When Familiar Comfort Doesn’t Fit You Longer
It takes 25 minutes to bike from our cabin to the beach—past houses that remind me of Bullerby, along a nature reserve and through a forest, over the main road that loops the northern tip of the island, then a pine-lined track sprinkled with moss and blueberries. I pedal alone while the rest of my family drive in the car.
For nearly four weeks I had been back on Öland, the place that feels most like home. My grandparents fell in love with this island long before I was born. Since 2004 our branch of the family has shared a cabin with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. I’ve missed only one summer.
Yet this visit felt different. I woke, ate breakfast, and swam earlier, skipping the family traditions. Most days I stayed behind to edit videos while they went to the beach. When board games started after dinner, I was already winding down. The old rhythm no longer fits.
I have joined them only three times, each on my bike. This small dose of independence underscores what I’ve been avoiding: I need my own space, which I haven’t fully claimed yet. When I do, I’ll be able to come back as a guest instead of a dependent. That ride felt like the start toward owning my space.