. But it was easy to put down and when it was finished, I felt relieved. Maybe I'll have a different take after our book club discussion, but I suspect it was simply not the story for me.
Another memoir, but where Bröd och mjölk fell flat, this was an instant favorite. Rachel Cusk has that clever British saltiness that is my weakness.
I think of the women I know who have had children, none of whom has remarked of birth that it wasn’t nearly as bad as they were expecting. Most appear unable to speak about the subject at all, except one, who told me that at one point she begged the midwife to shoot her.
I've never wanted to be a mother, but that doesn't stop me from being curious about the experience. As a non-mother whose ability to communicate with kids is limited to waving awkwardly and saying "hello there, tiny human", Rachel's dissection of motherhood feels refreshingly honest. She draws out the contractive emotions and puts them a context. Becoming a mother is not only a radical lifestyle change, it's also a radical shift in who you are in the eyes of society.
Now it is as if some spy is embedded within me, before whose scrutiny I am guilty and self-conscious. It is not, I feel sure, the baby who exerts this watchful pressure: it is the baby’s meaning for other people, the world’s sense of ownership stating its claim.
Few things make me happier than reading a book that succeeds in both making me think and laugh out loud.
When evening comes I prepare the bottle. Her father is to give it to her, for we are advised that this treachery is best committed not by the traitor herself but by a hired assassin.
I'd recommend it to parents and non-parents alike.
What a fucking year, I thought when I looked back at 2020.
What a fucking year, I thought when I looked back at 2021.
And now, looking back at 2022, again; what a fucking year.
Let's rewind.
January: Mezcal, Mexico, and Covid
January kicked off in Mexico. These were still covid times and only a few options available for travelers wanting a break from European winter, so we opted to join friends in Playa del Carmen. This was not the place for me, and while we had fun exploring cenotes and local food, PdC is not a place I'm likely to return to. A week into the new year, covid finally caught up with me and knocked me out for a few days. Recovered just in time to participate in the Nomadbase conference.
The upside was having a lot of focus time to get work done, and of course, I enjoyed a few mezcal cocktails AFK. Oh, and I did a temazcal session. (Short review: it's really, really fucking hot.)
January was great for focus, not so great for health.
February: Offline time and volcano adventures
By February, I had enough of Mexico and changed my plans to meet friends in Antigua, Guatemala. I used my vacation to go offline at a yoga retreat by Lake Atitlán. Enjoyed five days of practicing yoga and immersing myself in The Name of the Wind series.
I also experienced my first earthquake, I woke up from the bed shaking, and it took me a minute to understand what was happening. Naively got more excited than scared.
While still suffering from post-covid fatigue and barely being able to walk up five stairs without losing my breath, I thought it was a great idea to hike a volcano at 3000+ meters altitude. No regrets, but that was among the hardest things I've done physically. Wrote all about it here.
February was a good month.
March: Lisbon routines and tipsy yoga retreat
In March, we returned to Lisbon, and I was grateful to be home. This was a month of getting my health back and catching up on work. For my birthday, Tom surprised me by booking us into the most extravagant yoga retreat, which included New Orleans food and an open bar. Maybe not the textbook definition of healthy, but it sure was what my soul needed.
March was not a month for pictures, but good for work and aerial.
April: Family visits in Europe
In April, we went to Sweden for a few days. Most importantly for Tom to cash in on his Christmas present, a tasting menu at Fotografiska. The food and wine pairing was A+, and really, why does not every museum have a champagne bar? We also spent quality time with a bunch of puppies and stopped by Funky Chicken for my favorite burger.
We then made our way to visit family in the Netherlands before heading back to Lisbon. Bought an e-bike which made getting around Lisbon's many hills much more fun.
April, april.
May: London and writing
As I write this out, I'm beginning to see how insane our lives are. Trust me, we will be slowing down at one point, hopefully soon.
May started with a trip to London, where we ate all the food and saw Ocean at the End of the Lane live. I loved the book and the theater performance equally. Such a magical experience; go see it if you have the opportunity.
After that, I took the train up north to join my first writing retreat (which will not be the last). This year I set out to take my writing more seriously, and while I didn't reach my goal, I have made creative writing part of my life again. And it all started at Arvon.
Gin & Tonic Fridays continued to be an honored tradition, and I got slightly obsessed with Edinburgh Gin Distillery.
May days.
June: Lisbon focus and friends visiting
June kicked off with Sandra and Ida visiting Lisbon. As you get older, spending uninterrupted quality time with friends you've known for 25+ years feels special.
Went to Rock in Rio, which was not my favorite festival, but seeing The National perform live was worth it. Kept hanging out at Jaya and worked on my aerial hoop skills. Went to my first Storytelling Lisboa event, which instantly became a favorite monthly activity.
Busy June in Lisbon.
July: Quick visit to the Netherlands, Lisbon solitude
Big news: I'm officially no longer a Swedish resident!
Went to the Netherlands for the infamous Via Via festival. Lots of fun. Went back to Lisbon alone and enjoyed doing solo time my preferred way: spending far too much money on brunch and coffee while having my nose in a book.
Enjoyed the beach, did a ton of aerial, visited Ikea more than anyone should for the sake of their own sanity, and our garden took shape.
July, charging mental batteries for what was to come.
August: Scotland and Burning Man
Ok, now things are getting crazy. Bear with me.
