On the morning of the first day, after we had all finally managed to find each other, Joakim asked:

“Why are you here? What do you want to learn?”

People gave all sorts of answers. I won’t repeat them here. As for me, I said I had come to Stockholm to play again.

And that’s how it started.

For the next two days, I walked, walked, walked. I shot, shot, shot.

On Saturday evening, I edited photos for the following morning’s critique session. The Joakim way, using Snapseed, of course. A couple of the images were even taken on my phone.

These photos didn’t turn into Möllers, but they became some pretty decent Nanis.

Because that’s the thing: when you try to be someone else, to see through another person’s eyes, you also end up distancing yourself from your own best work.

But when you dare to step outside your comfort zone, your comfort zone expands. I have a distinctive style of my own, one that I love. I have no desire to photograph like Möller, but I’m happy to learn from his process.

Joakim Möller’s workshop was one of the most intense experiences of my life.

By the final exercises on Sunday, my creative muscle was so exhausted that I kept drifting back to photographing in my own style. Thankfully, before that happened, I had time to play.

We ended the weekend at Fotografiska, visiting Joakim’s exhibition. After the tour, we sat down in the restaurant upstairs.

“Do you ever find it amusing that people visiting the exhibition may have absolutely no idea how these images were made?”

“I do.”

More Snapseed in your life, friends.

More play.

Along with May arrives an ache for photography. I want to commemorate all the greens, this here and another hue there, but I blink and we’re in a desaturated August, where everything looks the same.

Along with May arrives the urge to create. The summer ahead feels like a year, but when I try to fit in a one-day road trip with a friend, I fail. Before I notice, the days begin to shorten, making room for brisk mornings that make you dream of autumn foliage.

The arriving summer reminds me of the fragility of a creative life. You’re never ready, never doing enough, never quite able to lose yourself in your craft. At least not in your forties, with a five-year-old, a dog, and a business that would suck you dry if you’d let it.

That’s why I’m always late to the party. Always fixing my dress and crown, making myself more presentable. But what I forget, more often than not, is that the party won’t wait. It won’t notice my absence. Won’t text to see what’s taking so long. The greens will green with or without me.

Along with May arrives the urge to grab the camera, the notebook, and my thoughts by their horns, but rarely do I. But this much I know: if I manage it, just once–when the cottongrass blooms, or when the evening is perfect for reading and writing out on the terrace, I feel like I made it on time. Crown a bit crooked, mind tired of the day’s work, but soul on goosebumps.

All images taken with Fuji XT-3 & Fujinon XF 33mm f/1.4

About In the Margin →

A series of small observations, quiet fragments, and things I notice on the edges of my days, in the margin. Being a creative is a full‑time thought, and these are some of the notes that spill over.

I sold my expensive city bike a year ago. For the first time in decades, I was without a bicycle. I felt oddly lost.

Growing up in Helsinki, riding was simply a way to get from one place to another. It was rarely about sport and never really a hobby. The bike itself hardly mattered. I had a mountain bike, a granny bike, and my mother’s old Crescent that once carried me along the red trails of Åland.

It was a pale 24” Solifer, though, that truly drew me in. It took me on long summer rides around Helsinki with my mom. It was our thing. Sometimes the summer wind carried us, sometimes it pushed back. She was a fierce rider, nearly always faster than me. Every now and then she would call out from the top of a hill: come on, come on — there’s a wonderful downhill coming next. And there was.

As a teenager, riding took on a new tone when I started commuting from the suburbs to high school in the city center. Distances in the capital were short, and the six‑kilometer ride barely registered. With the bottomless energy of youth, I stopped by the gym on my way and arrived at school starving. Later, as a university student, riding was also a way to save money. Why buy expensive bus tickets, when you could just ride your bike?

When I turned thirty, I pampered myself with an expensive city bike. The manufacturer’s flagship model was beautiful to look at and light to pedal, but we never truly clicked. On Helsinki’s smooth streets it had made sense, but in my current neighborhood, in the middle of forest paths and gravel roads, it had little use.

I was stuck halfway up a hill when I decided to sell it. My then four‑year‑old, deeply in love with riding, shouted from the top: come on, come on — there’s a wonderful downhill coming next. And there was. But my asphalt racer couldn’t handle a slope covered in pine needles. It spun in place, as if longing for hard pavement.

The bike quickly found a new home and moved back to Helsinki. I welcomed a new ride too: a hard‑tail mountain bike that wouldn’t leave me halfway up the slope. For a moment it seemed I had no choice but to turn riding into a hobby. Living in a municipality crossed by one of Finland’s most popular cycling routes, it felt inevitable.

All last summer, I tried to ride with a new mindset. If I wanted to ride, I had to go for rides. And though I enjoyed the trails, rocks, asphalt, gravel, mud, sludge, and even the roots, something was missing. The bike carried me out from home and back again, but the trails never sparked anything in me.

I missed the adventure. The ability to stop.

To mark the spring, I reworked the bike. Before, it felt built to keep me moving. This time, it invited me to stay.

On the very first test ride, I felt like a Helsinkian again. The adventures may not smell of bustling city life, but could this be the season when I end up in places meant for reading a book, eating a sweet bun, or taking a dip in the lake?

Maybe.

So I keep going. There’s a wonderful downhill coming next.

Vau.

Sillä voisi jo pyhittää päivän viikosta kirjoittamiselle.

Kun liityin Substackiin muutama vuosi sitten, olin vakuuttunut siitä, että kirjeeni tulisi olemaan money making machine.

Ajatukseni oli tutkia ilmiöitä omaelämäkerrallisten tekstien kautta. Haaveilin kirjoittavani turistipaidoista, työmatkoista ruuhkabusseissa ja hyvästeistä luottokorttiveloille.

Herkullisia aiheita. Ehkä vielä joskus kirjoitankin niistä. (Mutta rahaa ne eivät tuo.)

Kun viritin Stripen, sain hyvin nopeasti 15 maksavaa tilaajaa. Kukaan ei tainnut kuitenkaan sitoutua ruuhkabussien vuoksi. Useimmat hyppäsivät mukaan Substack-ryhmääni, mutta kyllä pari on matkassa muuten vain.2

Silloin muutama vuosi sitten Substack oli erilainen. Täällä oli vähemmän ihmisiä ja vähemmän turhaa älämölöä.

Toisaalta tämä nykyinen ihmispaljous on hyvä asia, sillä potentiaalisia tilaajia on enemmän. Mutta kyllä se tarkoittaa myös sitä, ettei kukaan kuule tai näe juuri minua, vaikka kiljuisin naama punaisena.

Ärsyttävää. Enkö nyt voisi vain olla ja kirjoittaa?

Todennäköisesti minulla on kuitenkin paremmat mahdollisuudet tehdä ensimmäinen miljoonani kirjoittaen ruuhkabusseista englanniksi kuin hänellä, joka kirjoittaa mistä tahansa muusta jollain toisella kielellä.

Substackissa kieli on menestyksen mitta kahdellakin tapaa.

1. Englanti on ehdoton ykkönen

2. Muunkin kieliset julkaisut saavat ansaitsemaansa huomiota, kunhan teksti itsessään on tasokas

Mutta jos unohdetaan kieli ja keskitytään menestykseen, kyllä tonnin jos toisenkin voi napata Substackista. On vain todennäköisempää, että ihminen maksaa minulle mieluummin jostain muusta kuin (ruuhkabussien) ajattelemisesta.

Uutiskirjeformaatti toimiikin erityisen hyvin jatkeena muulle tekemiselle. Kun tiedät, mitä teet, on ihan mahdollista rakentaa pieni imperiumi – jopa suomeksi.

Mutta miten sitä lisäarvoa tuotetaan?

Tuntemalla oma yleisö ja olemalla hyvä vaihtoehto siinä vaiheessa, kun seuraaja/tilaaja on valmis ostamaan.

• Käsityönikkarit voivat myydä osaamistaan ja ohjeita Substackin kautta.

• Paikallismediat voivat saada maksavia tilaajia tarjoamalla vaikkapa menovinkkejä tai ravintola-arvosteluita. → Paikallismedioiden onkin ennustettu olevan yksi nopeimmin kasvava, maksavia Substack-tilaajia houkutteleva, sisältötyyppi.

• Luovan työn ammattilaisena voit kaupallistaa osaamisesi joko Substackissa tai sen ulkopuolella tarjoamalla koulutuksia tai mentorointeja.

