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In my mid-20s, I made a decision that might have baffled my Finnish grandparents: I left Canada for Finland. They had done the opposite. Seventy years earlier, both left post-war Finland by boat for better economic opportunities in Canada. They met in Montreal where they started a new life — and a family of nine children. Born and raised in Montreal myself, I heard stories about Finland from my grandmother, often translated by my mum or aunts when she slipped into Finnish mid-sentence. The country felt like a distant, almost mythical place. In 2017, my sister Liisa and I finally travelled there on what we called our “heritage tour” — which coincided with Finland’s 100th year of independence and at Juhannus, a major Finnish holiday celebrating midsummer. We met relatives for the first time, visited our grandmother’s hometown and matched her stories to actual places: the farm where she grew up, the lake nearby and the path she walked to school. Our grandparents had died years before, but we imagine they’d have been happy we travelled to their homeland and felt the midsummer magic. Moving to Finland A year later, living in Toronto but craving change, I made the decision to move to Finland to experience living in a new country while exploring my roots. I got a residence permit, secured a job and told myself I’d stay for at least a year. Seven years later, at 33, I’m still here — and my idea of home hasn’t been the same since. I’d always thought of Montreal as my one and true home: the place I’d go back to eventually, where my “real life” waited. In those first months after moving, I questioned everything, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. But somewhere along the way, I reached a point of no return: Helsinki began to feel like home, too. I’ve lived here long enough to see the city and its people evolve: friends have moved, changed jobs, finished PhDs and had babies. I’ve seen cafés close and new wine bars open. I started a business, got married and adopted a dog. Both cities fit me, but differently. Walking the streets of Montreal’s Notre-Dame-de-Grâce neighbourhood feels like pulling on a soft, worn-in sweatshirt. When I first moved to Helsinki, exploring the city felt like slipping on a new outfit that gave me a confidence boost. There’s a freedom in anonymity: nobody knows the past versions of me or makes assumptions about who I am. That blank slate gave me the courage to say yes more, try new things and figure myself out. Of course, that anonymity doesn’t last forever, but I still feel a sense of “newness” in Helsinki — something that comes with pros and cons. Like many immigrants, I’m often reminded that I’m not from here. Sometimes it’s a missed cultural reference, a neighbour’s comment I don’t quite catch or just the guilt of taking up space as a non-Finnish speaker (I’m trying to learn, but it’s a journey). Reflections on immigration Growing up in Montreal, an incredibly diverse city, I never fully understood the challenges of integration until I became an immigrant myself. At the same time, I recognize I’m navigating this experience from a place of privilege: as a white woman with Finnish roots, I can often blend in — at least until I start speaking. My challenges don’t compare to those of newcomers who face racism, microaggressions and bigger barriers to belonging. The discomfort of living in a foreign country has sped up my personal development. I learned I can do hard things, such as deal with bureaucracy in a foreign language, survive a weekend with just 20 euros (that’s another story) and make friends as an adult. I'm not sure whether I'd push myself out of my comfort zone as much in my home city. Living nearly a decade in Helsinki has complicated my idea of home and belonging. Montreal will always be home: it’s where I was born and raised, and where most of my family and friends still live. It’s hard missing big and small moments, like a Thanksgiving walk to Mount Royal cemetery (our family tradition) or a last-minute dinner with friends. But Helsinki, where I became more independent and comfortable in my own skin, has become home, too. I often wonder how my experience of moving to Finland mirrors what my grandparents went through, though under very different circumstances. I imagine we felt some of the same things, like those moments of doubt and the newfound confidence that comes with starting over. It’s given me a deeper appreciation for what they built and more empathy for anyone building their lives in a new place. I came to Finland to explore my roots, but I ended up planting new ones. I’ve become a hybrid — not fully belonging to either place, but partly to both. It feels heavy sometimes but also expansive. I’m still learning how to hold onto both worlds and embrace the messy, wonderful reality of calling two places home. more info on how to pitch to us
