The Grey Skies and the Northern Lights

Natey and I have something in common. We both like certainty. We like plans. We like answers. We like knowing what comes next (In reality, I think most of us like these things).

Natey and I (Europe 2022)

Unfortunately, life doesn't always cooperate. Especially when you're preparing to move your family to the other side of the world.

Over the last few months, I've noticed that as Norway becomes more real, so do the emotions that come with it. The excitement is still there. The joy is still there. The sense of adventure is definitely still there, but every now and then, anxiety quietly pulls up a chair too.

I've always been someone who likes to know what's around the corner. Natey is much the same. So perhaps it's not surprising that a move involving visas, flights, houses, schools, jobs, timelines, and approximately a million unanswered questions has given both of our brains plenty to think about.

And by "plenty to think about", I mean plenty of opportunities to imagine every possible scenario. Some helpful. Some less so.

We've had some lovely conversations recently about what it means to feel anxious.

About how feeling nervous doesn't mean something is wrong.

About how being unsure doesn't mean you've made a mistake.

About how sometimes our brains are simply trying to protect us from uncertainty.

The funny thing is, while I'm saying these things to Natey, I often realise I need the reminder too because if I'm honest, there are moments when this all feels enormous. Moments when I think about saying goodbye to family and friends. Moments when I think about how far away Norway really is. Moments when I wonder how we'll settle, what life will look like, and whether we're ready for all the changes that are coming.

And then there are moments when I catch myself looking at photos of the Lofoten Islands or imagining our first snowfall, and I can't stop smiling.

Lofoten Islands (2025)

Both things can be true.

I think that's what I'm learning. You can be excited and anxious. Hopeful and uncertain. Ready and not quite ready. You don't have to choose one or the other.

Since sharing our plans, we've had plenty of conversations with people who love us deeply. Many of those conversations have included reminders of what will be hard. And they're right. It will be hard. We will miss people. There will be homesick days. There will be challenges we can't yet see. There will be grey skies.

But that's not the whole story.

Because there will also be northern lights. There will be adventures we haven't imagined yet. There will be friendships we haven't made yet. There will be memories waiting for us that don't exist yet. There will be a version of our family that grows through this experience in ways we can't fully understand from where we stand today.

So we're not trying to get rid of the anxiety. We're not pretending it isn't there. We're simply making room for it as part of the journey. Because if this adventure wasn't important, it probably wouldn't feel quite so big, and maybe being brave isn't about feeling fearless. Maybe it's about looking at the uncertainty, taking a deep breath, and choosing the adventure anyway.

Even when the skies are grey. Especially when you know there are northern lights waiting somewhere beyond them.

Med kjærlighet og vennlighet (with love and kindness),

Alicia