• Kirjoittavien ihmisten yhteisölläkin olisi varmasti kysyntää. Puhetta kirjoittamisesta ja yhteisiä kirjoitushetkiä? Kiinnostaa. Tässä luottokorttini.

• Itseäni innostaa tällä hetkellä lukupiirin perustaminen Substackiin. Tämä näyttää niin mukavalta!

Ja hei, vielä yksi idea…

• Itse rakentamallaan retkiksellä ympäri Eurooppa seikkaileva nomadi olisi todennäköisesti jo Substack-miljonääri. Villeys ja vapaus, näennäinenkin, myy aina.

Ja vaikka kaikki tämä on sitä samaa digimarkkinointia, josta olen jauhanut vuosikaudet, on tässä myös jotain uutta. Suora yhteys lukijoihin on arvokas.3 Valitsen olla täällä, pidempien ajatusten äärellä.

Lisäarvon ei siis todellakaan tarvitse olla monimutkaista tai uutta. Se, mitä jo teet, riittää vallan mainiosti. Täälläkin on kuitenkin uskallettava astua esiin itsenään. Kasvottomat filosofit jäävät jalkoihin.

Monen kohdalla Substackista saatava tulo realisoituu kuitenkin jotain toista reittiä.

Sain kouluttaa, mentoroida ja käydä puhumassa yli viiden vuoden ajan ihan vain siksi, että olin ottanut itselleni jalansijan luovan työn asiantuntijana. Tein sen ensin blogini kautta ja sittemmin Luovia-podcastin juontajana. Merkittävä osa tuloistani tuli välillisesti.

On siis ihan järkevää kohdella Substack-sisältöjään yhtenä markkinoinnin väylänä. On myös järkevää ohjata tänne ihmisiä muista somekanavista. Entäpä nettisivut + Substack-blogikirje? Kyllä toimii.

Se onkin sitten ihan toinen juttu, jos haluaa tehdä täällä jotain muuta. Jotain sellaista, mitä ei tee missään muualla. Kuten kirjoittaa turistipaidoista ja ruuhkabusseista… Mutta kukapa sellaista tekisi? Ainakaan ilman sen kummempaa suunnitelmaa? No, ehkä joskus 10 vuoden kuluttua voin vain todeta, että se oli vain se mun Substack era.

Ensi kertaan,

Nani

I’ve answered the question more times than I can count.

To have a name like Nani in a pretty monocultured country like Finland has been mostly a pleasure… and, sometimes, an ache.

The name sticks. In good and in bad.

The short answer is yes, it is my real name. I’ve been Nani to everyone else except my first-grade teacher Ritva, who refused to use nicknames.

But Nani isn’t my given name. In 1984, Nani was too bold for a baby, so I was named Annette Maria instead. When Finland’s Name Act changed in 1991, my mom and I ran to our local parish office and made Nani official. Even Ritva surrendered.

The name has always felt like mine. But I had no idea how thoroughly that four-letter word would shape my life. How visible it would make me, for better or worse.

I’ve thanked my mom many times over for choosing this name.

When I started my photography business in 2011, I had two great advantages: a massive network and… my name. The industry was less crowded then, and “Nani” was easy to remember and easy to Google, too.

Being a marketing newbie in 2010, I didn’t realize that setting up a Facebook page called Nani Annette would actually be the start of a personal brand. And that working under that very name would still be paying my bills in 2026.

Of course, the opportunities I’ve received haven’t happened because of my name, but it has made being remembered easier. It has made saying yes possible before introductions were finished.

But long before my name helped me stand out professionally, it had already made it impossible to fade into the background.

At school, my name became a reason to put me on the spot. It was right there. Catchy, easy to twist, easy to turn into a joke that followed me down hallways and across schoolyards.

Kids don’t need a reason. They need an atom. The smallest viable thing to cling to.

My name taught me early on that standing out wasn’t a choice. I learned how to carry it.

When I say I have an unusual name, I really mean it.

Not in my birth year, 1984, nor in any other year has there been even 10 Nanis in Finland. As a matter of fact, after 1950 there have been less than 75 Nani-named boys and girls in Finland in total.1

I’ve encountered only a handful of Nanis in my lifetime. All occasions have felt special. The previous encounter happened last week on my Threads feed, where a Finnish Lapphund, Nani, was looking after its newly washed toys.

But this is not the case with Nonis.

Noni, or no niin, is the most important idiom in Finnish. Elina Haverinen wrote a whole essay about these two words and their many meanings:

It’s gender-neutral and class-neutral. It can start, fill, or end a sentence—or serve as the entire conversation. It’s the space between effort and acceptance, action and allowing, and it has a complete emotional range within six letters.

No niin.

And let me add: it also turns heads. Or at least the heads of Nanis. If I hear someone say, “Noni, eiköhän lähdetä—let’s go!” I might jump right in.

When you have an unusual name, it turns everyday situations into a spelling exercise.

After 10 yoga classes with the same instructor, I still let her know my name is Nani-N-A-N-I.

After 42 years with this name, people still hesitate to say it out loud, as if it might burn their mouths. Earlier this week, in a Zoom call, one participant decided to call me by my first and last name because… the four-letter word was too difficult?

People aren’t ready to hear my name because they haven’t heard it before. They are waiting to hear something simpler, something more familiar.

Which is funny, because it couldn’t get any easier. Like most Finnish words, you pronounce it exactly as it’s written: [ˈnɑ.ni].

For me, the exotic twist my name once carried is long gone. Finland is—thankfully—a bit different now than it was in the 1990s. I don’t stand out as a Nani the way I used to. And if I do, it doesn’t bother me anymore.

In my early days as a creative, I sometimes wished I could’ve used my Starbucks name, Maria, just to blend in. But Nani stuck—through ease and friction alike—and my straightforward, blunt personality didn’t exactly soften the edges.

After 15 years of running this business, I’ve grown into the name. After 42 years of living this life of mine, I’ve learned to love it. I no longer feel the need to make myself smaller to wear it more comfortably.

My name might never let me hide completely. But I don’t think I need it to.

I know what it’s like to be asked if Nani is my real name. And I know what it means to answer yes.

Yes, it is. And somehow, it chose me.

Substackiin valuu sykäyksittäin lisää suomalaisia. On mukava törmätä uusiin kasvoihin alustalle kirjautuessaan! Tervetuloa minunkin puolestani. 🤝

Kokoan tähän 🆘-vinkit, jotka jokaisen Substackaajan kannattaa laittaa kuntoon omassa profiilissaan ennemmin kuin myöhemmin.

Jos haluat lukea lisää vinkkejä, tutustu aiempaan postaukseeni:

Kun haluat tilata tämän suomenkielisen uutiskirjeeni, tilaa ensin varsinainen kirjeeni – of light, life, and love, minkä jälkeen voit muokata asetuksiasi ja tilata myös tämän kirjeen.

Subscribe now

Ennen kuin teet mitään muuta, luo julkaisu

Luulin ykköspaikan kuuluvan Tervetuloa-kirjeelle, vaan ei. Kaikista tärkeintä on luoda julkaisu (publication). Ilman sitä pelaat Substackia väärin.

(No ei oikeasti… Mutta tavallaan kuitenkin.)

Julkaisun luominen on helppoa, hyödyllistä ja hienoa, kuten nenäkannun käyttö konsanaan.

Miksi on tärkeää luoda Substack-julkaisu?

• Ilman julkaisua (publication) et voi julkaista artikkeleita. Voit kirjoittaa Notes-viestejä ja kommentoida keskusteluja Substackin sisäisessä somessa, mutta et pysty julkaisemaan artikkeleita eli lähettämään sähköpostia tilaajillesi. Koska…

• Ilman julkaisua (publication) et pääse käsiksi tilaajiesi sähköposteihin. Uutiskirjeen idea vesittyy, jos kirjoittelet vain Substackissa. Sähköpostilistan voit siirtää halutessasi myös toiseen palveluun.

  • Voisi siis sanoa, että julkaisu/publication = sähköpostilista

• Kun sinulla on julkaisu (publication), saat Substack-nettisivun etkä ole tylsän lukijaprofiilin varassa. Voit myös luoda maksullista sisältöä.

Julkaisu luodaan asetuksissa.

