A new year has arrived. I watched it being birthed this morning out of the fresh layers of snow, a pink new beginning.

In all my life, I can’t remember feeling so ready for what’s next. I’ve been in a transformative sort of process for years, and now it feels things are igniting. I am learning to harness fire. To tend to fire. To know what makes good tinder, and what does not. I’ve tried to be so careful, but fire is a teacher, and how else do we ever learn except through mistakes, or sometimes chance, and, yes, when we’re lucky, magic.

Magic is my word for 2025. A kind of elemental magic.

Do you do that too – find a designated word or phrase for the year ahead?

During the last week of each year, I try to tune into what’s coming, drum up a word or phrase that rings true. The same way one tunes the strings of an instrument until it hits the right chords for the song wanting to be played.

But first, I always spend some time reflecting on the year that’s ending. Was the word fitting? How did it hold up?

My word for 2024 held up remarkably well. It was two words actually.

Coming together. As in, things are finally coming together.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when things began to break apart. Most likely it started around the time I turned 40, that infamous mark when I began to question why and how I’d gotten to where I was, which, over time, led to questioning, well, pretty much everything. Every norm, rule and expectation I’d been following. I began to awaken to the fact that I’d accepted a dominant narrative and was simply going along with it all. Even in my own business, I overrode my own gut feelings and irresistible pulls to follow best practices and recommendations from “experts.” In both work and life, I was often comparing and regurgitating, never going to edges or beyond the familiar. Meanwhile, the world was changing drastically. The pandemic had arrived, altering life as we’d always known it. Politics were highly inflammatory, almost hostile. There was civil unrest everywhere and children missing school to protest ecological collapse. Every idea and meaning of future was in question. So were our notions of humanity as social media, virtual reality and artificial intelligence warped our experience of reality. On top of all this, I was pregnant with my second child, my first was turning 3, and I was growing wary and weary of trying to be mother (and woman) so venerated by society, the one who bounces back and out-hustles everyone just to prove its possible to do it all, be it all. I honestly don’t know if it was motherhood or turning 40, or both rites of passage at once, that created such a great tectonic shift in me, that led me to question the trajectory of my career, my relationships, even my core values.

“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”

As Zora Neale Hurston put it. And during these years, the questions only seemed to lead to more questions. Honestly, I felt lost in the woods. I couldn’t tell the forest from the trees, or the sky from the sea.

If the process of transformation is viewed through the lens of the four elements which form life, then I was in the Earth element. The very foundations upon which my identity and perception of the world rested were being shaken. It was destabilizing. As if the ground beneath my feet was sinking. Suddenly I did not feel like I belonged where I was, and in a way, had never truly stepped into my own life.

In 2023, we sold our house. I knew in my bones that it was the right decision, but I had no idea what was next. We’d lived in Stockholm for 13 years and were not interested in buying a bigger, better home in Stockholm – not anymore. We needed a deeper change. A different pace of life. A different set of values by which to orient our days, not only for ourselves but also for our 3 young children. A place and community we could truly belong to.

“It is worse to stay where one does not belong at all than to wander about lost for a while and looking for the psychic and soulful kinship one requires.” – Clarissa Pinkola Estés

People kept asking, Where are you going next? and when we couldn’t answer that question, they’d ask, So what are you looking for then? Which was also tricky. Because to talk about a new home would mean to talk about a new place, which would mean to talk about a potential job change, which would be to talk about a different definition of work, which be to talk about how I was shapeshifting at my core, and how I didn’t have the words to explain any of it yet.

Everything seemed to have ripple effects.

I’d moved into the Water stage of transformation. Water is fluid and adaptive. It keeps moving. It is release.

Until this time, I’d wanted nothing more than to “get back” to who I’d once been. I wanted my old freedom and time back, my warm coffees and long walks when I pleased. To spend my days achieving things that society recognized, applauded. I wanted another chance to fully bask in the power of youth, to enjoy the freedom I had before motherhood. Now I was beginning to realize, there was no going back. I had no choice but to grieve the person I’d been, let her go, in order to move forward and create new dreams.

Finally it felt like I could begin to let things loose, watch them float off, be carried by the currents. It might sound liberating, and it certainly was in a way, but it was also painful. Becoming is also an unbecoming. Each change left me in a state of mourning – so necessary, and yet so difficult too. Grief is not something we have time or patience for in western culture. Nor is transformation – the long, slow process it often is. I felt a constant need to rationalize what I was undergoing, if I spoke about it at all. And a lot of pressure to get through it ASAP.

