That friendly feeling

Platonic love, Scandinavia, rethinking time

Last month, I traveled to Sweden to attend the wedding of one of my closest friends. I met M in grad school 15 years ago and we quickly adopted each other. For three years, I practically lived at her place, sleeping on her couch, eating her cooking and drinking her coffee. Sometimes she felt more like a parent to me than a friend. Two years ago, she became a parent for real, birthing a daughter with her now-husband.

I was so happy for her, my dear M, and so looking forward to the trip, even though I didn’t expect to get much quality time with her. The wedding itself, which counted nearly 100 guests, was of course a write-off (a very fun one!). My partner and I had planned to spend the following 5 days in Stockholm, where she lived. Still, M not only had a job and a kid now but in fact 3 kids: her daughter plus two “bonus” sons from her husband’s previous marriage, who stayed with them every other week.

I expected her to be occupied with her new family, or to see her only with her toddler, which could be enjoyable or chaotic, but either way, not exactly what I’d count as “quality time.” And that was fine. She was a mom now. I’d take any time I could get.

I was delighted to be wrong. We spent nearly every moment of those 5 days in Stockholm together, days brimming with adults-only lunches and coffee dates and long, luxurious dinners. We hiked and ambled through parks and played mini-golf. We lounged in the sun and talked and talked.

All this was only possible because both she and her husband had taken the week off work: her to spend time with us, and him to watch their kids so she could spend time with us. And both of those things were largely possible because they lived in Sweden, where everyone had at least 5 weeks of PTO and generous paid parental leave: 480 days or roughly 1.5 years that parents can split between them as they like. Though their daughter was nearly two, this policy made it possible for M to still only work 3 days a week and her husband 2 days a week.

I’d known vaguely about this system but it hadn’t seemed relevant to me: I did not want kids and never had. But seeing these policies in action reminded me how many friends I’d basically lost when they became parents, and what a tragedy that was, and how it didn’t have to be that way. The parents of young children in America seem forever frazzled, dark circles ringing their eyes. Cries for attention from their child ring out every few minutes, and we never get into that precious territory of long, deep conversation. Sometimes I get on my knees and crawl around with their offspring. But I remain greedy for my friends’ attention: it doesn’t have to be undivided, but I want it at least halfway trained on me. And that’s hard in a place where both parents have to work long hours to afford to raise kids, and where childcare is also so pricey.

Maybe I’d find these friends again when their kids were a bit older, but for now, we seemed to be living in different countries.

Of course, I also deserve some of the blame. I’ve always been a workaholic, fuelled by monomania. And I’m lucky that I find my work deeply satisfying. But the longer I live in America—without stable healthcare, without good public transport, in a fire-at-will state—the more precarious my life feels no matter how much is in my bank account, and the more I prioritize work. I am less social than I used to be, and for the past few years, I think I’ve unconsciously convinced myself that I don’t really need friends—that my dog and partner and the relationships I have with the characters in my writing and reading are enough, because they have to be enough: I don’t have time for other people and they don’t have time for me. Not in this country.

What an ugly lie I’ve spun for myself. I hate to sound like an Eat Pray Love—type who’s found enlightenment on her travels, but I really do feel if not transformed than at least deeply affected by this trip. The weeks in Scandinavia have shown me how deeply I long for community, for unhurried time in the presence of friends. Time when we are all truly present instead of already rushing in our heads to the next thing. Time that is valued as much as the time a parent spends with a child. Time that feels crucial to who we are and how we want to live.

Some of this comes down to individual choice. But most of it is determined by the society we live in and the system we’ve built.

Sweden’s income tax rate is above 30%; those earning above ~$720,000 pay 50%. The incentive to work endlessly and horde your money is weaker if you know you’re going to be giving half of it away in taxes. M works for an international organization but her husband works for a Swedish company, and like half of all Swedish employees, he’s a union member. He has as much job security as anyone can. And of course everyone in the region has good public healthcare, unemployment and old age benefits, and housing subsidies. All of this makes it a lot easier to prioritize hobbies and relationships of all varieties in ways that seem if not impossible than at least very risky here in America.

My first visit to Sweden with M, 12 years ago.

For my book, I’ve been researching the various strategies that empires of the 20th century employed to divide and conquer their colonies. It’s a long and terrible list, ranging from encouraging caste discrimination and homophobia to exacerbating tensions between different religious, ethnic and tribal groups. If you’re busy hating or competing with each other, you can’t unite against your common oppressor.

“I don’t know why Americans aren’t in the streets demanding their rights,” M said at one point. Maybe this is one reason why: we’re too busy racing ahead of each other, trapped in scarcity thinking even though, as Scandinavia shows us, there is more than enough for everyone. In 2024, GDP per capita in Sweden was only $57,723, while America’s was $85,810.¹ The average American earns more than the average Swede; yet, we are far less happy.²

I know the region isn’t perfect: I found even Stockholm to be pretty homogeneously white, and Scandinavians contribute nearly as much to global warming as Americans.³ Like here, the far right is on the rise there, too.⁴ Yet I can’t help wonder what type of person I would be and what type of relationships would be possible for me if I lived there.

Imagine the stores of energy that would open up if you and your kids could bike or take public transit instead of spending hours cooped up in a car. If you could simply go to a doctor when you were ill instead of worrying about the financial fallout, if housing was subsidized even if you weren’t low income. Imagine the mental space that would clear, like a fog lifting from the ocean, if your tax dollars were spent on serving you and your neighbors instead of supporting mass killing abroad and detaining immigrants at home. Imagine how much more loyal and patient and thoughtful of a friend you’d be. Imagine all the conversations you could have, the dimensions of personhood you could inhabit, the intimacies you could share with lovers and friends.

I can’t imagine it, actually. It seems so far-flung, so surreal.

The fact that I was able to skip off to Sweden for two weeks places me among America’s privileged. And even in that position, I still sometimes feel like a shell of a person, a mere exoskeleton, my flesh consumed by work, by arguing with insurance, by applying for discounts and subsidies and grants and anything, really, to buy myself some semblance of security. What if this contract falls through, what if I have a costly flare of some ongoing health issues, what if my book doesn’t sell well, what if I don’t get that grant, what if what if what if…

It’s hard to be a good friend when your mind is so singularly trained on survival. But what’s the point in surviving without friends who light up your insides, who remind you there’s more to life that just surviving it? Activists like Mariame Kaba have been reminding us for years that survival is a collective endeavor. It’s a lesson I’m still waking up to. Or maybe I knew I can’t win survival alone. What’s new is realizing that I don’t want to.

For now, I will go call a friend. I will tell them I’m thinking of them. And I’ll ask if they can talk, really talk, as if time had neither meaning nor end.

1. https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/NY.GDP.PCAP.CD?locations=SE-US

2. https://data.worldhappiness.report/table

3. https://www.aljazeera.com/opinions/2019/12/6/the-dark-side-of-the-nordic-model

4. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2025/mar/30/violent-far-right-groups-sweden-recruit-boys-trump-musk-manosphere