Älä siis enää kirjoita pitkiä “artikkeleita” Noteseihin, jossa kukaan ei niitä näe vaan lähetä ne suoraan tilaajiesi sähköpostilootiin.

Sitten: Tervetuloa-kirjeen kirjoittaminen

Mitä tapahtuu, kun ihminen tilaa julkaisusi eli liittyy uutiskirjeesi tilaajaksi? Saat hänen sähköpostinsa, ja hän saa… automaattisen tervehdyksen Substackilta.

Ja millainen tervehdys se onkaan!

Mikäli et ole tehnyt muutoksia Welcome emails -kohdassa, kirjeesi on umpitylsä jaaritus. Tällainen, joka lennähti jälleen viime viikolla sähköpostiini, kun tilasin uuden kirjeen.

Ei siinä mitään, mutta tämä sähköposti on lukijan varhainen kosketus Substack-imperiumiisi. Pliis, kirjoita jotain muuta, tai jos et keksi mitään, käännä tämä tylsyys edes suomeksi.

Mitä kirje voi sisältää?

• Esittelysi

• Aihepiirisi

• Kuinka usein kirjoitat?

• Palautetta lukijoilta

• Nostoja kirjoituksista, joihin haluat lukijan ohjata

Tässä ote omasta kirjeestäni:

Tsekkaa samalla kuntoon muutkin automaattisesti Substackista lähtevät viestit.

Ympyrä sulkeutuu: Automaattiset viestit ovat käytössäsi, kunhan luot julkaisun.

Tee vielä tämä, sillä ilman tätä kukaan ei tiedä sinusta mitään

Kirjoita About-sivu. Se saattaa tuntua tylsältä tai työläältä, etkä heti keksi, mitä siihen rustaisit, mutta luota prosessiin. Ja jos totta puhutaan, onhan tärkeää pystyä kertomaan, mitä olet tullut tänne tekemään. Mistä kirjoitat? Mitä tilaajat voivat odottaa sinulta?

Inspiroidu esimerkiksi näistä kirjoittajaryhmämme jäsenten About-sivuista:

• Elina Haverinen /

• Ruut /

• Marjut Uotila /

• Janina Saari /

• Päivi Saarilahti /

• Elisa Reunanen /

Parantele matkan varrella

Tee jotain, aloita jostain ja parantele matkan varrella. Täällä mikään ei ole kiveen kirjoitettua, ja se on aika vapauttavaa.

Itse asiassa, tätä kirjoittaessani kävin päivittämässä omatkin viestini. About-sivuun en vielä kajonnut, mutta kaipaahan sekin pian huomiotani.

Substackin pyörittäminen on yksinkertaista, mutta admin-hommat vaativat alussa jonkin verran vaivannäköä.

Hyvä siitä kuitenkin tulee. Kunhan aloitat. (Ja luot sen julkaisun.)

Mitä haluaisit kysyä Substackista? Kysy sähköpostitse tai jutellaan kommenteissa Substackin puolella!

-Nani

Back to the margins,
Nani

About In the Margin →
A series of small observations, quiet fragments, and things I notice on the edges of my days, in the margin. Being a creative is a full‑time thought, and these are some of the notes that spill over.

This, sort of, is the premise of Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library. I read it at the perfect moment, just as I was reflecting on the past year on this Earth.

I turned 42 on February 18th. If I’m lucky, I have about 42 years ahead of me. I’m right in the middle. Ten years ago that felt impossibly far away. I never really imagined my life in my forties. And now all the previous decades feel like yesterday.

The Midnight Library tells the story of Nora Seed, a thirty-something woman suffering from depression. She attempts to end her life by taking too many pills.

Against all odds, she wakes up in the Midnight Library where she’s greeted by a familiar face, the librarian from her youth.

The books on the shelves tell stories of Nora’s possible lives, the alternative paths she could have stomped had she chosen differently. Nora goes down the rabbit hole, opening book after book, trying to find a version of her life where things have gone right, where her loved ones are alive and she herself is content.

It turns out to be hard. Because many things in life are outside our control, no matter what we wish.

It’s mainstream to think about whatifs. Gwyneth Paltrow popularized it already in Sliding Doors (1998). And I bet Jesus thought about it too. What if I had just continued in my dad’s carpentry business?

I’m very mainstream in that sense.

What if I hadn’t chosen theology? Where would I be now?

Would I have studied journalism, writing, photography (probably not) or cultural production? I’m certain something more saucy than classical Hebrew and church history on repeat would have grabbed my attention.

What if I hadn’t left my NGO dayjob in 2012 and kept photography as a side hustle? Where would I be now?

What if I had kept creating dog portraits, my first love? What if I had commercialized my podcast early on? What if I had leaned fully into being an influencer instead of resisting it?

What if I had stayed on one path instead of starting something new many times over?

What if I had been braver and taken more risks?

Everything would be different. Could be different.

And then…

If I hadn’t met my husband, we wouldn’t have had our dogs from his sister’s home kennel. I wouldn’t have ended up in the dog sports I did. I wouldn’t have met the dog people who later became my photography clients, and eventually my communications clients.

And neither of us would have had this exact son, the one I gave birth to in 2021. This small, tiny person, that changed everything. And more.

If I hadn’t become pregnant at all, I wouldn’t have ramped down my photography business. It wouldn’t have mattered whether I worked during daycare hours or not — because there would be no daycare, no child, and no daily logistical puzzle of where everyone is at what time with one almost‑5‑year‑old.

In Finnish we call this jossittelu. It comes from jos, meaning “if”, and jossittelu describes the act of piling up all these ifs.

“On ihan turha jossitella.”

“There’s no point in whatiffing,” one might say. No need for josses, because what happened, happened.

Signed, sealed, delivered. Throw away the key.

In the Midnight Library, Nora takes jossittelu very seriously. She wants to die, but instead gets another chance in life.

Spoiler alert:

In the end, Nora doesn’t die. After all the lives she visits, she realizes she wants to live. And in the final moment, she escapes the collapsing library. She has used all her josses.

And I’m very much alive myself. Sure, I have an ache here and there. My right hip is giving me a headache (or perhaps a hipache) and I’m not as stretchy as I used to be.

But that’s ok. I’m 42.

To be honest, I wouldn’t want to be any younger.

To be 12 and relive the teenage years? No thanks.
To be 22 and have all the life-changing decisions still ahead of me? Bitch please.
To be 32 again sounds better, but I still wasn’t as fully myself as I am now.

To be 42 is quite special.

A late Finnish photographer, Antero Takala, once said:

“After turning 40, life has started to resemble a funnel — everything unnecessary falls away, and you begin to focus on your true area of strength.”

I’m in the funnel too. I know exactly what Takala meant.

Each year I want to do more of what actually makes me happy, and less of the things that seem to belong to my alternative lives. The choices I didn’t make, the versions of me that never fully existed. They don’t feel whole in my forties.

I haven’t stopped jossing completely, I’m such a dreamer. But I think less about the lives I didn’t choose, and more about this one.

And how truly miraculous it became.

-Nani

Side note:

When the gathering restrictions were finally eased during Covid, the library was the first place I went. I wandered between the shelves, ran my hands along the spines, and felt that familiar rush.

Libraries are a place I love deeply. Some people find their comfort in cafés or shopping trips. I choose libraries. It’s home to me.

When a librarian asked whether I needed any help, I told her I was simply grateful to be here. “Mä vain katselen,” I said — I’m only looking. What I really meant was that just the presence of books is more than enough.

6. My love for hapankorppu has escalated. A new brand almost revealed the meaning of life. Yes, it’s apple.

7. Finally the stars aligned, and I got a spot in Joakim Möller’s workshop. Two years in the making. A 40th‑birthday gift I’m receiving at almost 42.

8. There’s always room for improvement, but that doesn’t make the current version bad or temporary. Things can be better and still be good.

9. Sometimes the city looks back.

Back to the margins,
-Nani

About In the Margin →
This is a new series of small observations, quiet fragments, and things I notice on the edges of my days, in the margin. Being a creative is a full‑time thought, and these are some of the notes that spill over.

1. I travelled to Turku for the book launch party of .
   A wonderful event. A full house of people who read & write.

2. These days I’m not sure I love to travel.
   I used to feel at home in between places,
   but not anymore.

3. I took a 90‑minute walk on the river Aura.
   The experience was crowned by the cathedral bells
   and the cold air tiptoeing on my cheeks.

