Hey My Love

Letters for the days you don’t want to feel alone

I’m Tonia, a Finnish mom, singer and writer of soft late-night letters. I write as if I were talking to someone I love – if you want, that someone can be you.

recent posts

Hey my love,
I write about my everyday life and feelings, as if I were talking to you, my long-distance love. I hope my letters make you feel the same warmth I feel knowing that you’re reading them.

  • Hey my love, Christmas lights and laundry drums

    Hey my love, Christmas lights and laundry drums

    Hey my love,

    This week our home has slowly started to glow.
    We’ve been hanging the last strings of lights, placing little Christmas decorations here and there — tiny stars on shelves, soft lights in the windows, little hints that the year is wrapping itself gently around us.

    Somewhere between all that, I’ve written two more Christmas songs.
    And one… well, not a Christmas song at all.
    Just something that wanted to be born in the middle of all this winter light.

    I’ve felt so at home this week.
    Maybe it’s the days before Christmas, maybe it’s the kids, maybe it’s the music — probably all of it together. But I’ve had this peaceful feeling in my chest, like my heart has finally found a comfortable place to sit down for a while. I’ve loved being at home with the children, making music when the house is quiet enough, letting melodies weave themselves into the everyday noise.

    Yesterday I went to pick up a gift for my oldest daughter: a new vacuum cleaner I had ordered from an electronics store. A very glamorous present, I know — but there’s something beautiful about giving her tools to build her own home.

    When I told the shop assistant my name, he looked at me from head to toe — small, short, surrounded by my kids — and then asked if I was taking both orders with me.

    I blinked and asked carefully,
    “Which other order do you mean?”

    That’s when he told me that the dryer I’d ordered had also arrived.

    For a moment I just stood there, feeling both amused and slightly intimidated.
    I told him that I’m feeling brave today and yes, I’ll take that one as well… and then I quietly wondered how on earth I was going to get it all to the car.

    Luckily, they had a loading bay.
    And luckily, I drive a family van — the kind of magical Tetris box where, if you fold a few seats down, you can fit half a small household in the back.

    So there we were: me, the kids, shopping bags, a brand new vacuum…
    and a whole dryer sliding into the boot of Dashboard Disco like it was no big deal.

    I think you would have laughed if you’d seen us.
    My little crew, slightly chaotic, cheeks red from the cold, loading a dryer into the car like we do this every day. I felt oddly proud of myself in that moment — handling it, figuring it out, making space for one more thing we need.

    When we got home, we went straight into gift-wrapping mode.
    Everyone disappeared into different corners with their own little piles of presents, trying to be secretive and failing adorably. Paper rustling, tape sticking to wrong places, whispers and giggles leaking under doors.

    At the same time we celebrated Finland’s Independence Day in our own small way:
    with Finnish chocolate and little sweet buns.
    No big speeches, no grand ceremonies — just us, our home, our treats, and a quiet kind of gratitude for the life we have here.

    Today is our family cleaning day.
    The plan is simple: music on, everyone gets a task, and little by little the house starts to breathe easier again. Floors cleared, surfaces wiped, crumbs chased away. It’s the kind of work that isn’t glamorous at all, but it’s part of building a life that feels good to live in.

    And somehow, ending the week this way feels right.
    Lights in the windows, gifts hidden in secret spots, a dryer waiting to be connected, the smell of cleaning products and something sweet, kids moving around the rooms with their own rhythm.

    Next week will be full again —
    band rehearsals, new music to shape, and the everyday adventures of my day job.

    But right now, honey, I’m in this soft, in-between moment:
    a home that is glowing just a little more than last week,
    songs that didn’t exist a few days ago,
    and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I can carry a dryer, wrap gifts, raise kids, sing, write… and still have enough heart left to sit down and talk to you like this.

    I keep imagining you here, watching it all unfold.
    Maybe leaning against the doorway while I wrap the last present,
    or helping me lift the dryer with that “I’ve got this” look in your eyes.
    Maybe stealing a piece of chocolate when you think I’m not looking.

    And later, when the house is clean and the kids are calm,
    I imagine us sitting together in the living room, tree lights twinkling,
    me with my legs tucked under me, you with one hand resting on my knee,
    both of us just breathing in the quiet after a long, full week.

    Thank you for letting me share this little slice of life with you.
    It means more than you know that you’re here to read it.

    Sleep well when night reaches you, my love.
    Let the lights in your own world glow a little softer tonight.

    I’ll be here again soon,
    with new songs, new stories,
    and always —
    my heart turned gently toward you. 🤍✨

  • Hey my love, you’re my home after a long weekend

    Hey my love, you’re my home after a long weekend

    Hey my love,

    I feel like I’ve lived three weeks inside one weekend, and now I’m writing to you from under a blanket, finally still.

