i didn't think i had a choice

then this one simple question made me start choosing my own life on purpose

If you ever find yourself in the wrong story, leave.
– Mo Willems, Goldilocks and the Three Dinosaurs

You know those jobs that make your shoulders tense before you even walk through the door? The ones you drag yourself to, counting the seconds until you can go home?

That used to be my definition of work: something hard I had to do to survive. And I put so much pressure on myself to do a good job that every small mistake felt disastrous.

The other day, my friend reminded me it doesn’t have to be that way.

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She’s seven years younger than me, but already one of the wisest people I know. Every time I talk to her, she teaches me something new.

It was an unseasonably warm June night in Sweden, a random Thursday made a little more special. We were following a path through the woods to watch the Sweden–Japan game in a park in our small town.

I was content in a tank top and capris at midnight; that alone felt a bit magical.

Anticipation hung in the air. The dewy grass soaked my flip‑flops, but I didn’t mind. Excited chatter drifted through the trees; I could already tell the park would be crowded with chairs, blankets, and beer cans.

I’ve always loved moments like that—little collective disruptions of the usual rhythm.

My friend was talking about her summer job, selling tools to mostly middle‑aged men. She was practically glowing as she described it, which honestly surprised me.

After years in retail and service myself, I know how quickly the ease can get buried under rude comments, impossible schedules, and customers who forget you’re human.

That’s when she said it:

“I’m so grateful for this job, because every day I’m there, I choose to be there.”

Her words stood in stark contrast to her life the year before, when she was doing compulsory military service. Technically, she could have left then too—but choosing to go would have resulted in jail time.

Now, she knows exactly what it feels like not to be able to leave.

Maybe that’s why staying, when you choose it, carries its own kind of power.

“I know I can walk away,” she told me. “But I’m also choosing to be there. And I’m happy I get the chance to.”

Something in me softened at that. It reminded me of my dad’s mantra, which sounds better in Swedish, but I’ll do my best to translate:

Det blir vad du gör det till — It is what you make of it.

He’s said that to me more times than I can count—every time I’ve complained about work, impossible customers, or plans I didn’t really want to be a part of.

It used to annoy me. Some things you can’t control, I’d think. If someone’s rude to me, or if the energy at the dinner party is off, of course that will affect me.

But time and again, the statement has been true.

Sure, things like that can affect me, but I still have the choice to make of it what I can. And if nothing else, I can choose to leave.

Choosing your story on purpose

For a long time, I moved through life as if someone else were writing my story for me. Because I was the eldest daughter and the middle child, I thought I had to restore the balance and be the responsible one.

It felt prewritten: the expected choice.

I said yes to things I didn’t really want. I let fear of failure, of irresponsibility, keep me from going after my dream of being a writer. I stayed in friendships that made sense on paper, but made me feel less than myself.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot I was allowed to rewrite the story.

My friend’s words brought me back to something simple and radical:

I don’t have to be anywhere I’m only half‑living.

And if I’m going to stay, I want to choose it.

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I’m here for a good time

There’s a simple thought that’s somehow managed to change my life. No matter where I go or what I’m doing, I think:

I’m here for a good time.

Not in a reckless, never show up for anything that’s objectively hard, kind of way.

In a gentle way.

In the way where “a good time” means a life that actually feels like mine.

Where I do my best to find joy in conversations. Where I stop to notice the soft sheets and inhale the smell of summer rain. Where I laugh too loudly with people I love. And where I don’t stay in conversations that drain me.

When I ask myself, “If I’m here for a good time, do I still choose this?” the answers can be confronting.

Sometimes the answer is no.

No, I don’t want to lose my evening to my phone.
No, I don’t want to stay in this friendship that makes me feel less like myself.
No, I don’t want to build a life around a job that makes every Sunday night feel like resetting the timer on living.

Often, the answer is yes—but in a different tone.

Yes, I’ll go to work, but I’ll stop telling myself I’m trapped there.

Yes, I’ll show up, but I’ll look for the small moments that make it feel worth it: the kind customer, the inside joke, the pride in doing something well, for myself.

The circumstances might look the same from the outside.

Inside, it’s a whole other world.

Inside, I’m not the victim of my own life anymore. I’m the one choosing, and that changes everything.

I’m no longer reading the prewritten book of my life; I’m writing it.

It is what you make of it

What if contentment really is this simple? Not easy, but simple.

What if so much of our peace comes from remembering that we always have some kind of choice:

to stay or to leave,
to say yes or to say no,
to complain or to create something gentler inside the same four walls?

Of course, there are seasons when options are limited. There are jobs and obligations we can’t just walk away from without real consequences. My friend knows that better than most.

But even then, there’s usually one small place where we can choose.

We can choose how we speak to ourselves on the way there, and to notice one good thing before the day ends.

We can choose to remind ourselves that this is a chapter of our lives, not the whole book.

And when the day comes where we do have more freedom, we might find we’ve already been practicing. We’ve already been strengthening the muscle of asking:

Do I want to be here?
If I could leave without consequences, would I still stay?
If I’m here for a good time—a good life—what do I choose today?

I choose to be here

Now, when I wake up for something I’m dreading, I try my best to pause and ask:

Am I choosing this?

If the answer is yes—even a shaky one—I own it.

I remind myself: I chose this. I can choose differently later. But today, I’m here on purpose.

And if the answer is no, if I realize I’m only there because I’ve been afraid to disappoint someone, afraid to change, afraid to start over—then I know it’s time to start rewriting.

Somewhere between my dad’s mantra and my friend’s summer job, I’m learning this: Life becomes what you make of it, and the making—the choosing—matters.

And I’m here for a good time — not a perfect time, not a painless time,
but a true one, one I can look at and say:

I choose this.

And how grateful I am to be here.

take care,

♡ sofia

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for when you’re the one left behind (i’ve been there):

when your closest friends move on without you

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