What I Hope You'll Feel When You Read "Friluftsliv: How to love the outdoors like you're Nordic"

Since you already know that Friluftsliv: How to love the outdoors like you're Nordic is coming into the world, I thought I might share not just what it is, but what I hope it feels like when you open its pages.

When I was writing, I often pictured someone—maybe you—taking a quiet moment in the day, setting the book in your lap, and exhaling in relief. My deepest wish is that it feels like a pause. A soft breath of peace. A reminder that joy is not something we must chase endlessly, but something that lives in small, ordinary moments: the crunch of leaves, the scent of earth after rain, the slow turning of seasons.

The Heart of the Book

What I hope you’ll take away from this book is not an endless list of things to do or even a definition of friluftsliv. I hope instead you feel gently encouraged to find your own way of reconnecting—with nature, yes, but also with yourself. Whether it’s stepping out under a wide sky in the evening, noticing the light across a wall, or the touch of tree bark as you pass, I want this book to be a companion to your own quiet discoveries.

How Writing Changed Me

I must confess, writing it was not always graceful (I'd love to say it was!). There were many mornings when the words arrived with ease, as though they had been waiting for me all along. But there were other days, harder days, when I wondered if I had anything worth saying at all.

One afternoon, lost in that doubt, I put down my pen and wandered outside. The air was cool, damp with the kind of drizzly Norwegian rain that leaves everything shining. I wandered across the road and into the forest without a plan, letting the drizzle soak my shoulders, and somewhere in that stillness I understood: friluftsliv isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. If I could simply show up on the page as I did in that rain—open, honest, imperfect—then perhaps the book could do its work.

That moment shifted something in me. The doubt softened into gratitude. Gratitude for the rain, for the pause, for the chance to keep writing even when I wasn’t sure. In the end, those wobbly steps were as much a part of the journey as the clear, flowing ones.

My Quiet Hope

And now, as I imagine you holding this book, my hope is that you’ll feel that same sense of ease and welcome. I hope it will remind you that you don’t need to be far away in a mountain cabin in the wilds of Finland or Norway to experience friluftsliv—sometimes it’s enough to notice the clouds moving, to step barefoot onto the grass, or to linger with a cup of tea by an open window. It can be simple and small.

Perhaps you’ll choose to read it curled up in a blanket, or maybe you’ll carry it with you outdoors. However it finds its place in your life, I hope it becomes less of a book about friluftsliv and more of an invitation to live it, in whatever way feels natural for you.

So here’s my little wish for you: that as you turn these pages, you find space to breathe, to notice, to belong. Maybe you’ll even read it with your feet in the grass or dangling over a stream.

Hilsen fra,

Fiona

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