We started with a road trip around Scotland. We rented a van outside Edinburgh and drove up to the Highlands. Enjoyed hiking, climbing trees, and taking cold plunges in every loch (including Loch Ness!). Happened to get a Crabbie's Ginger Beer, and after the first sip, I suddenly remembered how obsessed I was with this very beverage when I lived in Glasgow in 2006. Major nostalgia ensued.
After the road trip, we had a few days of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. We saw Daniel Sloss' "In progress" show (I love Sloss, but yea, that was clearly material in progress), a theater about the evolution of sex (A+), and Vidura BR's Monsoon Season (5/5 laughing crying emojis).
August first part, Scotland.
On our way home, we stopped by Cambridge for a night to visit Tom's aunt and uncle. We got university tours, had tea in a tea garden, and I compulsively visited every single bookshop in town.
20 hours in Cambridge.
Came back to Lisbon to squeeze out all the work I had to do while packing and somehow managed to get to the Swedish embassy to vote. A racist old man started questioning me on what I voted for and proceeded to tell me I was everything that was wrong with our country. Charming. My sincere sympathies to anyone who has to deal with an SD voter in their life.
We got on a flight to San Francisco a day later – time to burn! I already covered Burning Man in a post of its own, but in short, it was rough and much-needed. There's nothing like the Black Rock Desert to shake you up and help you shift perspective.
Burning Man 2022.
September: Decompression and back to Lisbon
After the burn, we drove to Lake Tahoe to decompress. Tom and I quickly realized two nights were not enough and rebooked our flights to get an extra day of rest and chill. One of our better decisions this year. One of my worse was thinking I could handle an edible while hiking, completely disregarding my track record with edibles (seriously, nothing makes me sleepier). Somehow made it back in one piece.
Post-burn vibes.
Back in Lisbon, we went to Brunch Electronik, enjoyed the last weeks of beach time, found a new favorite wine bar, and most of all, I enjoyed being home and having routines again. Which, of course, meant a lot of time practicing aerial at Jaya.
Oh, and I gave my notice for the company I've worked with for two years.
October: Home in Lisbon
I upgraded my iPhone. Yes, it's worth mentioning. The quality of images and videos is noticeable. Had date nights, but Lisbon weather in October was getting unpredictable, and our attempt at the outdoor cinema resulted in a taxi home due to pouring rain.
Went to a Halloween party as Cassie in the Oklahoma meltdown scene from Euphoria, which, I realize, is a bit niche. (But I was amused, and if you haven't watched it, you should; it's iconic.)
But mostly, October was about wrapping up work and, again, having routines (can you sense a theme?).
October mood.
November: Lisbon, Nerja, Berlin, Stockholm
First month without work! I was all set on doing NaNoWriMo, but while I wrote more consistently than I had in years (definitely a win!), my mental health was going downhill rapidly, and focus was a significant challenge.
Went to Websummit one day, but stress and sleep issues caught up with me, and I was getting sick. Drove over to Spain for a few days to visit family.
Then it was time for the main event of November, doing a home swap with another couple and living three weeks in Berlin! In part because we both love the city, but it was also to see if we could see ourselves setting up a new home base here.
(Spoiler alert; yes, we can.)
November, from Lisbon to Berlin. Mostly Berlin. ♥️
Our Berlin schedule was intense because that is how we seem to do everything these days. We saw Monolink and Tove Lo live; both were incredible in their own ways. Went to a fine dining experience with friends. Went to more clubs than I have in years.
Had friends over, ate a ton of food, visited museums, went to a Christmas market and got tipsy on glühwein, had sauna days, and started learning to dance Lindy Hop and Charleston. Tried to keep my aerial hoop strength. The temperature plummeted. And I finally started therapy.
Went to Sweden for a couple of days to see friends and do some errands.
No Sweden visit without Funky Chicken, chilly walks, and Irish Coffee with friends.
December: Vipassana, Christmas, Thailand
Came back to Lisbon a bit, still struggling with my mental health. Had an experience that helped me face the extent of this and how I had been hiding from it by staying busy. With this insight, I went into my third 10 days of silence.
It was rough, and I will share more about it at some point. But I did come out feeling calmer and with more clarity.
With one week left in Lisbon, we decided to organize a Christmas dinner with a Swedish theme since I love pushing our weird traditions on people. Tom made Toast Skagen, and I was in charge of meatballs. Obviously, there was a lot of snappsvisor, and never has a group been more out of sync in their singing. Managed to squeeze in a visit to Arkhe, too.
Christmas was celebrated in the Netherlands with Tom's family. If you're wondering what is wrong with us for traveling this way, you're not alone. Two travel junkies in one relationship create a lot of insane plans.
This brings me to two days before New Year's. Back at the airport, we made our way to Thailand and Koh Phangan, where we ended the year. A bit too enthusiastically for your truly, perhaps, but all in all, it was needed.
From Lisbon to Sittard to Amsterdam to Koh Samui to Koh Phangan. Phew.
What a year
If you're exhausted just reading this, I'm right there with you. This year knocked the wind out of me, and while I feel I'm on the right track with my mental health, this year has raised many questions and changes in perspective. Growth periods are needed, but next time it would be nice if the hard life lessons could come slower so I can process them without feeling like I'm the main character in the 145th season of Sunset Beach*. Thnx universe.
*If you get that reference, congratulations, you are also old now.