    Let me curl up next to you in words and tell you how it’s been.

    On Friday I went straight from work to our staff Christmas party.
    The atmosphere was warm in that soft. There was mulled wine, good music and silly little guessing games that made everyone laugh. We exchanged gifts, tried to guess who had brought what, and for a while it felt like the whole work week had melted away into friendly noise.

    After that we headed into the city to play glow-in-the-dark mini golf.
    It was so much fun — and surprisingly difficult. Maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was the mood, maybe it was the fact that we couldn’t stop laughing, but I’m pretty sure my focus went on holiday halfway through the game. Still, that kind of playful, light-hearted competition is very “me”.

    When we finished, we went upstairs to the restaurant to dance.
    The music was good, the people were happy, and the kind of tiredness that makes you a little silly was hanging in the air. I danced, smiled, talked a bit… but somewhere underneath it all, my body was quietly saying, “That’s enough for today.”

    So I did something that felt strangely luxurious: I left early.
    I slipped away from the noise, let the night stay out there in the city, and came home to my bed. Crawling under the covers felt better than any party. If you had been there, I think I would have pulled you close and just sighed into your chest, letting the week finally fall off my shoulders.

    The next day, Saturday, I took two of the kids to Helsinki to see an ice hockey game.
    The plan was that they’d go to the match while I stayed behind somewhere quiet to rest. But my sister knows me too well — she managed to talk me into coming with her to the Christmas market in the city centre.

    It was beautiful: lights, stalls, people wrapped up in scarves, that particular mix of cinnamon, cold air and street food. I’m glad I went… but next time, I promise myself I’ll go there well-rested. My body was still carrying the weight of the week and the late night, and I could feel it in every step.

    We got home quite late, because the game ran long into the evening.
    By the time we finally walked through the door, I felt like a balloon slowly losing air. I slipped into bed grateful for the darkness and the silence.

    On Sunday, I had another kind of Christmas party — this time with my mum.
    Thankfully, it was exactly what I needed: calm, cosy, full of good food and Christmas music. No rush, no loud crowds, just gentle company and simple moments. I could feel my nervous system saying, “Yes, this is more my speed right now.”

    Even then, I was tired.
    Not just “I stayed up late” tired, but the kind of tired where your soul feels a bit worn at the edges. So I went to bed early again, hoping that Monday would greet me with a lighter body and a clearer head.

    But this morning, when I went to work, something felt off.
    At first I thought it was just leftover exhaustion from everything — a busy week, a full weekend, not quite enough sleep. But as the hours passed, it got worse.

    Around midday my vision started to blur, the world going a little fuzzy at the edges, like someone had turned down the sharpness of reality. My body began to feel heavy and distant, and I knew that feeling all too well: a migraine was coming.

    Eventually I had to leave work and go home in the middle of the day.
    As soon as I got through the door, I realised just how bad it was getting. That familiar, painful pressure behind my eyes, the nausea, the way the light felt too bright even when it wasn’t.

    Thankfully, I managed to take my migraine medicine in time.
    Now, as I write this, the pain has softened into something bearable — a dull echo instead of a scream. I’m tired, a bit fragile, but okay.

    And I keep thinking:
    oh, my love… I wish you were here today.

    I imagine you sitting at the edge of my bed, your hand resting lightly on my hair, telling me I don’t have to do anything right now except rest. Maybe you’d bring me water, make sure the room was dark enough, remind me that the world can wait a few hours while my body resets.

    Instead, it’s just me, my blanket, the quiet, and you in my thoughts.

    The rest of today I’m giving myself permission to do absolutely nothing.
    No goals, no pressure, no productivity. Just lying down, breathing slowly, letting my nervous system find its way back to calm.

    I wanted to tell you all this not because any of it is extraordinary, but because it’s real. This is what my life looks like right now: playful mini golf and glow-in-the-dark laughter, noisy hockey games, Christmas markets, gentle moments with my mum… and then a sudden stop, a migraine forcing me to lie down and listen to my body.

    And in all of that, you are the thread running through everything.

    You’re the person I think of when I’m dancing and suddenly wish I had your hands on my waist.
    You’re the one I picture next to me on the tram through Helsinki, sharing a paper cup of something warm.
    You’re the one I’d want sitting beside me at my mum’s table, laughing at our family stories.
    You’re the one I long for when my head is pounding and I just want someone to say, “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. Just rest.”

    So tonight, my sweet love, I’m going to close my eyes and imagine that you’re here.
    That you tuck the blanket a little tighter around me, kiss my forehead and tell me I did enough this week.

    And maybe, as you read this, you can feel my hand reaching back toward you too — even from this quiet, dimly lit room, with the remnants of pain still fading from my head.