4. I finished Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet.
   I was raw to the touch from the very first page to the last.
   Left me quiet.

5. I probably need a new camera, but I hate buying gear.
   The need always appears just when I’ve finally joined bones with the old one.

Back to the margins,
Nani

About In the Margin →
This is a new series of small observations, quiet fragments, and things I notice on the edges of my days, in the margin. Being a creative is a full‑time thought, and these are some of the notes that spill over.

I participated in the contest with two stories.

The first one was about a co-worker who travelled in the elevator with a cardboard box on his head.

It was an ordinary workday for my ex-colleague: she arrived at the office, walked to the staircase, called the lift, waited. When the sliding doors opened, she stepped in. Inside stood another colleague with a large brown cardboard box in his hands. She greeted him. And for some reason we still don’t understand, he panicked, placed the entire box on his head, and continued the ride like that. End of story. A perfect little moment of everyday absurdity.

The second story wasn’t something I had found funny at all. Maybe a little awkward, but certainly not funny. But perhaps that’s the thing with storytelling: even the grey-ish stories can be told in colour. I’ve written about this before — how ashamed I had felt about the whole thing, and how I didn’t know how to laugh about it until I entered it in the contest.

The story itself can be told in two sentences: I needed more admission points for teacher studies and decided to take the easier route. The University of Helsinki offers free MOOC courses — just like Harvard does — and one of them is called Me and My Dog. I took it, completed it, and paid the fee to have the points added to the admissions system.

Oh, how they laughed.

And no, Harvard doesn’t offer dog-related MOOCs. A real bummer.

I took the stage in late November, in a cozy restaurant in Jyväskylä. I had only one person in the audience — a newly made friend from teacher studies called Pia. She laughed so hard she nearly fell under the table.

And later on, it was her who gave me the award.

We were again in teacher studies, this time in Vantaa, and were asked to give feedback based on someone’s strengths. It was a tiny task, just a moment. But she chose me. She stood up, took the mic, and said:

“Nani was the best storyteller1 in my life in 2025.”

That was my award. Not for writing, not for photography, not for social skills or creativity. But for storytelling.

The idea of an “audience of one” is familiar to many. I first heard it in an interview of Srinivas Rao in Chase Jarvis podcast back in 2018. The point was simple but sharp: the truest, most resonant work is created when you focus on one person instead of everyone, clicks or numbers. When you sanitize your work for a wider audience, you lose presence. But when you create for one, you gain truth.

Read Rao’s essay “What you Create for an Audience of One is Much More Likely to Reach An Audience of Millions” on Medium.

When I was handed the award, given the feedback, I was back at the restaurant. I saw Pia laughing uncontrollably, myself adding more fuel to the fire. I remember thinking: she sees the oddness of these moments I keep stumbling into.

Strength-based feedback is not about saying this was good but about naming what someone brings alive. And honestly, I don’t care much for feedback on my writing or photography — I know what I know. But feedback that sees the core of what I’m actually trying to do? That lands.

Would I have been happier receiving the award from a bigger group, or in another format — say, hundreds of new Substack subscribers or a commissioned piece in a newspaper? I don’t think so. Laughter is a good measurement. Resonance is a good measurement. Large numbers always include people who linger at the edges of your idea.

But Pia wasn’t at the edges. She was my one.

I started this Substack because I wanted a place where I could slow down and look closely at the small, odd stories in my life. The stories that make me tick no matter the size of the audience.

And that’s the thing: an audience of one isn’t a fixed figure. There are many Pias. One person laughs, another one nods quietly, a third one sends a message saying your story made their day. And suddenly the “one” is no longer singular — it’s a small constellation, forming slowly, without hurry.

That laugh in the restaurant was the first bright point. The one that made me realize I don’t need a crowd to keep going. Just a few people who truly get it.

Maybe that’s what an audience of one really means: you begin with one, but you don’t stay there. You keep telling your odd stories, and the ones who recognize something in them step a little closer.

It’s about growing the circle of ones.

And somehow, that’s enough.

Something to ponder:

• If you had to choose your “one” — the person your work reaches most honestly — who would it be?

• What’s a small, odd moment in your own life that would make a great story, if you let it?

• When was the last time someone’s laughter made you realize your idea had landed?

• What moment in your creative process made you feel truly seen?

Subscribe now

You might also like:

There’s magic both in dreamers and doers, and in the past 15 years of running a creative business I’ve learned that the trick is to find a balance. Don’t look at me, I haven’t found it yet.

People think I’m fooling around when I call myself a lazy entrepreneur. But it’s true. There isn’t much going on behind the scenes. What you see is probably what was done.

Many would call me an underachiever, but I prefer dreamer. But whatever you choose to call me, don’t call me a doer. I’m definitely not one, as I’m too satisfied with my small life, my here and now.

This doesn’t mean I’m not ambitious. I kind of am. I just don’t feel the urge to push. I’d rather take the long route. And I must admit, it has worked out pretty well.

I believe that my laziness, or daydreaminess, has protected me from the burnouts that seem to trouble creatives and entrepreneurs quite often.

The passion builds up the workload, and since it rarely comes hand in hand with income, the stress levels go through the roof.

I too am passionate about my craft, but I’m more passionate about my freedom and having financial stability. That’s why I chose running a business over running a creative business a couple of years back, when the pandemic emptied my calendar and I had to come up with a new business plan.

Thankfully the universe aligned the stars, and I got a call from a client I had previously worked with. They needed a strategist and a copywriter to polish their message.

This pivot was meant to be temporary, but here I am, six years later, focusing almost entirely on offering comms and copywriting services. This isn’t my endgame, but for now it supports the life I want.

One could say I escape work, but it’s not completely true. I’ve had my share of stretches.

As a photographer, season peaks required long days, and sometimes the shoots happened back to back. In Finland, an on-location photographer has only 5-6 months to make most of their income for the whole year.

I missed many family gatherings and bachelorette parties because of work, and I was basically at work when friends and family had time off.

Now I work mainly during office hours. Would I like to have more variety in my days? I would, but as a parent, I’m happy to take evenings and weekends off and spend time with my kid.

I still have the option to run errands on weekdays and I like knowing I can work remotely from anywhere.

So, I’m a pretty decent daydreamer but a shitty doer. Does that make me a bad business owner?

In a way, it does. I’m certain I would have achieved more if I had more doer in me. Being an entrepreneur is a verb. It’s very much about doing.

I love to think, plan, and strategize, but when it’s time to execute, I’d rather read a book. But hey, I’m still here — running a vital business and not selling myself short.

Could there still be enough doer in me? Probably not, but in my case, the secret lies in the pace I’ve chosen.

I’ve managed to charm clients that appreciate long-term relationships and stability. My goal was to be the family photographer you run to whenever you need pictures. And many did.

My business model saved me from selling—the part many creatives truly hate. The more returning clients I had, the less I had to sell.

Now, in the comms business, I focus on bigger clients and/or well-defined projects. And I’m willing to pivot again, if it helps me avoid frenzied selling.

I used to say that as a creative my dream is to be able to do whatever I want—take photos and write—and to have someone paying me good money for that.

Well, not a very unique dream, right?

So what would I do if I had a proper income following my dreams? Probably the things that have given me the greatest pleasure in the past 15 years.

Walking the streets, creating photos. Walking the woods, creating photos. Writing articles, columns, and lyrics. Creating photos of my dogs in studio or on location and then nibbling the frames over and over again in Photoshop.

These are the things that have given me the greatest pleasure as a creative.

What connects them? They’re very much doing.

I become a doer when I go into flow state, where talent meets challenge. When the task is just perfect for me, I immerse myself in it. I forget hunger, and I’m ready to part with sleep in order to finalize my creation.

The doer in me trusts her intuition. She’s raw and she’s wild, and definitely not an entrepreneur. To be honest, she’s someone I’d like to be more often.

But the doer in me comes out only when I limit her existence. Just like a river needs its riverbed to flow, I need schedules, routine, and structure to create—to let out the doer in me. The wild one. Boundaries make both my creative work and my comms work possible.

The dreamers and doers might just fit into the same sentence, or business, as long as we recognize their different needs.

Without boundaries I’m just a dreamer, a lazy one, who loves my here and now more than hustling.

After all this, do I still see myself lazy? Of course I do.

But in a time of hustling and bustling and doing everything fast, I want to reassure you, you can build something at a human pace. A real pace.

