Episode 26: Coming Back To Finland

This week, I'm sharing what it was like returning to Finland for the second summer without Alex.

Finland was more than a holiday destination. It was part of who he was, and a place he dreamed of sharing with Oscar. Returning this year brought tears, laughter, memories, and a reminder that while grief never disappears, it can change over time.

I reflect on carrying on the traditions Alex loved, the emotional moment Oscar received his Finnish passport, and why healing isn't about leaving someone behind. It's about finding new ways to carry them with us 🇫🇮☕️🖤

Transcript

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Hello and welcome back to the Early Morning Coffee Club, the podcast where grief is intense, humour is finally ground, and strength sneaks up on you like a double shot. Well, I'm back from my week off. So we went on a family holiday to Finland. Finland, you might ask? Well, my late husband Alex was actually half Finnish. Tall, blonde, blue eyes, the stereotypical Scandinavian, and he has family there that we usually go and visit every summer. But Finland wasn't just somewhere that we visited, it was a part of who he was. I believe that we don't ever really go back to the same place twice. The place might look the same, the lake certainly is still there, the trees are still standing, the smell of the sauna, the silence, the endless daylight, they haven't changed. But we have. This is our second summer in Finland without Alex. As a little boy, he spent every summer here with his family. His grandparents' house by the lake was his happy place. He'd tell me stories about swimming until late at night because the sun barely disappeared, fishing, picking berries in the forest, sitting in the sauna with his family, and living at a pace that just doesn't exist in everyday life. He loved this country in a way that only someone with deep roots here really can. So when we first got together, he couldn't wait to bring me. And I remember seeing Finland through his eyes for the first time. I remember thinking how peaceful everything felt. The quiet almost catches you off guard. Coming from busy lives, it felt strange at first, but then it became quite addictive. There are no expectations here. You wake up, you make coffee, you sit on the jetty, you go for a swim, you watch the water, you just breathe. And Alex actually became a slightly different version of himself there. More relaxed, more playful, more like the little boy who grew up spending every summer on this lake. Watching him made me understand him even more. And then Oscar came along. And before Oscar was even born, Alex talked about bringing him to Finland. It wasn't just a holiday in his mind, it was a legacy he wanted to pass on. He wanted Oscar to know his Finnish family, to jump into freezing lakes, to eat Finnish food, to hear the language, to grow up understanding that this wasn't just somewhere his dad came from, it was a part of who he was too. He wanted Oscar to experience the same magical summers he had as a little boy. And now that Alex isn't here, that dream has become mine too. Because when someone dies, you suddenly realize how much of them can still live on. Not just in photographs, not just in memories, but in traditions, in places, in the things you keep choosing to do because they mattered so much to them. Now last year in Finland was one of the hardest experiences of my life. We came to Finland because it was what Alex wanted. He told me exactly where he wanted half of his ashes scattered, in the lake beside his grandpa's house, one of his favourite places in the world. Now swimming out there and standing on this huge rock and holding the ashes of the man I thought I'd grow old with is something I don't think I'll ever have words for. It felt impossible. It felt unfair. It felt like my heart had been ripped out. I remember looking across the lake thinking, how can somewhere so beautiful hold so much pain? And for a long time afterwards that's all Finland represented to me was loss. The final goodbye. I was nervous about coming back this year. I wondered if I'd spend the whole trip crying as much as I did last year, if every corner would remind me of what we'd lost. And of course there were tears, but there always will be. But something else surprised me. This year, alongside the grief, there was this kind of nostalgia, and I started remembering funny things too. Like Alex almost tricking me into going naked into the sauna with his grandparents, convincing me it was a tradition, and they'd be offended if I wore a swimsuit. And don't worry, he confessed just in time. I remember him trying to convince me to jump into freezing water and him just rolling his eyes when I squealed at simply dipping my toe into the Baltic lake. I remember his excitement over the finished sweets in the pick and mix aisle in the supermarket. Watching him light up around his family, particularly his grandpa, who he called Vardy. And instead of every memory hurting, some of them made me smile. And I realized this time round that grief had actually changed shape. It hadn't gone, it never will, but it wasn't crushing me in quite the same way anymore. Instead it sat beside me rather than on top of me. And this trip also made me realise something that people ask me about all the time. People often ask what does grief actually feel like? And this is probably the closest I've ever come to explaining it. Before Alex died, I think I woke up each morning with my emotional battery already fairly full. If happiness was measured on a scale from zero to ten, I'd naturally start somewhere around an eight, a nine. The goal was simply not to let life's little frustrations chip away at it. Traffic, a stressful day at work, an argument, bad news. Those things might knock me down a few points, but generally I'd wake up feeling okay. And now because of grief, it's the opposite. Most mornings it feels