Then something unexpected happened. I became pregnant with our third child. I vomited throughout the entire pregnancy. Had to get regular IV fluids just to stay hydrated. Heavily pregnant, I would stand in the shower and draw squiggly lines on the steamed-up doors, watch them them drip down into the shower floor. Around my due date, labor would start and stop. The baby would not come out. I would wait and wait, but weeks would pass, and I would have to be induced. Instead of any medication, I opted to have my waters broken. Release.

We named him Rio. The Spanish word for river.

As I learned to flow with Rio baby, I became interested in other ways and patterns of flow. I began to recognize the importance of being in my own creative flow, as well as in my bodily cycles of flow. In trying to honor these cycles for the first time ever, I began to recognize what a rebellious act this was.

In the spirit of flow, I followed rivers. Whenever we visited a new town or went to see a potential new home, it felt crucial to find water. Especially rivers. To this day I still don’t know why. Maybe it was because of Rio, or maybe it was simply a sign to get us where we needed to be. Maybe it was both.

As we rang in the year 2024, we were on the island of Öland, and I kept hearing, Things are coming together this year. I had my doubts though. Big doubts. We’d come to Öland because we were considering buying a plot of land there, building a house, maybe even moving there permanently. But after a week or so on Öland, we both felt a resounding no.

Another no. How many no’s where we going to have to hear before getting that yes we needed?

We were mere weeks away from moving out of house, handing it over to the new owners. And we still had no idea where we were going. We didn’t want to stay in the area, or even in the city at all. We didn’t want our kids to stay in a complex-like school system that was causing my oldest child so much stress that he began to have physical signs of panic. I didn’t want to return to my 9-5 corporate job. It was a constant hustle yet also a tiresome grind. I did my job, came home, went back, day after day, every hour scheduled out in little blocks and served up to me in digital screens and dings, documents and assembly line lunches. I couldn’t imagine any of it, and yet we didn’t know what we were doing or where we were going.

Everything was up in the air. Yet the air was stale and unmoving, impossible to breathe.

The transformative element of Air was now at play. Jessie Harrold describes it as “‘liminal space.’ The space between. The space of no-longer-this-anymore but not-this-yet.” Western society doesn’t train us for times like these. We’re supposed to have a plan, make a decision, keep ourselves busy progressing towards something because movement feels safer than sitting in the discomfort. And oh my god, how uncomfortable it is to be in limbo.

“Busyness is the religion of distraction,” wrote Terry Tempest Williams. “I cannot do what I want, because I am doing what I must. Must I forever walk away from what is real and true and hard?”

At one point, I nearly took the quick bait of rationality and practical planning. The one that said, just give this up. Do what’s normal and expected. Find a nice home in the area, stay at your corporate job to pay for it, and teach your kids to do the same, to toughen up, fit the mold, follow suit.

In February 2024, I wrote in my journal, “Looks like we’ll be signing a year-long rental contract and staying in the burbs. And I’ll stay at my bank job. And the kids will stay in their schools. I feel so disappointed. Sickened really. It all feels so wrong. Why did we even sell our own house and begin this process just to live in someone else’s house, work someone else’s job, follow someone else’s dream?”

I’d opened my mouth wide, ready to gulp down the bait, only to get a whiff of its bitter scent which made me gag. I knew we couldn’t sign that long-term rental contract. My body, my life force, wouldn’t allow it.

As soon as we said no to that rental, we found Home. Our home.

A place that checked off so many of the things we’d been dreaming of. Not a specific floor plan or neighborhood or town. The things on my DREAMS list were more like glimpses of someone I was becoming. They didn’t give any clear details, but they served as guides, or signposts, to watch out for. They could’ve been found almost anywhere, I suppose, and yet we only found them here.

Finally we got a feeling of yes. I recognized the place at once. It took some time for my husband, but I knew very quickly. I had to wait for my husband to know it too.

And still, it took even more time for us to actually get here. Our kids needed to finish their schools years in our old neighborhood, and we needed to find new schools for them. I also had to return my 9-5 job in the spring. We ended up moving into a townhouse for a couple of months. No-longer-there yet not-quite-here. But at least we knew where we were going.

When the school year came to a close, my partner and I spent all of our earned holidays to take a summer break from of work. It was finally time to move for real. Time to load everything we had onto a big truck and travel an hour outside of the city. From a suburban cul-de-sac lined with identical houses to an unpaved road where the sound of traffic was barely detectable, where sheep roamed the loamy paddock and a rooster kept time.

I remember the day we pulled our moving truck onto this unpaved road for the first time. I remember a little girl down the street chasing after us, meeting us in our new driveway. Our next door neighbor too, he came out to welcome us. He asked how we were doing, and I said, Exhausted…. After all the physical labor of packing and loading. All the emotional labor of three young children who were on edge about this enormous change. All the mental labor involved too, the intense planning and details involved in moving. … But excited, I said to him. We were here. It was now time to begin this part of the process. Unloading and unpacking. Even after the boxes had been cleared, we had a lot of work to do to get settled in. The previous owners had been fighting a losing battle with cancer and were therefore unable to maintain the property well. But they’d set so many things in motion, there was so much potential.