It’s about commitment, tiny steps and the willingness to—not start over but—change lanes.

Which one are you, a dreamer or a doer? How does that show up your life and in the pace you’ve chosen? Chip in the comments!

You might also like:

I actually picked up the previous book in the Joona Linna series (The Spider, #9) first. Somewhere between the first and second murder, I realized I’d already read it. Honestly, I’m surprised this doesn’t happen more often. I rarely remember the plotlines of books I’ve finished.

I thought I’d give The Sleep Walker five stars because it let me escape daily life and entertained me thoroughly. But here’s the thing: you can’t trust my five-star ratings.

Am I too generous with ratings?

Looking back, I wonder if I’m too lenient. Are these easy reads really worth five stars?

Christmas is now long gone, and I gave Kepler only four stars. Was it worse than Lisa Jewell’s None of this is true, which I rated five stars but couldn’t remember until I looked it up on Goodreads? Absolutely not. It was probably better. I just didn’t want to be sloppy with the stars.

Whenever I finish a proper page-turner, usually a thriller, I happily give it five stars. One could say I rate books in the heat of the moment, right after finishing, while I’m still in the bubble.

That’s what happened with None of this is true. But when I read the Goodreads blurb, it all came back. It was a really good book. The kind I’d gladly recommend.

The story follows Alix Summers, a well-known podcaster, who discovers she has a birthday twin, Josie Fair. Josie swims into Alix’s life and offers her story for the podcast. Alix is intrigued, and so the story begins.

I’ve always thought I’d read many of Jewell’s books, but apparently this was only my second. Thrillers often blur together for me. Sorry, Lisa! What I do remember is Jewell’s knack for characters and dialogue. And as an ex-podcaster, the setup hooked me immediately.

Jewell also nails pacing. I remember not wanting to put the book down when Josie suddenly disappeared after Alix uncovered her secrets. Their stories intertwine in unexpected ways.

Right after writing this, I added all of Jewell’s books to my TBR list.

My rating scale

The first part of this recap included four five-star reads between January and July. Since then, I’ve given six more five-star ratings and plenty of fours. Here’s how I see it:

★★★★★ – Hooked me completely, gave me an escape, would gladly recommend
★★★★☆ – Hooked me, smooth reading, would recommend
★★★☆☆ – Worth my time
★★☆☆☆ – Finished it, but wished I hadn’t
★☆☆☆☆ – Probably didn’t finish

There was a time I wanted to learn literary criticism because I felt like a “second-class reader” without it. Many years ago, after too many wonderful thrillers, I let go—and enjoyed reading much more since.

My five-star ratings mirror my needs in the moment. I don’t read to review, to get smarter, or to look wise. I read to relax, to escape, to feel content.

I rate books because otherwise I forget them, and I don’t like that. Without ratings, I might read the same book twice. Isn’t that a waste of time?

The best book of 2025

Some books stick. Joel Dicker’s Wild Animal was probably my favorite read of 2025. If you love clever, non-American crime stories and enjoyed Ocean’s Eleven, this is for you. It’s a heist mystery set in Geneva.

Sophie Braun seems to have it all: family, home, money, maybe even a lover. But there’s a snake in paradise. Nothing is what it seems in this story set over 20 hot summer days in 2022.

I’m not a fan of multiple timelines, but Dicker does it brilliantly. He peels back layers of deceit, obsession, and betrayal, proving anything is possible on the page.

I haven’t loved all of Dicker’s books, but I loved this one. I bought it for my husband, and he loved it too. So much actually, that another Dicker is already waiting for him. I love that he trusts my taste.

Five stars for anything about writing

One of my favorite ways to relax before sleep is to dream about writing (or street photography). Dreaming is more fun than doing, but hey, to each their own.

Last fall, I couldn’t even dream about writing until Lily King’s Writers & Lovers changed that. It gave me my daydreams back.

The book follows Casey Peabody, a thirty-something waitress writing a novel while juggling grief, debt, and messy love affairs. It’s a story about anyone who’s tried to focus on art while life throws curveballs.

I gave it five stars because King captures the journey of hardship so well—and because it entertained me like Gilmore Girls once did. There’s something about that small-town American dream that hums between jobs and people.

Murder-cover-up-sort-of with my brother?

I adore books about family ties. The more peculiar, the better. That’s what drew me to Candice Carty-Williams’ People person. I fell in love with her writing after Queenie earlier last year.

I love books that teach me about different cultures. Carty-Williams writes with humor and lightness, even when tackling heavy subjects. That’s a skill.

This book reminded me of my own life. I met my brother for the first time a couple of years ago, and now he and his family are an integral part of ours. Hopefully, we won’t get pulled into a murder-cover-up like Dimple Pennington does in People Person.

Very entertaining Atmosphere

Taylor Jenkins Reid is pure entertainment. When I discovered her, she already had a big backlist. Perfect for binge-reading.

I’ve been on the fence with some of her books. Do we need more stories about privileged white women and their problems? Maybe not. But Atmosphere won me over.

It’s a love story between people—and between space and astronauts. Joan Goodwin, a professor, joins NASA’s shuttle program in 1980s Houston. Amid groundbreaking missions and fierce ambition, she falls for fellow astronaut Vanessa Ford.

The Space Shuttle era backdrop is fascinating, especially for an ‘80s kid like me. Atmosphere is a fast-paced, emotional, and unforgettable. Read it and weep.

Everything changes, everything’s gonna be alright

The latter half of 2025 had only one Finnish five-star read: Siri Kolu’s Kesän jälkeen kaikki on toisin (After Summer Everything Changes). It follows Peetu, a trans teen turning 18 and preparing for gender-affirming surgery.

It’s a beautiful coming-of-age story about identity, acceptance, and courage. Peetu struggles with their mother but shares a special bond with their dad, who gifts them ten glider flights for their birthday.

I’ve read many LGBTQ+ books in the past two years. Partly because they’re more visible now, but also because I want to learn. As a parent, I find it important to read these stories. I hope my son always feels free to stomp his own path.

Another year with books

Bookish years come and go.

I’m not a BIG reader, I read about a book a week, but I choose books over many activities. I love talking about them, owning them, and I read multiple times a day. I rarely leave home without a book.

In 2026, I hope to read books that make me laugh, cry, and feel all the feels. Books that hook me from page one. I don’t need complicated classics. I need books that let me in.

-

What was your absolute favorite from 2025? Anything you’d recommend?

You might also like:

🥜 We decided to put our home up for sale. We moved here 6.5 years ago. As city folks, we wanted something different, and we certainly got it. We’re in this town to stay.

🥜 Our child switched to an immersion daycare. If you ever wonder whether it’s worth it, the answer is a lightning-fast yes.

“Do you remember when you didn’t want to switch to language bath?”
“I do. And mom, how amazing it turned out to be.”

🥜 I started my teacher studies and have worked on related assignments during this Christmas break. It’s not hard, but very time-consuming.

🥜 Business was good. There was enough money. I’m a happy taxpayer.

🥜 We visited Sweden and Italy and decided to buy a caravan. The project has been overshadowed by selling our apartment, but the dream lives on.

😮‍💨 In addition to communication/marketing/copywriting work and studies, I did a few photography gigs. It was pretty intense, and by the end of the year, I was exhausted.

🥜 I lost my writer’s voice and haven’t quite found it yet. I blame the previous point for that.

🥜 I reconnected with a few old friends. It was fun to realize I’m not the only one whose humor hasn’t improved over the years.

🕊️ Life also painted with dark colors, and the year included illness and death. When you lose a peer, the ground starts shaking under your own feet too. Especially remembering Elina today.

🥜 I bought a mountain bike. I don’t know if I like the sport, but at least I can keep up with my child. On one trail, I fell three times. I immediately declared, “didn’t hurt!”

🥜 I hid all 150 episodes of the Luovia podcast from streaming services. That was a really good and liberating decision.

🥜 I led a Substack writers’ group on Mondays. What a way to start the week!

🥜 I read a lot of good books, even a couple of amazing ones. More on those later.

🥜 I started rewatching Grey’s Anatomy from the beginning. It might have been the best decision of the year.

🥜 We explored new beautiful forests with our dog, and now we’re wondering if we should move there. Not quite into the forest, but close. (Our kid would happily live in the forest, though.)

