I often joke that if there’s such a thing as an afterlife, I’ll definitely come back as a swan. It’s my favourite bird. I love everything about it: the elegance, the quiet authority, the way it seems to float through the world like it already knows something the rest of us are still trying to learn.
Swans, though, aren’t native to South Africa. Mute and black swans exist mainly as introduced or captive birds. In a small way, I recognise myself in that as I’m not native to Finland either. Though definitely not a captive, I was introduced. And I had to adapt in order to make the place my home.
The Whooper Swan, national bird of Finland (photo taken in summer)
Another bird has been knocking at the doors of my dream-consciousness lately: the flamingo. I never thought I liked flamingos that much. They always seemed a little… full of themselves? A bit too posed; too aware of the camera. And yet there it was, returning again and again, bright and persistent.
Then one day, as I was reading the Marginalia newsletter, a flamingo appeared in a poem. The words found me exactly where I was. One thing I love most about poetry is that it doesn’t knock politely; it walks right in and sits beside you.
Before I knew it, I was deep in a rabbit hole, researching this bird. Flamingos are native to South Africa. The Greater Flamingo is widespread and found across parts of Africa. And as I read, I kept seeing the same qualities named again: beauty, grace, balance, confidence. And I thought, hang on! These are exactly the qualities I love about the swan.
Though both birds are vocal, there’s a difference that matters. The swan is serene and tends to exhibit profound emotional behaviours, like mourning its partner. The flamingo, on the other hand, is communal, loud and quirky. And what about that one-legged balancing pose?
Then—dang! Yoga. What? I hate yoga. It makes me angry. But my creaky joints and stiff body keep saying: girl, you need to get yourself flexible. So this is my word for 2026: Flexible. After a year of targeted focus, flexibility is the energy I want this year.
I’m practicing flexibility not just in the physical sense (though yes, unfortunately, also that) but in my days, and on the page. I’m making room for the small yeses — to soften where I’ve been rigid, to experiment and adapt, to not force neat answers before they’re ready — and see where I end up.
I once read that swans, with their famously long and bendable necks, have more capacity for curving and rearranging themselves without losing their shape. Maybe I won’t reach swan-level flexibility, but there will be movement with one small yes at a time.
Who knows! I might end up settling for a humble flamingo pose, just so I don’t fall flat on my face. I hope you stay with me.
An image of mallards (non-migratory birds) on an icy lake
As usual, I’d love to hear your thoughts. What are you making room for this year or where could a little more flexibility soften your life in the best way?
PS. The Great Tit is among birds that brave the Finnish winter. They are always nearby, flitting from tree to feeder, drawn by the tasty seeds. And I created the watercolour feature image using Canva AI.
I have to mention that I reluctantly shifted my gaze from the dazzling fireworks on New Year’s Eve to observe the celestial display: twinkling constellations, star clusters, steady planetary lights, and the captivating waxing gibbous moon.
Some predict — not based on the shining moon, but on Trend Forecasting & Analytics 2025-2032 — that 2026 will be a year of hope and breakthroughs, among other things. So, here’s to turning the page and writing a new, radiant chapter!
Image of fireworks on New Year’s Eve
Before I ease into the new year and move forward, I always look back. So, at the start of 2025, I chose my guiding word: focus. It wasn’t a productivity catchphrase. It was a way to live sanely through what I expected would be an overwhelming year with post-election hangover energy, global crises, and constant noise.
In my post, On Targeted Focus, I wrote about narrowing attention to what I could touch: my immediate surroundings and my essential equipment: writing and support system. I didn’t realise how literal that would become.
So, in the spirit of targeted focus, community, and doors that opened, I’m sharing memorable moments and lessons learned.
1. A small brave return
The year opened in Finland the way it usually does: white, sharp and honest. Instead of snuggling up indoors, I stepped outside and did something that felt huge—I drove a snowmobile again after years of crippling anxiety. There’s an entire story behind of how pre-menopause and COVID gifted me anxiety… So, that ride wasn’t just a hobby. It was a choice to return, focusing on just one breath, one ride. Yes, it’s me there at the front, literally waiting for others to catch up. 🙂
Image of me and my family snowmobiling in Levi
2. The best gift I gave myself
Then in February, I gave myself the best gift of the year: I joined the Finnish-African Society as a volunteer. Often, we think of support systems as something we “get” if we’re lucky. But sometimes you build them. Sometimes you volunteer your way into belonging. Sometimes, support comes when you join something larger than yourself. Focus meant being present in my local community.
Over the course of the year, FAS became a place where my love for storytelling, the written word and culture flourished in real time. In turn, I met interesting people, had meaningful conversations, took part in energising events, and all through a shared effort. The world didn’t get less chaotic, but I felt both held and grounded.
3. A deep dive into AI without letting it steal my attention
Years ago, I was the oldest student, a Gen Xer, in an introductory class about AI. I remember how pissed off I was as I listened to the workings of AI and predictions about its future role. I also remember how the younger students, millennials and Gen Zs, were so excited about the ways technology continues to evolve.
