ThereseChristensen

Almindingen Forest is the fifth-largest forest in Denmark.
Helligdagen Klippe

Before I even knew the titles of the movies my mom used to watch on our small-screen TV, I was already hooked by the beauty of leaves falling and the lead lady wrapped in her trench coat with heeled boots. At 12, I thought, it must be magical to live in a place where you can experience the four seasons. Wearing boots with a scarf around your neck looked so chic.

So when I imagined an adult Therese in the secret places of my mind, I saw myself walking the streets of London—foggy, wet London—just like how Elizabeth Wakefield nervously walked because there was a werewolf on the loose. My frame of reference for what the world outside looked like was based on the books I hoarded in high school. I would skip lunch just to rent books.

I let the words of authors sweep me away to places I couldn’t afford to see. I felt the Highlands through words. I saw castles, their turrets, and beautiful arches through another person’s eyes. I fell in love with the green leaves slowly turning yellow, then brown, before finally falling—a promise of reprieve through the flat, Times New Roman font. It was the cheapest way to travel, and it was beautiful.

Fast forward 20 years. Autumn is still beautiful. It is still my favorite season. But now, it’s more than just the colors changing. To me, autumn is the season of reassessment, of allowing yourself to rest and truly ask what it is you want in life. The colors change, but the core remains.

As we walked through the woods, Frederik asked me if trees die when their leaves fall. I told him no. The falling leaves allow the trees to conserve their energy, to nourish what truly matters—their core—so they can survive winter and bloom again in spring.

And as I trudge my way through autumn, I’m letting my own leaves fall—the expectations of what could have been, the weight of what must be done, the battles I’ve fought, and the feeling of failure after trying so hard. I am letting it all go. Feeding my core first. Embracing the transition. Welcoming the possible, scary emptiness of winter and the quiet hope that spring promises when it finally comes.

***

Racing You

When everything around you is moving fast, slow down. There will be days when you feel the need to win the race.

I remember when you were four years old and winning was everything. During one of your rhythmic classes, there was an exercise where you had to hop from start to finish. But hopping wasn’t fast enough. The rule slowed you down, and you weren’t the fastest. So, for a split second, you looked around—and instead of following the rule, you broke out and ran.

Of course, you finished first. You were overjoyed, jumping up and down with excitement. The other parents and kids weren’t as happy, but you didn’t care. You had won. Your dad leaned over and whispered to me, “Babe, F only understands how to win. He thinks it’s a race.” I smiled and agreed.

But in that moment, I noticed two things I want you to remember—just in case you forget when you’re all grown-up, caught up in the important ‘grown-up’ stuff.

First: Don’t be afraid to break away from the pack when you see the direction isn’t where you want to go.

I hope that, by now, we have guided you well enough to discern your values, morals, and principles. There will be times when staying with the group feels safe. I won’t argue with that—it’s natural to seek comfort in your clique. But safety isn’t always the same as rightness. Sometimes, stepping away is necessary.

Second: Don’t let the world define your success.

Everyone around you will be chasing the next big thing—the latest, the greatest, the best. But don’t measure your worth by society’s version of greatness. Success comes in many forms. There is no single definition of it. I want you to define success for yourself. I want you to be the best you.

The struggle will be hard. So when it feels overwhelming, remember what your dad once told me, when I was learning how to stop conforming to the ways of the world:

“Give zero f*cks to those who don’t know you and your struggle.”

***

I have met so many people in the last ten years I have been in this cold Nordic country. Some described me as the silent but fierce type but would quickly add never to underestimate my meekness because I bite. I guess that was the hardest part for me when I decided to move away from the capital. How do I come to terms with the expectations I placed on myself from our decision?

Copenhagen is beautiful, but Bornholm is therapeutic and mystical.

There was a push and pull within me that only my closest friends could understand. It was as if moving meant giving up the fight. The fight was fought in several different areas. First, the advocacy work for women and their children, to which I gave the same amount of fervor as being a mother. Then, the struggle to prove that my existence in this country should not be mediocrity, so I gave back to the point of exhaustion. Another thing that I was personally advocating for was breaking the stereotypes placed on Southeast Asian women, to have their stories heard on their own terms, so their truths would not be twisted. Lastly, but burning fiercely like the rest, is migrant representation—or at least a fighting chance for migrants to get into the Danish labor market with assessment based on capacity and not on one’s ethnicity. In my head—my little bubble, if you must—if we can create another way to lift the Filipina identity, we might be able to pave the way for the rest so that they are allowed to be more. I am and will always be firm in my stand that service jobs, cleaning jobs, are never to be frowned upon; these are all respectable jobs. I had been in one before. But this also should not be the be-all and end-all—a prison for those who dare to dream a little bit more.

Before we left the capital, I carried the façade that everything was good and great. But the truth was, I was scared. I had worked with women and isolation, and I was trying to cover all the bases so I was prepared for anything and everything. My husband, with his pure heart and his kind soul, told me, “Babe, take this move as a healing process for you—it is, after all, an adventure.” I smiled and hugged him. He might have taken my actions as an agreement, but in my head, I was preparing for a battle. So I gathered all the intel I needed, created a plan, got counseled by those whose opinions mattered—closest friends and fellow feminists. It was my way to console myself, to ask for forgiveness because it felt like I was giving up. One of them suggested that I watch Brené Brown’s talk on vulnerability to get a shift in my perspective.

It was greatly appreciated.

Brown said in her TEDx presentation that, “Vulnerability is the birthplace of innovation, creativity, and change.”

I’m 33 years old. I want plans. I want timelines. I hate vulnerability because, to me, it equates to bad planning and weakness. Uncertainties for me meant sleepless nights, worrying, and weighing my worth, and to strategically place myself in that position sounded crazy.

But Brown was right: “One can choose courage or one can choose comfort, but one can’t have both. Not at the same time.”

In my world, my comfort was in my position, in my work, in my area of so-called expertise because I went through hell to be where I was. But I tried to shake myself a bit, trying to remember a conversation with a fellow colleague-friend whom I lost touch with after some time. It was after a dreadful afternoon filled with case after case, where we discussed how we could keep going and helping those women in vulnerable situations. She said the fight must not stop, and I agreed because I knew that we cannot shake off injustice when we see it every day in all the years of work. But I also told her then that my only hope—a prayer, if you must—was that I would be granted the grace to leave when the time came that I could see myself slipping. If there were someone more passionate to fight for the cause, I would step aside and give what little space I had so that person could ignite a wider fire.

This is where I detest admitting that I might be reaching the point where I need to take a breather. The fire is still there, but my body is revolting against me, and although the passion remains, doors are temporarily closed. Sometimes life gives you these moments when you need to see these turning points as an aid. The stop isn’t really a stop but a respite to something better.

Think. Innovate. Create.

I’ll be on the island. I’ll take all the time that I need. But I am not stopping my advocacy. I am just going back to my core.

***