Reflection 5
The Lives We Choose
For years, Norway existed in a separate category in my mind.
It belonged to "someday."
Someday, when the PhD was over.
Someday, when life was less complicated.
Someday, when there was more time.
Whenever the longing became too painful, I reminded myself that I still had years left. Norway was not an option right now. There was no decision to make. There was only the work in front of me.
And strangely, that brought comfort.
Because as long as the dream belonged to the future, I did not have to confront what it would cost.
But now there is only one year left.
And suddenly, the questions no longer feel theoretical.
They feel real.
This realization has caught me off guard.
Not because I stopped loving Norway.
Not because I ever stopped imagining a life there.
But because for the first time since leaving, I can actually picture what comes next.
I can see myself applying for jobs.
I can see myself speaking Norwegian every day.
I can see myself building a career in a country whose values align so deeply with my own.
And somehow, that possibility feels both beautiful and unbearable.
People often ask why I came back to the United States if Norway meant so much to me.
The truth is simple.
Coming back was the right decision.
When my dad's accident happened, everything changed. Being closer to family stopped being a preference and became a necessity.
And even before that, during my master's program, I realized that I needed something different from my next stage of training. I needed formal coursework. I wanted to strengthen my methods. I wanted to become the researcher I knew I could be.
I knew I wanted a PhD.
And I knew I wanted that PhD to be in the United States.
I just did not expect to leave Norway so soon.
I thought I had more time.
And perhaps that is what I am grieving most.
Not that I left.
But that I was not ready to.
Now, standing so close to the end of this chapter, I feel pulled in two directions.
Because leaving the United States would not simply mean moving countries.
It would mean accepting that visits with my parents would become fewer and farther apart. It would mean knowing that a year, or perhaps even longer, could pass between seeing them in person.
It would mean accepting that time with my dad is precious and finite, and wondering how many healthy years we still have together.
It would mean being an ocean away when I have already learned how quickly life can change.
Before my dad's accident, distance felt manageable. Now I understand how quickly a phone call can change everything.
It would mean distance from people who have known me my entire life.
It would mean leaving one kind of home in order to return to another.
And there are other loves involved too.
The people who matter most to me do not necessarily experience this place the way I do. Their histories are different. Their roots run through different soil. Their definitions of home are not the same as mine.
And I understand that.
Love has taught me that our dreams are never entirely our own. They become intertwined with the dreams of those we choose to build our lives alongside.
Which is what makes this ache so complicated.
Because I cannot imagine my life without the people I love.
But I also cannot imagine never returning to the place that changed me.
And the truth is, I do not know what comes next.
I know I will apply for jobs in the United States.
I know I will apply for jobs in Norway.
I know I will follow opportunities wherever they lead.
Part of my uncertainty comes from the reality of the work itself. The landscape I expected when I began my PhD no longer exists in the same way. Funding has disappeared. Organizations I once imagined working for have downsized, merged, or vanished entirely. Areas of research I care deeply about have become increasingly politicized.
Sometimes I worry that I will spend years training for work that no longer has a place.
And perhaps that is another reason Norway feels so compelling.
Not because life there would be easy.
Not because every problem would disappear.
But because I can imagine doing work I believe in without constantly feeling like I have to defend its value. I can imagine contributing to something larger than myself without feeling like I am sacrificing pieces of who I am in order to survive.
But dreams and realities are not always the same.
Immigration is complicated.
It depends on visas, paperwork, finances, timing, and luck.
It depends on whether another country decides there is room for you.
And perhaps most importantly, it depends on the people whose lives are intertwined with mine.
Because I no longer make decisions only for myself.
My future belongs partly to the people I love, just as theirs belongs partly to me.
Maybe that uncertainty is what scares me most.
Not knowing whether returning is impossible.
But knowing it is possible enough to hope.
Perhaps this is simply what adulthood is.
Realizing that life is rarely about choosing between good and bad.
Sometimes we are choosing between two beautiful lives.
And understanding that every beautiful choice comes with loss.
I used to think home was a destination.
Now I wonder if home is simply the collection of people and places we cannot bear to lose.
And perhaps that is why my heart feels stretched across an ocean.
Because pieces of it truly are.