Last year, my UX design studies allowed for a deep investigation of AI. I asked better questions, especially about its ethical use. I tested assumptions, and I learned enough to understand the tool. This was also part offocusing, and curiosity with boundaries, and not letting the loudest voices drown reason. Now, I’m in a place where I’m neither worshipping AI nor panicking about it.
4. Spring with floods of ideas, a story and a bridge
The year truly begins in spring. Fresh creative ideas arrived like birds returning. It was a good problem to have—so many stories to tell, so many directions. So, focusing meant choosing an idea that deserved my energy; and I stayed with fiction.
A story is like the wind. It comes from a far-off place, and we feel it.”
This proverb attributed to the people of the Kalahari stayed with me. Because that’s how Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s visit felt — something written elsewhere arriving here and stirring a room into being.
This was one of the moments I could feel the lineage of stories, the way literature travels and gathers people. Focus also looked like a bridge connecting continents, strangers, private acts of reading and the public act of building culture together.
5. A season to be happy. Period.
Summer doesn’t require a thesis. And Finnish summer makes one understand why people here endure the long winter with so much patience. The season brought the kind of happiness my targeted focus made room for. These were uncomplicated, perhaps unearned, but allowed moments to experience joy without apologising for it, and focusing on relationships that matter.
An image of Sting at the Pori Jazz festival
6. A highlight I’ll carry for years
In June, I had the privilege and pleasure of meeting the first lady of Finland (and briefly, the president). It was an experience made possible by Adichie’s book, and the shared love of African literature we foster through the Finnish-African Society.
It’s difficult to describe what that visit signified without sounding like I’m bragging. But the truth is, it impressed my heart more than my ego. It’s about what happens when you show up for something you believe in — creative expression, literature, cultural exchange… Unexpectedly, you find yourself in rooms you never imagined entering. This was one highlight of my year.
7. Finding beauty in unexpected places
Autumn held travel. Travel is a kind of focus, too, as it forces attention. It invites one to notice how the sun seems brighter in another location, the cadence of an unfamiliar language, the kindness of strangers, and the beauty tucked inside places you didn’t expect to cherish.
I found myself moved not only by the iconic, but by the unexpected. The in-between places and moments that don’t fit neatly into a caption. Maybe that was the theme of 2025: the best parts weren’t the loudest.
An image of Lisbon’s iconic Tram 28
Even November in Finland — when darkness can sink into the body and trigger seasonal affective disorder — found me steady. Despite the chaos in the world, I stayed focused on routine, community, movement, meaning, and rest. I’m grateful for my health, and showing up for myself.
What focus ended up meaning
Focus didn’t just protect me from overwhelm. It returned me to myself. It connected me to my people; the African diaspora in Finland and the Nordic region. It led me to rooms with warm bodies and genuine laughter, and the kind of meaning one can’t measure with likes. I thought I was choosing a coping strategy, but I was choosing to show up. And to quote Phillip Lim, I was also choosing to connect with whomever is (physically) close to me.
As always, and regardless of the “word” practice, I’d love to hear about your 2025. What did you focus on, big or small? Please do share! 🙂
Finnish winters have a kind of magic, but it’s a quiet one — not glittering, not showy. Some people romanticize the snow, but they often forget the cold, the darkness, the long stretch of it all. For a girl born under the African sun, among people who speak in warmth and laughter, winter here can feel like someone dimmed the world. These months usually ask us, at least me, to find the glow from within rather than chasing brightness outside.
So, as the light fades, dust loses its gold, and the days speak more softly, the landscape feels less busy and more honest. This is the season that encourages us to conserve warmth, attention, and effort— not to produce but to attune.
Despite the celebratory rush of the season, I’m slowing down. I’m trying to listen, to release the urge to tally outcomes, and to be present within the quiet moments and the changing rhythm of the year.
Sauna by the lakeside
The poem below emerged from that quiet noticing. It’s a reminder that rest is not the absence of effort, but its companion. And for me, gratitude doesn’t always look like celebration. Sometimes it looks like stepping back, lowering the shoulders, and letting the body claim what it needs.
I Open My Eyes and Give Thanks
Thanksgiving — a perpetual state of being big and small offerings no matter the season for every morning I open my eyes and give thanks
Days fall off the calendar it’s not about quantity the grind but pledging have I done enough for each day I search for beauty and give thanks
Years start and end with promise and hope no matter the demands every body needs rest even the one clothed in brown learning to claim
As I pause my writing here for the rest of the year, I offer this piece as both a reflection and a permission slip for myself, and maybe for anyone else who needs it. And now, I turn inward to rest, trusting words will return with energy.
Outdoor Decorative Lights
Thank you — truly — to everyone who continues to read and support my writing; your presence adds warmth to this space. I look forward to returning in the new year.
Wishing you and your loved ones a peaceful and joyous holiday season! ♥