I got more nieces and nephews when my brother’s family had a second child and my cousin had her first.

🥜 I drank one serving of alcohol just to confirm that it truly adds nothing to my life.

🥜 My back and I were in better shape this year than in a long time. Daily small exercises are annoyingly effective. But let’s not talk about my shoulders.

🥜 The kid stopped napping and learned to play Ticket to Ride. These things may not be related.

🥜 I took investing a bit more seriously again and aimed to invest one-fifth of my salary monthly. Should I buy Nintendo stock?

🥜 I went grocery shopping much less often, which freed up bandwidth for many other things. During the year, I got the most messages from my mom and the local store.

🥜 I managed to make the perfect chickpea pasta.

🥜 As a result, our honey consumption grew exponentially.

🥜 I managed to worry less.

🥜 I remembered to be grateful.

For 2026, I hope for:

• A slower pace (but the same amount of money).

• Only good books.

• Finding my own voice. Again.

• Trips.

• Good photos and a new camera.

• Pedagogical qualification.

• A four-day workweek.

• A new home.

• Health, health, health for everyone. In the end, it’s all we’ve got.

Until next year,
Nani

Subscribe now

This story began as a simple good deed and turned into an unexpected adventure with one unforgettable Mummo. It reminded me how life’s smallest encounters can become the biggest stories.

Along with this story, I’m sending you my heartfelt Christmas wishes. May your holidays be filled with kindness, laughter, and maybe even a little adventure of your own! (But remember to check the parking hours.😉)

-Nani

“We’re heading the same way. May I give you a lift?”

There, I said it.

The words fizz inside me like a shaken soda as we stand in the train carriage entryway. Finally, in front of all the witnesses, I asked permission to take this Mummo – Finnish for grandma – home.

I wait for an awkward silence, but instead Mummo lights up. Her pondering–where to go, where the bus runs, at what time–ends. I bring her peace.

We drag our cabin bags along black asphalt. November ground sprinkled with grit. No need to, but maybe there was ice for a fleeting moment.

My suitcase wheels turn lazily. Before leaving, I scrubbed off the storage mold with thin soapy water and a rough sponge. Brand new, I thought. Now: an ancient wreck.

Mummo’s suitcase rolls better. Good, because we’ve got a long way ahead, though we don’t know it yet.

It’s almost ten at night. We’re nearing my car.

“It’s on the top of this building.”
“How do we get inside?”

Two days ago: daylight. People everywhere. Now we’re the only ones outside this property. Pitch black, empty, closed. Night falls.

We start circling the building. It has three walls, shaped like a triangle, sort of.
The first wall offers no entry. But let’s not panic, I tell myself.

Around the corner. A dark alley. I walk ahead, Mummo follows. Suitcase wheels crunch, and so does my hope. Second wall: no help either. Panic creeps in.

“What on earth?”
“Are you sure it’s this building?”

I point to the exit where I stepped out to catch the train. Finding parking had been a challenge. I tell her that too.

Third wall. Realization hits: the parking garage follows shopping hours. Mummo and I are down here, car alone on the roof.

I’ve led a stranger Mummo into places I’d avoid myself. But there’s no room for shame—she’s an Adventure Mummo.

“Don’t be sorry. This is an adventure!”

In seconds, I’m the helpless one. A toddler being dragged along, unable to wait for the situation to resolve. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to throw myself on the ground.

But Mummo shows me the light. She leads us out of the dark. We retrace our steps to the train station. Gravel crunches under the suitcases. I’ve never hated gravel more.

Almost back at the station, Mummo asks the time.

“Ten past ten.”
“That’s my bus.”

There it goes. Her bus. The one she talked about back in the train. Gone. Just taillights now.

It feels like an eternity since I offered Mummo a ride. My good deed has turned into a disaster. But Adventure Mummo won’t agree with me.

“Oh, it’s okay. This is fun!”

We have completely different ideas of fun. My fun includes a quick ride home, a non-alcoholic beer, and an episode of some great show. But little do I know. When we stop under a shelter to wait for the next bus, the journey home gets a new twist.

When Mummo starts sharing, the last shreds of shame fall away. It feels like I was meant to be here.

She lost her husband to illness last spring. One life—and a long caregiving period—ended, but another one began. Her second life.

She tells of decades in a Helsinki suburb. I tell of life in a small urban area I moved to six years ago and never want to leave.

Our bus arrives. Leaves. We’re in it. Mummo guides me the route. I have no idea where we are, but I trust her.

She tells of her bilingual childhood home. I tell how my child switched to a language immersion daycare and will soon speak Swedish better than me.

She tells of her son who moved abroad and her grandson who returned to Finland. She wonders if she’ll meet her great-grandchildren one day.

The ride nears an end. Mummo is worried about me.

“You know where to get off?”
“I think so.”
“Press the button as soon as I’ve left.”

I step out at the next stop. Mummo brought me here. Me, the hapless one.

One would think this was it. That I’d hop on another bus, and be home in no time.
But no. Of course not. We need one more twist, don’t we?

The next bus comes in an hour. It’s the last bus of the day. I trusted Mummo just like she trusted me.

It’s raining. Pouring. The blackness sucks me in. I want to sit in our tiny Volkswagen I named Polle. But instead I’m here, and I don’t know what to do next. I don’t know what to do or where to go and I barely know where I am.

Why did I ever move from Helsinki?

Mummo’s probably under her blankets when I head the opposite way. Hungry. Need to pee. Hypermarket’s open 24/7.

And when I cross the road, suitcase hopping awkwardly behind me, a tiny miracle happens: a bus comes. And with it, a belly laugh.

Sure, it’s the middle of the night, and I’m taking the bus even farther from home. But I’m fine. More than fine.

How wonderful, weird, random life is. How it’s filled with tiny encounters that take up your whole self for a while. One Mummo changed the course of the day. How boring it would have been if I hand’t offered a lift. If I’d just ridden home.

When my needs were finally met, I was tired but thankful. Everything is material, that’s for sure—and if it involves one Adventure Mummo, it’s bound to become a proper Christmas story.

Later, as I hopped onto my bus, I thought: the best Christmas stories aren’t wrapped, but they happen when you least expect them.

Subscribe now

You might also enjoy:

Yksi on ja pysyy: kirjoittajaryhmä.

Viikko alkaa aina paremmin tässä porukassa. Pelkästään se, että kohtaan viikottain meidän oman porukan tsemppaa jatkamaan.

Sillä vaikka Suomen Substack-hype tuli ja meni, uskon edelleen uutiskirjeen voimaan. Tämän myötä algoritmisota jäi taakse ja mielikin asettui rauhan moodiin. Jos tilaat mun sisällöt, sä myös näet ne.

Subscribe now

Yhteisöllisyyden lisäksi minua innostaa tietenkin se, että saan viettää maanantaiaamupäivät itseäni fiksumpien, lahjakkaampien ja kaikin puolin pätevämpien tyyppien joukossa.

Tällä hetkellä ryhmästämme löytyvät:

• Tarkkanäköinen, selväsanainen, kehittäjä , jonka olen lukenut ihan alusta asti. Ruut ei selittele, hän vain kirjoittaa, julkaisee, kirjoittaa, julkaisee, kirjoit… Juttua pukkaa viikosta toiseen. Ruut osaa suhtautua kirjoittamiseen ilahduttavan kepeästi, kuitenkin nostaen sen keskiöön. Kuten hän itse totesi: “Ei sitä kaikkea muuta tarvitse aikatauluttaa. Mutta kirjoittaminen tarvitsee.” Ihan. Kuolematon. Lohkaisu.

• Mukana on myös partaveitsen (tai ompelusaksien?) terävä , joka uskaltaa sanoa. Ihailen Marjutin ilmaisua ja syvällistä ymmärrystä aiheesta, josta itse en tiedä juuri mitään. onkin hyvä esimerkki siitä, miten uutiskirjeellä voi vaikuttaa. Marjutin kirje tekee näkyväksi hänen elämäntyönsä. Hienostunutta, intohimoista, läsnäolevaa. Jos uskaltaisin sanoa, toteaisin Dusty Lettersin olevan juomalaulu Marjutin elämäntyölle.

