I Burned Down My Life (Again) at 37

When I was sixteen my friend Anna joined my family on our annual summer trip to Norway.

This was before smartphones and WiFi (at least at our family’s mountain cabin), so we spent our evenings sipping cocoa in front a fire while we pondered life’s great questions. At least that’s how I remember life in Norway in the early 2000s. And since my dad is a life’s-great-questions expert (a philosophy professor), Anna and I begged him for answers.

He eventually gave in, promising to tell us the meaning of life – if we hiked up a mountain with him.

Of course we had our guesses: is it happiness?

My dad shook his head. People can lead meaningful lives while suffering.

Is it love? Another shake. Love can be profound, but loneliness can be enlightening too.

Also the daughter of a Catholic, Anna leaned towards me and whispered, it’s probably just going to be something about God.

“Even Jesus had to spend forty days alone in the dessert before he could teach,” my dad continued.

And as our shaky legs pulled us up to the summit, my dad turned dramatically (he’s a Leo) and proclaimed: the meaning of life is to find light in darkness.

He explained that a wonderful way humans do this is through creating art. Life isn’t about success or happiness; it’s about seeking and making beauty, even where none seems to exist.

When the cocoa ran out each evening I had been reading a copy of Dostoevsky’s The Prince I had found at my grandmother’s, and so in hearing my dad’s words I was relieved to realize that Prince Myshkin was not referring to clear skin when he said beauty will save the world.

You know, I might even trace my love of Dostoevsky to this very hike – a love that later inspired me to take Russian in university, which gave me the language skills to backpack through Central Asia in 2013, where I first started travel blogging.

And I’m not sure if travel blogs can be categorized as art, but I do know that travel has led me to the most intense, exhilarating, uncomfortable, and yes, beautiful experiences.

21 years later, on the night of my 37th birthday, my friend Josephine found me sat on the edge of a curb crying.

Nothing terrible had happened. Birthdays have been difficult ever since I spent my 31st birthday at a dear friend’s funeral. In fact, my inner circle now refers to May 24th as indulgence day instead of my birthday.

And this year I indulged in the thought that had been creeping in almost since I first moved from Tromsø to Bergen three years ago: I hate it here.

Okay that’s a bit dramatic (I am my father’s daughter). I don’t hate Bergen. But I’ve never managed to love, or even really like Bergen.

It’s puzzling, because in many ways my life in Bergen seemed like the best life I’d had in Norway. Bergen was a vibrant city, I bought an apartment I loved in my favorite neighborhood, my friends were all in a similar life stage, and my cousin Susanna lived in Bergen. I love hanging out with Susanna!

Plus Bergen Airport provided the best access to international travel (and my parents in France) that I’d had in years.

On paper, Bergen was a 10/10. In the the past decade I’d moved to Trondheim, Telemark, Mosjøen, Tromsø, and then Bergen. That was a lot of moves during a time of life when it felt like everyone around me was settling down. So I really had hoped Bergen would be it for me.

Every evening, Alfie and I would walk one of Bergen’s prettiest loops, and I’d look out and think, this is beautiful. But it was only my mind saying that, while my heart felt oddly empty.

I say it was odd because beautiful views usually move me so much – more than great music or a delicious meal. Even as a child I would spend all my family’s many road trips around Europe with my face pressed against my window, drinking in the views – with the occasional break to throw up, because wow did I get carsick.

Okay I actually just mentioned this to my parents and my mom corrected me. Yes, my face was glued to the window through our countryside drives, but as soon as we’d enter a city I’d pass out – exhausted from vomiting. And boredom.

My parents might have let me know that I’m not a city girl before I bought a home in Norway’s second largest city.

So why did I stay for almost three years?

I thought that I should live there. I was 34 when I moved to Bergen and had been single for four years, which was just about enough time to start feeling really, really bad about being on my own.

I know at least some of my friends recognize the feeling that regardless of how lovely my life is, I will be considered a failure until a man chooses me. Maybe that’s unfair to say, but maybe also whenever I see family friends or old acquaintances they always ask the same question, and it’s never about my work or travels.

And as hard as I try (or don’t try! love happens when you least expect it!) this does not seem to be an area of my life I can control.

So instead I controlled everything else.

A cool city! Lots of friends! Weekend brunches! And almost no personal updates on my blog, probably in hopes that if I didn’t draw attention, no one would notice my great shortcoming.

In moving to Bergen I essentially chose the version of myself I hoped other people would see – the settled, busy in all the right ways one – instead of the version that was actually me.

It feels backward. Aren’t we supposed to care less about what people think as we age?

In my twenties I took pride in abandoning the beaten path, traveling through less popular destinations and working at a supermarket instead of an office.

Though looking back, I realize that I was rebelling in a very socially acceptable, age appropriate way. On The Road is about a guy in his twenties.

But would Dean Moriarty be equally cool if he were a woman in her late thirties? I haven’t yet achieved the settled married life to Eat, Pray, Love my way out of.

I still love traveling, but my travels can feel frivolous when my peers are creating and raising entire humans. Even Dean had (multiple!) wives and children.

The obvious lesson here is that when insecurity drives our choices, we drift further from the life we truly want. The more I tried to be someone who could be loved, the more I abandoned myself.

I told Anna that my life in Bergen felt superficial. I don’t mean that the city or people were superficial, but somehow I was only able to connect with them on a superficial level. It was like living off junk food: enjoyable in the moment, but eventually you start to feel worse and worse. Bergen was giving me a metaphorical stomachache.

My Aunt Hege sweetly suggested that because my grandfather, who grew up in Bergen, hated the city, my soul was refusing to love Bergen out of loyalty to him. And my dad of course credited his side of the family, saying that I’m a country girl at heart and by blood (he grew up on a farm in Kentucky). My sister said I need to move somewhere sunnier.

Or, I simply did not belong in Bergen. And I hate that it was so hard to admit that, and that I still feel like I somehow failed by not wanting to stay. I travel for a living. I love moving to new places and the rich tapestry of experiences those moves have woven. I’m so grateful that blogging allows me that freedom. And yet there I was, ashamed.

When I finally decided to leave and began preparing my apartment for sale, my hands reached for an outlet. I started knitting a sweater. I probably hadn’t knitted since that summer in Telemark with Anna. At first my fingers ached, but I kept going, almost obsessively.

I knit this sweater through stress, tears, dread, and grief. And you know what? I think it’s kind of beautiful.

When I finished the first one (I’ve now knitted five), I sat with it in my lap and marvelled at how something this warm and cosy had been born of so much emotional chaos.

Since then I’ve packed all my new sweaters into my little car, alongside essentials like my sewing machine, my dog, three cans of pumpkin, and my favorite pillow.

I have no idea how long I’ll be on the road this time. I sort of hope that I’ll find a new home in the spring, but also I do really love a summer road trip. And then there was that peculiar revelation that in the short time I’ve been on this open-ended road trip I’ve felt more at home than I ever did in Bergen. And maybe that’s okay?

The truth is, I don’t remember exactly what my dad said on our mountain hike 21 years ago. I am a blogger, but not always a reliable narrator. But I think it’s interesting that I remember him presenting the meaning of life as a search. Perhaps, a quest?

A year later I decided to finish high school as an exchange student in Germany, and I’ve pretty much been exploring the world ever since.

For now, I’m driving north, headed towards the darkest place my car can take me. And maybe, I hope, I will find light.

I’ll share some of this road trip here, but you can also follow along on Instagram.