Our kids spent the summer exploring and getting to know the kids in our neighborhood. We worked day and night learning how to take care of this land and all the plants and animals we share it with. I learned from Spiders. And the Sheep. And Geese. Rio and I went out for a long walks, often following rivers, and as he slept peacefully breathing on my chest, I began to breathe with other creatures here. Wild ones. I began to track wild animals, which brought me into such a deep connection with this place, and with own wild self too.

In August, it was time for me to go back to work and for the kids to start their new schools. The latter went better than I could’ve ever imagined. From almost day one, it’s as if they fit right in, as if their places had been waiting for them. Axel’s had zero sign of panic or stress like at his previous school in the city. His love of learning has come roaring back and is bigger than ever. Bastian and Rio are so happy and secure at their new preschool too.

Things were coming together after all. Slowly but surely.

As for my job, I made the decision to resign in late August. After finally overcoming my resistance and submitting my resignation, I still had a long 5-month notice period to fulfill, which meant daily commutes back into the city. It wasn’t too bad, but I did feel in limbo. That no-longer-this-anymore but not-this-yet feeling hung thickly in the air. I was yearning for different ideas and ways of working. I was getting clear on what sort of work I’m here to do at all. As I sat on trains to and from the city, I created a vision board of what the next phase might look like for me.

Meanwhile, we broke ground on our studio. The builders worked during the fall and early winter. Two days before Christmas, they finished up on the studio, and we were finally able to move in. Such a dream come true.

On the very last day of 2024, I finished up at my job, turned in all of my stuff, said goodbye to my team, which was very sad. But by this time, I’d already begun a new project and with totally new team. I was 100% ready for whatever the future held.

2024 brought an end to so many things, and in each ending, there were already threads of new beginnings. Within all the answers it finally brought were the seeds of new questions.

Where do things actually end or begin? I do not know.

How did this process of transformation begin for me when I certainly didn’t choose it, and how will it end?

For several years it felt so overwhelming. It was scary. Confusing. Exhausting.

But not anymore.

I enter this year, 2025, with nothing but curiosity and a feeling of potential. I want this to be the year I re-commit to who I am and why I came here. To my soul’s unique journey in this life.

There’s no fear anymore. There is reverence, yes. A great deal of reverence, in fact. But no more fear or doubt or grief. Just pure excitement and curiosity. My vision board is filled with possibility.

I’ve been shaped by Earth, Water and Air. Now I’m going into Fire. I’m entering the kiln.

This is when the magic happens. Like when you apply heat to a pot of soup. As it cooks, all the disparate ingredients of earthly matter and water are transformed into something new. Letting them simmer on the fire uncovered allows steam to rise in the air, causing water to evaporate and the flavors to intensify. Eventually the elements become one unique, whole form. Something that richly nourishes bodies, deeply nourishes souls.

2025 is the year I’m committing to myself – to the mystery – to that magic.

I’ve been drawn by sunrises and sunsets like never before. Even on the darkest winter nights, the twinkling stars call me out. I’ve walked barefoot through snow just to stand under those glittery specks, those guiding lights which have sparked stories and dreams for aeons.

I’ve sought the liquid burn of frozen waters. I’ve gathered with neighbors around the fire pit and have drawn up plans for a fire pit of our very own. A hearth to return to in good times and bad.

Fire seems like the last stage of transformation, but is it really? I know enough now to know that, just like all cycles and seasons, it’s ongoing. An unbroken circle. Each element contains traces of the others, and is highly dependent on all to thrive. Sometimes, particularly during times of upheaval or transformation, one element might become more influential to us for a time. But in any given moment, we’re being shaped by them all.

“If we go back, says Joshua Schrei in his podcast, “back a thousand generations, and then a thousand more. Five thousand more. And five thousand more still. Back into the very origins of what it means to be human. There, in that nascent womb of the past, there in that cave, a fire is burning. A spark is lit. A coal, an ember, smolders. Here… at the very beginning, is a fire.”

Maybe this final stage of transformation is only the portal of another beginning. Maybe nothing is ever final at all.

I was going to say I wouldn’t wish this process on anymore. But actually, I do. I wish it for you. For everyone.

Tell me, Do you believe in magic?

Are you somewhere in the cycle of transformation, and if so, how does it feel to be there, where you are?

“Tell me, what is it you’re doing with your one wild and precious life?” – Mary Oliver

xx

Beth