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I am a quiet person. Introverted, some would say. Not shy or lacking in confidence, just a little reserved. I find talking exhausting and often fumble for things to say under pressure. For a long time, I felt there was something wrong with me, until I moved to Sweden. The first day, we didn’t really notice, not really. Excitement was propelling us. We took the metro to our new flat in the suburbs, laughing and shrieking as our bags escaped us and we fell over, repeatedly, each time the train stopped. We squealed and whooped our way through the forest, eager to get to the hidden beach we’d found, hardly believing our luck as we spotted the carpet of lingon and blueberry bushes on the forest bed. Several steep hills soon stunned us into silence, and as we reached the top, we’d exclaim with raspy breaths, it’s so quiet! We sat by the water and watched a few boats gently pass, the hazy blue sky feeling soft and calm above us, the pine trees lining the horizon, and we’d whisper to each other, it’s so quiet. We walked along the water’s edge, peering into the colourful wooden houses, noting the idyllic locations of the public stone fire pits, thrilled by the thought of real fire-grilled feasts and peaceful Stockholm sunsets and our new, quiet life. At night, for a while, though, it was too quiet. The bustle of the London pub we used to live above had become a comfort, as had the sound of sirens and traffic and singing drunks. My boyfriend would squirm, tortured by the lack of noise, fretting over his continued sleeplessness whilst I tried to disguise the bliss I felt in the thick, sweetness of silence. We’d go running, trying to embrace the serenity of our new surroundings, take boat trips into the depths of the archipelago and swim in its crisp, cool waters. We learnt that this is what people do in Stockholm, and we wanted to do the same. As the seasons changed, and we drifted into greyness of early winter, the city seemed to retreat. People disappeared, and the quiet city we were just getting used to got even quieter. The greyness stayed for three solid months, weighing heavier each day, sapping the energy from our bones. I’d take myself for walks still, knowing that this was good for me, but return home tired and deflated. I’d go to work, trying desperately to summon the enthusiasm required of a waitress and falling flat, reawakening old anxieties of being unable to speak that were aggravated by the language barrier I had to hurdle with each guest. I sat with my colleagues one day, having Fika in silence. The quiet upset me. It was dark outside, and wet and cold, but we had to be there, and no-one was trying! They were just sat there, sipping coffee and staring into nothing. “Is everyone alright?!” I popped. A small pop, but a pop all the same. A round of sighs and “Ja tacks” limped from their lips. “I’m just so tired this time of year,” Mia said rolling her eyes. “Me too,” “And me. Ugh, I can’t wait for the snow”. “How do you deal with it?” I asked. “Do less. Take vitamins,” they all seemed to agree. That was it. Simple. The quiet suddenly made sense. These seasons are tough and like it or not, they affect you in ways you cannot avoid. You have to conserve your energy and keep it on a level that allows you to push through the tougher times. Maybe it’s obvious, maybe I should’ve realised this long ago. If only I’d known. I’m now proud of my quietness and live wholly inside of it. It gives me stamina and power I didn’t realise I had. I’ve not gone too far from home to change the way that I think, I wonder what a few more quiet steps might do?