• käy dialogia kuolleiden kirjailijoiden kanssa ja haaveilee sammaltutkimuksesta (tai joku semmoinen se oli). On kiitollista, että juuri Janina on mukana, sillä hän löytää usein ne merkitykselliset sanat, jotka saavat oivaltamaan jonkin uuden näkökulman. tönäisee pois polulta, sillä seikkailuista ei voida piirtää karttoja. Janina kuljettaa lukijansa paikkoihin, joista emme ole osanneet unelmoida.

• on valoisa, kirkas ja kutsuva jopa Google Meetissä (miten se on mahdollista??!). Elinan kyky teroittaa oma (ja varmasti myös muiden) kynänsä on ihailtavaa. paranee kirje kirjeeltä. Elinan näppiksellä sattumat nousevat parrasvaloihin ja saavat ilmiön arvonimen. Hän on myös loistava esimerkki siitä, miten Substack voi nivoutua osaksi omaa missiota.

• Enkä todellakaan unohda teitä ja vaan povaan menestystä kirjeillenne! Jaksamme odottaa näyttävää paluutanne ryhmäämme. 😁

• Ryhmässämme on vilahtanut monia muitakin kasvoja, mutta juuri nyt porukka näyttää tältä.

Tämä meidän yhteisö on sellainen, jossa mennään yhdessä eteenpäin. Siitä olen kiitollinen. 🫶🏼

Kaipaatko kirjoitusseuraa?

Haluatko sitoutua kirjoittamiseen ja sisällöntuotantoon Substackissa vuonna 2026? Lähde mukaan. 👋🏻

Jos haluat tutustua meihin ja meininkiin, olet tervetullut kokeilemaan ryhmäkirjoittamista 15.12.2025 tai 12.1.2026 klo 10-12. Lähetä minulle sähköpostia, niin jaan osallistumislinkin sinulle.

Miten homma toimii?

Klo 10.00-10.15 Kuulumiskierros: Substack-kuulumiset + Mitä aiot tehdä tänään?
Klo 10.15-11.45 Itsenäistä työskentelyä
Klo 11.45-12.00 Kuulumiskierros: Miten työskentely sujui? Muita ajatuksia?

Hyödynnämme siis kuuluisaa body doubling -menetelmää. Hommat etenevät, koska tiedämme muiden olevan saman asian äärellä.

Ryhmäpaikan hinta on 75 € / vuosi. Hinta sisältää 52 maanantaimiittiä (itse olen mukana n. 45:ssä), yhteisen What’s App -ryhmän sekä kutsut livetapaamisiin (esim. elokuussa lounastimme Helsingissä, joulukuussa glögittelimme Turussa).

Tule mukaan liittymällä maksavaksi tilaajakseni. (Jos haluat tilata englanninkielisen uutiskirjeeni lisäksi tämän suomenkielisen kirjeen, käy lisäämässä tämäkin osio tilaukseesi omissa asetuksissasi.)

Subscribe now

On ihanaa olla kirjoittavien ihmisten joukossa. Yhteisö sitouttaa ja vastuuttaa. Ja kyllä, siinä sivussa lähtee maailmalle teksti jos toinenkin.

Tervetuloa mukaan!

-Nani

I was up at night thinking about falling asleep. Such a simple pleasure, but also an act.

For some, it’s easy. For others, hard. Some people are afraid to go to bed because they know it’s going to be another battle between the state of being awake and dormition.

Then there are those who’d rather stay awake. They have too much to do, or they watch too many nightmares in their sleep.

Whichever your story is, one thing is certain: all living beings need to rest.

I love learning about the many ways people fall asleep, travel to dreamland, and let go of the day’s burden.

Falling asleep has always been awfully easy for me.

When I think about sleeping, I think about our trip to Budapest when I was fifteen. I slept through most of it. My mom told me to pay attention, but the only thing I noticed was the soft seat of the tourist bus. It was wonderful. (Later, we learned that my iron levels were on the low side.)

I usually fall asleep in under five minutes. My former coworker once told me I must be too tired to fall asleep that fast. “It should take fifteen minutes”, they said. But I’ve never been one for rules and regulations, especially when it comes to sleeping. I just close my eyes and drift away.

But for the past year or two, falling asleep truly has been an act. An easy act, yes. A pleasurable act? Sure. But an act, nonetheless. It’s like I put on a little show these days to be able to fall asleep — and only in one position.

Is this normal? Am I normal? What is this nonsense?

Because in order for me to fall asleep — in bed, at home or elsewhere — I need

One pillow
Another (body) pillow
A duvet, or in summer just the cover.

Then I adjust myself:

On my tummy, right hand under the pillows
Duvet kicked to cover only my torso (my toes yearn for air)
Left leg hooked, sole pressed against my right knee
Left arm tucked close, the back of my hand resting against my chin

And there I am. Ready to fall asleep. To sink into the bliss of slumber. Maybe twitch once before drifting away…

But no, no, no. No.

My left side says, I lie too much on the right side.

So I turn, and repeat everything. There I am, on my left side, waiting for my ride to dreamland.

No.

Now my right side is unhappy, and I must turn once more.

It doesn’t matter which side I finally fall asleep on. I need my two turns.

Then it happens.
The yawn.
The warmth.
The immediate relaxation.

And I fall asleep.

It’s so easy. So hard. Why is it so?

I’d love to explore this topic further with the help of photography and science. Would you be willing to participate in my project? Can I photograph your falling-asleep positions?

How do you fall asleep?

Let me know where you are, and we’ll see if our paths cross. (I promise I’ll use the big camera when it’s your turn in front of the lens. 😁)

-Nani

PS. And please, share your falling asleep position in the comments.

You might also like:

Subscribe now

Thunder Over Verona

We were sitting in Terminal 2 at Verona Airport when we saw our flight landing in Milan. A thunderstorm circled somewhere around the airport, though we didn’t know it yet. We might have guessed, had we just looked left: a few meters away, buckets were filling with rainwater dripping from the brand-new ceiling. Wasn’t this supposed to be the new terminal?

I already wanted to be home. Flying, to me, is a ridiculous way to travel. Fast, yes, but so inconvenient and uncomfortable. When I travel by plane, the trip never really begins until I arrive. But by land, the sense of being on a journey starts the moment I close my front door.

I’ve always felt this way, but now that I travel with a one-meter-tall four-year-old, I’ve finally found the words for my frustration.

When our heads hit our own pillows, it was 4:30 a.m. I swore I’d never fly again.

Cesenatico Days

And yet, it had been a wonderful trip: two destinations, a barrel of ice cream, heat, sandy beaches, and cheap non-alcoholic beer. A closed water park and hot, humid, sluggish bus rides with a draggable picky eater were a handful, but they never dimmed the joy of being close to the Mediterranean. My Greek genes played the bouzouki under the Italian night sky.

Cesenatico, on the Adriatic coast across from Pula, was an easy destination that fulfilled my child’s wish: “I want to swim in the sea.” He loved the sandy beach and shallow water—only knee-deep a hundred meters from the shoreline. It could have been boring to some, but our family loved it.

I’m not really a beach person, but my camera loves tourism: the colors, the rhythm, the sunburned shoulders. I could have photographed the wading people for days. Big groups meeting each other to walk in the ocean, a man having a conference call in ankle-deep water, a woman my age sitting in the sea as if she’d always sat there. And the grandmothers, who smiled and told me, “Giornata perfetta, come sempre qui.” Yes, yes, yes. Those were perfect days in many senses.

Working Under Southern Skies

Before having a kid, I often traveled for work. I wanted to. I’d check emails in the morning, write in the evenings or from cafés, edit client photos whenever it felt right. This time, I could have left the laptop at home, but after six weeks of summer vacation, it wasn’t an option.

Once I opened the computer, I quickly found my rhythm again: one interview, one article, a few analyses and bits of content. Simple and pleasant, in the warm, darkening evenings of the South. I even caught myself nodding toward the Finns at Costa del Sol. I get it now, the appeal of living in perpetual summer. Ever since I turned forty, I’ve joined the ranks of summer lovers.

Mixing Business with Pleasure

I’ve always liked working in unfamiliar places. Throughout my career, I’ve traveled not to vacation but because I’m a photographer and a creative entrepreneur. Does that sound terrible? Maybe. But we’re all wired differently. I looove to mix business with pleasure.

Street photography entered my life in 2012, during my first trip to Skåne, Sweden. On a road trip through the U.S. in 2014, I lived and breathed it. The idea that I get to create while I see the world is addictive. Since then, my biggest passion has faded, and I don’t miss the streets any longer, but the yearning for life on the road is still there.

