The space between stories; what Scandinavia taught me about career change, creativity, and starting over
What happens when you stop chasing your career and start listening to your life?
I should’ve written this sooner. But I was busy galavanting in the fjords.
This comes to you from a very small village in Sognefjord, Norway. AKA The King of the fjords, at over 1000 feet deep in some places. Population: 264 humans. Triple that in seagulls.
The air is pure, the Wi-Fi’s strong, and my laptop has gone fully native. My keyboard is causing all sorts of weird smug troll hieroglyphics. I’m adjusting. Slowly. With the help of cinnamon snacks and google translate.
I moved from London in April, armed with one new Irish passport, three unfinished “masterpieces” (read: Google Docs titled “Final FINAL”), and a burnout so insidious it didn’t show on my face, but it did hum a soft existential lullaby every time I opened my laptop.
Cut to: I now live next to a waterfall. A real one. With plunge pools so cold they could cancel your student loans. While my husband launches himself into them like a Nordic sea god, I hover at the edge like a chic but deeply suspicious woodland creature, pretending to meditate while mentally compiling a list of snacks.
Each morning, I look up at the mountain. Yes, I have a mountain now. Well, a whole string of them, like nature’s very own power pose and I say, “Thank you for loving me.” Which in London would get you sectioned, but here? It’s either self-care or a slow spiritual unravelling.
We (He) swam in the river the other day and we meditated afterwards. He floated into bliss. I swatted flies and tried not to think about emails, or how many bugs were currently inspecting my chakras.
What Norway has taught me (That chasing a career never could)
I thought moving abroad would bring peace. And in some ways, it has. But it also handed me a mirror or rather a magnifying glass, and a completely new relationship with Sunday silence (that appears to happen all throughout the week).
This isn’t a how-to guide. It’s a field report. A little ridiculous. A little philosophical. Some moments feel like an indie film; others like a deleted scene from a bureaucratic satire.
Here are 10 things I’ve learned (and unlearned) about moving to Norway (and myself):
Getting an Irish passport is basically winning the sneakiest lottery ever.
Like finding a tenner in an old coat pocket, but better.
I didn’t even know I qualified. When I found out, I cried like I’d just won the World Cup. Then, naturally, I submitted the wrong paperwork. Classic me.
If you were born on the Island of Ireland, do it. But do it right: triple-check every utility bill, bank statement, and official doc has your full name, not just initials. Because otherwise, you’re signing up for a bonus month of waiting and hair-pulling.
The police are not scary. But they are fully booked.
I thought I could just pop into the police station. You know, like you’d nip into a Tesco Express for a sandwich.Big mistake. In Norway, people don't pop in. There is no nipping here. Book an appointment online before heading to report into immigration officially, avoiding the kind but disapproving bureaucratic looks. This also applies to appointments with opticians, banks . . anything on the high street in a tiny scandi-village.
Your D Number is your golden ticket.
No job, bank account, or rental contract. You can’t do anything without it. You don’t even apply for it directly. It arrives, mysteriously, after you apply for something else you can't get without it. A bureaucratic scavenger hunt, wrapped in Nordic logic, delivered by a well dressed lady in pearls and hiking boots.
Me, Myself & AI
There’s a lot of bad press around AI. And fair enough, jobs are vanishing faster than my will to open LinkedIn.
I applied for one Creative Director role. Polite rejection. Casual stat drop: over 400 applicants.Four. Hundred. For the single job.
At this point, it feels like half the creative workforce are applying for the same roles, willing to relocate to desert outposts nestled near active war zones, as long as there’s a title and a login. That’s not ambition, that’s survival.
Also: scammers. Fraudsters. Imposters.
In one week, I had x2 scam job opportunities and found a clone of myself on LinkedIn. Like… someone literally tried to Avril Furness me. And did a poor job of it, to be honest. Amazed they had 51 followers.
It feels like the digital sands are shifting under our feet and the red flags are flapping wildly, and no one's quite sure which way is north anymore.
BUT.
Something beautiful happened.
I was in a class of about 20 refugee students from Ukraine, Russia, Sudan, Syria, Eritrea all gathered to learn Norwegian.
The teacher was speaking in Nynorsk, which is like a regular Norwegian’s misunderstood medieval cousin.
I was baffled. No idea what was going on. Except for the occasional old English-sounding word. The chaotic scribbles on the whiteboard could have been spells or IKEA instructions.
And then, miracle. I pulled out ChatGPT and Google Lens. AI became my translator, my sidekick, my social glue. Suddenly, I wasn’t outside the moment, I was in it. Learning. Laughing. Losing the plot during a treasure hunt where no one spoke the same language, but somehow, we all got the message.
It was weird. And wonderful. And human.
So yes, AI might be an attention-sucking, job-stealing, identity-thieving bastard…But sometimes, it’s also a bridge. A translator. A miracle in your pocket. Depends how you use it. Like most things that are a bit dangerous.
The weather is not your enemy. Your wardrobe is.
Norwegians don’t just survive storms, they perform in them.
They hike through rain like it’s a runway, cycle through blizzards like it’s a music video, and plunge into icy lakes like it’s a ritual of transformation.