like a wake up already carrying something heavy. It's as though I begin the day at a two or a three, not because anything has happened that morning, but because grief came with me the moment I open my eyes. It's there before I even get out of bed. It's there while I'm making coffee. It's there in the quiet moments when nobody else can see it. The difference now is that I have to intentionally build my way back up. A cuddle with Oscar, watching him laugh, taking honey for a walk, going for a run, a coffee with a friend, watching the sunset over this finished lake, jumping into freezing cold water, warming up in the sauna, just listening to the silence. None of those things take my grief away. They don't erase what happened, but each one adds something back little by little. Some days I might even end the day feeling genuinely happy, and that's something I never thought I'd be able to say. But happiness doesn't arrive by default anymore. It's something I have to build, something I choose, and something I protect. The strange thing is that grief has also completely changed what I consider a bad day. Because after you've experienced the worst thing imaginable, so many of life's everyday frustrations just lose their power. The traffic doesn't really matter. A delayed train doesn't matter. Someone being rude doesn't matter. Those things that once might have ruined my day barely register now because nothing compares to the pain of losing the person you love the most. Grief has made me fiercely protective of my peace. Not because life has become easier, quite the opposite actually, but because I already carry enough heaviness. I don't want to waste what energy I have on unnecessary negativity. So I'd rather spend it noticing the good the ordinary moments that are once rushed past. And maybe that's why this trip to Finland felt different. Last year I could only see what I'd lost, but this year I could still see the loss, but I could also see everything Alex gave us this place, these traditions, this family, this connection for Oscar. And we also achieved something that I know would have meant the world to Alex. Oscar officially got his Finnish passport. Now on paper it's just a passport. But to me it felt like so much more. I admit I got emotional because I could instantly picture Alex's face. He would have been absolutely over the moon. He would have shown everyone he probably would have joked that Oscar could now skip the queue with him at airport border control and go down the much shorter and quicker EU route. He'd have started planning all the adventures they were going to have together. Having that little passport felt like continuing something Alex started. Like making him a promise that Oscar will always know where part of him comes from. That he'll know this lake, these forests, these people, this family, this piece of his dad. Sometimes I worry that Oscar is too young to remember everything about Alex, and then I remind myself that memory isn't the only way that we know someone. We know people through the stories we're told, through the places they loved, through the values they lived by, through the traditions they leave behind. And every summer we come back here, Oscar gets to know his dad a little bit more. Not because Alex is physically here, but because his fingerprints are everywhere. In every swim, in every family meal, in every finish word we're learning, every story told around the table. Love doesn't end because someone dies. Sometimes it simply changes the way it reaches us. One day you'll probably listen to this when you're much older, and maybe you'll already know Finland like the back of your hand. Or maybe you're still discovering it. But I want you to know why we'll always keep coming back. We'll come back because this is where your dad became the person I fell in love with. These lakes shaped him. These forests calmed him. These summers gave him some of the happiest memories of his childhood. And when he brought me here, he wasn't just showing me a country, he was showing me himself. And when you were born there was never any doubt in his mind that you would grow up knowing Finland too. He wanted you to feel proud of every part of who you were British, Finnish, his son. He wanted you to know your family here, to hear their stories, to laugh with them, to understand that home can exist in more than one place. And this year you received your Finnish passport. You won't remember it happening, but I certainly will. And I hope one day you'll understand why I cried, not because I was sad, but because I knew exactly how much it would have meant to your dad. He would be bursting with pride. There are going to be moments in your life when you wish you could ask your dad something, and I wish that too. But I hope every time you come here you'll feel close to him when you jump into the lake, when you sit in the sauna, when you hear finish spoken around you, when you watch the summer sun refuse to set. I hope you'll feel that this place belongs to you too, because it does. It's part of your story, just as it was part of your dad's. I can't give you more years with him. If I could, I really would. But I can give you the places he loved, the people he loved, the traditions he wanted you to grow up with. I can tell you his stories until they become yours too, and that is my promise to you. We'll keep coming back, we'll keep saying his name, we'll keep laughing at his terrible jokes, we'll keep telling you about the little boy who spent every summer here and grew into the most wonderful dad. Because as long as we do that, a part of him will always be with us, and I know without a doubt that seeing you here, watching you spend your summers in Finland, begging me to not leave, it would make your dad happier than words could ever describe. Thank you for listening to this week's episode. I'm sorry you're here, but I'm glad we're here together. I'll see you all next week.