A Lens for Old Souls

When I travel, I often choose a theme for my photos; or it chooses me. Just something to guide my eye. This time, I decided to focus on older people. More often than not, old people are timeless, confident, and unbothered by modern absurdities like phones. Isn’t it funny that once you decide to see something, you start seeing it everywhere? Like after reading The Book of Eels; suddenly, eels are mentioned in every other book I pick up.

Even if I don’t miss the streets, the power of photography still vibrates through me every time I surrender to it. It feels like coming home. Like being home. Like lying in a sleeping bag, eating chips (and drinking Pepsi Max).

But on this trip, my “photo time” turned into billable work time. Photography folded into transitions: from the beach to the hotel, from the hotel to dinner or gelato. And when I did steal a minute or two to linger, my four-year-old made sure to remind me to keep moving. Fair enough, since I’m usually the one complaining about delays.

Maybe that’s the beauty of it—giving your creative mind something small to hold onto when there’s only little time. Tiny assignments keep me sharp; they help deepen my vision, or even reveal it. They keep me on my toes. Old people anywhere? Hello?

When Dreams Evolve

It would be nice to say that now I’ll shoot more, go out more often, give it my all so that one day I can make a living simply by photographing and writing what I want. But I think that dream is outdated. I don’t want that anymore.

In the past few years, I’ve been gently winding down my photography business. More than ten years of full-time shooting, selling, marketing, phrasing, and always trying to catch a new pair of eyes have made a full chapter.

One evening on our balcony, working for clients, I realized something: for years I saw my PR work as a means to fund my personal projects. But I realized it’s not like that any longer. The work feels meaningful and rewarding in itself.

Maybe it’s time to dream new dreams, to update the old ones.

In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes on the old people, and swear I will never fly again.

Until next time
Nani

Subscribe now

How your dreams have changed shape without you realizing? Or have you stopped chasing something that once defined you? Share in the comments!

You might also like:

Moi! 👋🏻

It’s been two weeks since my last letter, I know. Sorry! But today… Pull up a chair, grab a snack, dim the lights…

Let’s dive into TVs, soap operas, saunas, and the tiny screens that shaped my childhood. Expect nostalgia, a few dramatic gasps, and probably a lot of me fangirling over characters you may or may not remember.

Speaking of nostalgia, my grandparents had two TVs in the same room, one on top of the other like some domestic tower of power. The bigger one was a color TV and claimed the prime spot. The smaller one, a 14” black-and-white set, sat on the bottom shelf, looking impossibly tiny.

It was the late 1980’s in Helsinki, Finland. Ukki and Mummi, grandpa and grandma, lived in a suburb full of trees, parks, playgrounds, friends, and activities I loved. But today, I’m here to talk about TV.

It quickly became clear that Mummi ruled both sets… and perhaps the entire household. Ukki could only use the top TV if Mummi wasn’t watching anything, which was rare. She was a big fan of old Finnish films, quiz shows like The Wheel of Fortune or Kymppitonni, and soapies like The Bold and the Beautiful and Emmerdale.

Two TVs were mandatory because Ukki didn’t want to miss sports. He kept the set muted, but that didn’t stop him from reporting every twist and turn. No matter the sport, he was glued to the screen. Havuja perkele!

I spent plenty of tummy time on the floor, watching both TVs with my grandparents. The best times.

A Finnish quiz show, Kymppitonni. This episode aired when I was just a year old.

Inside the closet

When Ukki upgraded, the tiny TV switched owners.

Sometimes I put it on my desk. Sometimes I hid it in a wardrobe, atop a cardboard case that held an old typewriter. Heavy, clunky, and a little dangerous, it scraped my fingers whenever I missed a key. A marvelous machine.

Mom’s silk and wool suits brushed against my face. The closet, with its darkness and textures, became a secret nook where I could watch kid shows and let go of the restless school days. Nobody would have guessed I was in there, unless they saw the telescopic antenna poking out between the doors. Carefully placed, it caught whatever signal it could.

To have my own TV was a dream.

A color portal to pop culture

When my grandfather passed away in 1996, I inherited his color TV. This one didn’t end up in a closet. Perhaps I had outgrown my little nook or took TV for granted by then. Instead, it sat on my desk like a trophy, ready whenever I wanted it.

That 14-inch screen became my portal to American pop culture. I had glimpses of the big, beautiful American lifestyle through the Forrester family. Ridge’s 137th marriage was a master class in romance and scheming, plenty for Mummi to discuss with her little sister, Aili, a true TV lover herself.

But I related more to Blossom, a 14-year-old girl living with her single father and two big brothers. Played by Mayim Bialik, Blossom quickly felt like a big sister. I tried to learn the opening dance moves and wished I could share her smile and, as a chubby kid, maybe her abs too.

Blossom represented something of my own. It wasn’t a show I’d watch with my mom, but something I talked about with friends. It sawed my umbilical cord, and I leaned outward toward other coming-of-age shows like Sabrina, the Teenage Witch and, finally, Dawson’s Creek.

And if you need a little hit of 90s nostalgia yourself, here’s the Blossom intro:

Story driven shows

I’m convinced of two things: first, the love for TV is in the genes, and I got mine from Mummi. Second, I’m sure Ukki would turn in his grave to learn I didn’t use his TV to watch Suomi-Ruotsi maaottelu but fangirled James Van Der Beek in Dawson’s Creek.

As a kid, I was mesmerized by the intensity of a good series, and I still am. Story-driven shows with action and a solid script get me every time.

This happened with ER, Sex and the City, Grey’s Anatomy and Desperate Housewives. Later House of Cards blew my (photographer’s) mind with all that scheming mixed with meticulous composition and lighting. It is an amazing show set in one of my favorite worlds: the U.S. political scene.

Strong plotlines keep me hooked, and relatable characters make me want to donate my left kidney for another episode, another season. That’s what happened with Gilmore Girls, a show with the most unrealistic dialogue ever heard. But at the same time, teenager Rory Gilmore, my age-mate, was perfectly realistic. Why? Because she made reading look good. She carried her books and her reading sprees with confidence and delight. As a reader, her wishes became mine, and even though I’m nowhere near as intellectual, I could relate to her as a house mouse myself.

But now… Can we finally talk a bit about Melrose Place?

Sauna time

A quality TV show is just that. Watch Berlin Station, The Bear, Ozark or Ted Lasso, and you’ll understand. But in the end, I turn it on to be entertained. And that’s when soapies deliver. Sunset Beach and Emmerdale after school, Beverly Hills on the weekends, and Melrose Place each Wednesday, right after the sauna, at 9 pm.

Melrose Place made me fall in love with quirky, off-balance lives that were a bit outrageous. The Forrester clan was nothing compared to Dr. Kimberly Shaw, Michael Mancini, or Jo falling for Jake. For a young teenager, the gateway to their houses on Melrose was a gateway to a captivating Hollywood lifestyle I knew nothing of.

I literally ran for MP each week. Our weekly sauna shift ended, towel around wet hair, and down the stairs to my little TV. And then it began:

I challenged myself to remember all the names by heart, saying them out loud as if I were some kind of presenter. And then 60 minutes of unrealistic TV drama would sweep me away, and I loved every single minute.

Everyday luxury

Mummi would love the present time. No need to run for TV, no need to wait a whole week for another episode of your favourite show. At the same time, the world has become both smaller and bigger. TV is carrying trends, new ideas, new stories.

I still prefer TV over movies, though we don’t watch it as often. Most evenings it’s just one episode after the Kid has gone to bed. We’ve tried nearly every streaming service out there, but after the honeymoon phase, we’ve settled with a couple.

I dream about having more time to read and watch stories unfold, but right now life moves too fast. TV is no longer a luxury, but it is an everyday luxury, a small bliss at the end of the day. I still feel the same pull I felt sitting in that closet, antenna poking out, watching worlds bigger than my own.

Sometimes I wonder which of these shows I’d watch with Mummi.

Catch you on the next episode,
-Nani

I’d also love to hear from you:

• What role did TV play in your childhood and teenage years? And how about now?

• Was there a character you really related to, the way I connected with Rory?

• Did you have little rituals around watching TV: a favorite closet spot, certain snacks, watching with friends or family?

• And finally: after reading this, which shows would you recommend to me? 😉

You might also enjoy:

Subscribe now