    Thank you for staying with me through this long, messy, beautiful, exhausting weekend in words.

    Sleep well when your night comes, honey.
    Rest deeply for both of us.

    I’ll write to you again when my head is lighter.
    I’m already looking forward to it. 🤍✨

  • Hey my love, tell me what you like

    Hey my love, tell me what you like

    Hey my love,

    This morning I stood in the kitchen, half asleep, making coffee… absolutely convinced it was Wednesday.
    When I finally realised it was already Thursday, I almost laughed out loud. No wonder I feel like the week has just slipped through my fingers — it really has.

    The days have gone by so quickly that some of the goals I set for myself at the beginning of the week are still waiting in the corner, waving at me like, “Hey, remember us?” And I’m not sure if the problem is that I aimed too high… or if the darkness of this time of year has just stolen a bit of my energy. Maybe a little of both.

    And that brings me to the studio.

    I had plans for last night. Big creative plans.
    I did such an efficient core workout beforehand that I basically emptied my own battery. By the time I got to the studio, I had just enough energy to carry in a more comfortable work chair for myself, open the project on the screen… and then quietly close it again.

    No recording, no brave takes, no new magic.
    Just me, my tired body, and the gentle decision to leave it for another day.

    I don’t want to sing my own songs if the feeling isn’t right.
    Those recordings will be my footprints in the world, something that stays even when the moment has passed — and I want to be proud of them when I listen back. So last night, loving my music meant letting it wait. I hope you’d understand that, honey.

    Today after work I went to see the apartment I told you about earlier.
    It really was lovely: bright, cosy, not too big, not too small. I looked around and thought, “This is exactly our size.”

    But there were a couple of practical problems.
    It would be difficult to fit the washer-dryer tower that I really want to keep — and the fridge was so small that I’d have to buy an extra one to survive normal family life. Little things, but big enough to matter when you’re trying to make a real home.

    The woman showing the apartment — the agent — was wonderful, though.
    She listened to me carefully, asked a lot of questions, and at the end she said something that changed the whole tone of the day:

    She told me she has another apartment becoming available soon.
    One that might suit us even better.

    A spacious living room.
    A fireplace.
    Three bedrooms.
    A sauna.
    A fully equipped kitchen.
    And a sweet little balcony.

    I’ll get to see it on Monday.
    From the way she described it, it sounds like a place where we could really breathe. She even said that if everything feels right, I could basically move in as soon as Monday — and that on that day I might be choosing which keys I want to take: the first apartment, or this new one.

    I’ve already given her my information, so the practical side is in motion.
    Just knowing that I’m this close to having options — real options — feels like such a relief.

    I’m trying not to let myself get too excited just yet.
    I want to wait until the moment is real, until the keys are truly in my hand. But somewhere inside me, a little light has definitely switched on. And if this works out, I want us to celebrate it together — you and me, my love.

    Tonight, unusually, I won’t add any photos to this letter.
    Instead, I want to ask you something.

    What kind of pictures would you like to see with these letters?

    Would you like more small glimpses of everyday life — my makeup in the bathroom mirror, a half-eaten dinner plate, the view from the bus stop, the corner of the sofa where I curl up with my blanket?
    Is it okay if I’m not in every picture?

    Does a simple photo of my coffee cup feel boring to you…
    or does it colour the words in a nice way, make you feel a little closer?

    I genuinely want to know, sweetheart.
    I’m not just writing into the air — I’m writing to you. And I want these letters, and the little moments I share, to be the kind you look forward to, the kind that feel like a warm hand on your shoulder at the end of the day.

    Tomorrow we have our company Christmas party.
    I have no idea yet what I’m going to wear — that’s a problem for future me. But I did buy the present today, and printed a childhood photo of myself. They’re going to put everyone’s baby photos up on the wall, and we’ll have to guess who is who.

    I’m already imagining your reaction if you saw that little version of me.
    Would you recognise me in those eyes? Would you smile and say, “Of course that’s you, baby”?

    For now, I’m here — somewhere between tired and hopeful, between old keys and maybe-new ones, between unfinished songs and future recordings.

    And I’m very, very glad that you’re here with me in this in-between space.

    Thank you for reading my wandering thoughts, for letting me lean on you a little through these words.

    Sleep well when your night comes, my love.
    Dream something gentle.
    I’ll let you know on Monday which keys end up in my hand — and maybe, just maybe, we’ll be one step closer to a new chapter together. 🤍✨

  • Hey my love, I saved what’s left of today for you

    Hey my love, I saved what’s left of today for you

    Hey my love,

    I didn’t sleep enough last night.
    You know that heavy kind of tired, where the alarm rings and it feels like you’ve only just closed your eyes? That was me this morning — staring at my phone, trying to convince my body that yes, we really do have to get up now.