Want to play in their league? Arm yourself with armor: rain gear that screams unstoppable, boots that defy mud and ice, gloves that grip the wild, and hats that crown your courage.
Get blackout blinds or slowly lose your mind.
The sun never sets in June. It just... hovers..
Midnight lawn mowing is a national sport.
At 9:45 PM. Because the sun’s still up and grass doesn’t care if you have plans or a personality.
But then, because apparently the lawn isn’t enough, there’s high-pressure washing roof tiles at 11 PM.
Like, really? How do this dad’s kids sleep through that? Inappropriately late. Definitely a new kind of bedtime story.
Magical, But Not in the Instagram Way
Put down your camera. Seriously. It’s not going to catch this.
Picture this: you’re floating in an outdoor pool, surrounded by sheer black rock faces and waterfalls that look like they were sketched by a deranged Norse god on a romantic bender.
Mist rises. Clouds drift in like moody extras from a Bergman film. And then, I swear - a rainbow. Then another. Then another. Like nature’s screensaver went full glitch.
There’s no one else around. Just me, my husband, the screech of deranged seagulls guarding their roof nests like winged lunatics, and this absolutely unhinged light-and-water show.
And it hits me: No one is going to believe this.
And I don’t care. Because I’m in it.
I didn’t take a photo. I didn’t even try. It would’ve felt like insulting the moment, like throwing glitter at a glacier.
Maybe that’s what Norway is teaching me: Not everything has to be documented. Not every miracle needs an audience. Sometimes the best thing you can do is just stand there, damp, stunned, and wildly unproductive, while the world quietly loses its mind in beauty.
It’s not a practical learning, I know. But maybe a sacred one.
Slow down. Be here. Let the moment be the moment.
And if the seagulls attack? Well. That’s just part of the magic.
Silence isn’t empty. It’s full.
Stillness hums here. It’s loud with questions.
But eventually, your nervous system starts answering.
Norwegian vowels will make you question your entire face.
I came here to learn a language.
What I didn’t expect was to discover new muscles in my own mouth.
Turns out, speaking Norwegian is less about vocabulary and more about facial origami. There are vowels that, to my English ears, sound exactly the same. But apparently, one requires “rounded lips like you’re about to kiss a ghost” and the other wants something “...like you’re smiling cheerily for your company’s annual report while wondering if you’re still technically employed.”
Same sound. Totally different lip choreography. Physics? Irrelevant. Logic? Dead. My dignity? Barely hanging on.
But then...there’s a teeny tiny shift.
A vowel lands.
A sound escapes your mouth that actually belongs here.
And suddenly, you're not just imitating, you’re becoming.
One distorted vowel at a time.
You can begin again.
Let that one settle.
In the Space Between Stories
Since June last year, I’ve been floating between job titles, projects, and the next freelance opportunity . .
LinkedIn doesn’t know what to do with me.
I’ve produced. Created. Directed. Made some incredible events/installations/films and immersive experiences, worked with incredible people.
Now I’m a person who stares at mountains and whispers “and what next?”
I’ve had several big interviews.
Many near-misses. The “we love you but…” got through to next round etc etcAnd I’ve stopped trying to sprint back to certainty.
Instead, I’ve sat. Listened. Walked into waterfalls and out of old definitions.
And somewhere in all that something new has started to whisper back.
Three Midwives Walk Into My Life(Not a joke. Unfortunately.)
I hadn’t been in Norway for 2 weeks when three actual midwives appeared.
Not delivering babies. Just… lingering.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling: What if I’m supposed to midwife something too?
(Not babies. Calm down.)
But transitions.
Creative resurrections.
Stories that haven’t got their structure yet. Lives that don’t fit neatly into bios or business cards.
Because here’s the thing: When life becomes too familiar, we stop growing. We get efficient. Predictable. And before you know it, you’re doing your weekly shop on autopilot and mistaking burnout for ambition.
But in the messy not knowing? In the liminal, language barriered, totally disorienting middle? That’s where new things are born.
Sometimes through AI.
Sometimes through panic.
Sometimes just by letting your brain make weird connections while you’re laughing alone in a fjord because, honestly, what else is there?
Because creativity? It’s chaos with a cheeky grin, smashing unlikely things together and hoping they flirt enough to make some sort of order out of the madness.
As the wise Norwegian Philosopher Arne Næss said: “creativity is just our clumsy attempt to bring order to life’s beautiful mess”.
So maybe this chapter isn’t about building a brand, making a film or colouring between the lines . .
Maybe it’s about breaking a pattern. Getting weird. Getting curious.
Tuning in to the small, strange voice that says: This isn’t who I am anymore… and that’s exciting.
I have directed films. Virtual, augmented reality. Big headset energy.
I´ve spent years choreographing alternate worlds where the lighting was perfect and the emotional arcs were timed to music.
And now? I live in actual reality.
No headset. No pause button.
Turns out, real life doesn’t have a post-production phase.
There’s no cutaway from your existential crisis in Coop aisle 4. No CGI to smooth out the wrinkles.
But weirdly - this version?
With its awkward silences, wrong turns, and off-brand cinnamon buns?
It might be the most immersive experience I’ve ever had.