Helena Lindvall

Helena Lindvall and Jonas had been walking for days, heavy packs on their backs, through the Swedish mountain chain. Gröna bandet stretched out before them like a promise: from Treriksröset all the way down through the country.

Helena was forty years old and had grown up in Kalix, in a family that headed to the mountains every year with their skis, spent summers at the cabin, and treated nature as a given part of life. No grand adventures, as she put it herself, but a deep-rooted love of being outdoors. Jonas, her partner, carried a different kind of restlessness: a curiosity that over the years had taken him from chess to breakdancing to programming. "I've always jumped between interests," he said. "I need change. Otherwise I go a bit crazy."

Their shared dream had actually been about New Zealand and the Te Araroa trail, but the employer said no and it all came to a halt. Later, changes at work meant Helena raised the question again, the pandemic had closed the borders, and suddenly Gröna bandet became the obvious plan. From idea to start date took about a year, and during that year, everything practical fell into place to make the journey possible.

They zeroed out their costs at home. The apartment was rented out furnished, subscriptions were cancelled, and every recurring expense that could be cut was cut. "It has to be easy to get rid of the costs on the home front," Helena said. "Otherwise the threshold becomes too hard to get over." They had deliberately built a life without car loans, without a snowmobile, without pets that tied them down, not as a sacrifice but because freedom had always mattered most.

With their employers, they presented concrete plans. Helena told her boss that these breaks were important to her, and laid out how her responsibilities could be handled during her absence. Jonas did the same: pointed out what could become critical and how it would be resolved. Both were told yes.

Then it was just a matter of walking. They set off from Treriksröset on the first of July and headed south with short daily stages at first because Jonas's feet needed toughening up. Slowly they increased the distance. But as they approached Grövelsjön and the Norwegian border remained closed, they realized the rest of the Swedish stretch would mean forest roads through Värmland. "That doesn't feel stimulating," Helena concluded. The next day they were on a bus. Then they took the train to France and walked the Camino through Spain instead.

It ended up being four and a half months in total. They walked faster than expected in Spain: trained as they were after the mountain chain, they practically ran through the trail with their light packs. A legend spread among other hikers about "the Swedes" who had walked all the way from Sweden. Helena laughed at that; they'd taken the train, but the walking was real.

When they came home, everything was the same. Work was waiting. Everyday life kept spinning. And that was perhaps the most important lesson. "Everything is exactly the same when you come back," Jonas said. Nothing had fallen apart. Helena, on the contrary, felt stronger: more secure in herself, more confident that most things can be figured out. "I'm better at my job when I know I have something to look forward to," she noted.

Today they're planning to cycle around the world. They're renovating at home so they can rent out both houses, maybe in two or three years. Helena stopped hesitating a long time ago.

Her advice to anyone who's thinking about it is uncomplicated: "Don't hesitate. Just do it. Life is short." And the more practical side: bring it up with your employer a year in advance, present a plan for how your tasks will be handled while you're away, zero out all costs at home, and be prepared to change the plan mid-journey if needed. The best story might just come from the unexpected detours.

The threshold is never as high as it looks. You just have to step over it.