    So I dragged myself to the mirror, still half-asleep, and started doing my makeup.
    There was something strangely comforting about that little ritual: the soft light in the bathroom, the familiar brushes, the way my face slowly started to look a bit more awake than I felt. I caught my own reflection and thought, “If you saw me now — messy hair, sleepy eyes, quietly fighting the morning — I hope you’d smile and say, ‘You’ve got this, baby.’”

    Coffee helped, of course.
    It’s funny how much hope can fit into one mug. The first warm sip, the smell, the way it slowly pushes the fog out of your mind… I swear, some days I function more on coffee and stubbornness than anything else.

    Work went by in a blur today.
    It was one of those days that just whooshes past you — children’s voices, little hands, tasks here and there, and suddenly it’s already almost over. My shift was a bit shorter than usual, because I had a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon.

    The check-up went well, by the way.
    Everything is okay for now, and I could feel my shoulders drop a little when I heard it. There’s always that tiny pause inside you when you’re waiting for results, isn’t there? Just a heartbeat where the world feels very fragile. Walking out of there with a “you’re fine” felt like a quiet blessing. 😇🙏

    When I opened the door at home, I got a little surprise:
    my oldest daughter and her friend were already there, waiting for me. I love that feeling — coming home from work and finding people I love in my kitchen as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

    So I slipped off my shoes, washed my hands and started cooking.
    There’s a certain kind of peace in chopping vegetables, stirring food, setting plates on the table. The girls sat nearby, chatting and laughing, and I just listened to the sound of it all — forks, voices, the small rhythm of everyday life.

    Sometimes I wish you could sit at that table too.
    I’d give you a plate, pour you something to drink, and you could listen to our messy little family soundtrack for an evening. I think you’d fit right in.

    Today was also a gym day.
    On the days when I finish work a bit earlier, I try to take better care of my body — move it, stretch it, remind it that it’s strong. It’s not always easy to find the motivation, especially when I’m tired, but I know how much better I feel afterwards. I like to imagine you would be proud of me for showing up for myself like that.

    After the workout, there’s one more chapter to this day:
    the studio.

    Tonight I’m heading there, into that little world of cables, microphones and melodies, to see what we can create. I won’t tell you yet what we’re working on — let me save that for tomorrow. I like the idea of you wondering, just a little, what kind of sound might be born from this evening.

    Not everything today was easy, though.
    I found out that the best rental apartment I’d been hoping for went to someone else. For a moment it stung — that small, sharp disappointment of “we almost had it”. It’s strange how quickly you can start picturing your life in a place that isn’t yours yet: where the sofa would go, how the light might fall in the mornings, where the kids would drop their bags.

    But tomorrow there’s a viewing for another home I’ve been thinking about for us.
    New possibility, new “maybe”. I can feel the little flutter of nerves and excitement already. I’m trying to keep my heart open without letting it break every time the answer is no.

    And in all of this — the too-short sleep, the warm car, the laughter at work, the doctor’s relief, the cooking, the gym, the studio, the lost apartment and the new chance — there’s this one steady thought:

    you.

    I keep finding you in the small spaces of my day.
    In the mirror as I get ready, wondering if you’d find me beautiful in that moment.
    In the twinkle of Christmas lights, imagining you sitting next to me on the couch.
    In the kitchen, wishing I could dish up an extra portion and slide it in front of you with a quiet “here, eat.”

    Honey, if you were here tonight, I think I’d wrap my tired body around you like a blanket. I’d let my head rest on your shoulder and tell you about my day — about the good news from the doctor, about the disappointment with the apartment, about the little excitement bubbling under the surface because of tomorrow’s viewing and tonight’s studio session.

    But since you’re there and I’m here, this letter will have to carry all of that instead.

    So wherever you are reading this — in your bed, on your sofa, on a late train or a quiet kitchen — I hope you feel how close you are to me in my thoughts. You’re not just a stranger on the other side of a screen. You’re the person I’m writing to when I say:

    Hey my love.
    You matter here.
    You’re the one I’m saving these moments for.

    Sleep well when night comes to you, sweetheart.
    I’ll tell you tomorrow what we managed to create in the studio, and how the apartment viewing went.

    Until then, feel my goodnight pressed softly against your cheek through these words.

    Good night, my love. 🤍✨

  • Hey my love, I saved this evening for you

    Hey my love, I saved this evening for you

    Hey my love,

    This morning felt soft in a way I really needed.
    No rush, no chaos — just a quiet apartment, a warm cup of coffee in my hands and that slow, sleepy feeling of a new day beginning.

    I sat there for a moment, still wrapped in that early silence, sipping my coffee and thinking of you. I imagined you somewhere out there, maybe also holding a mug, maybe still half-asleep, and it made the morning feel a little less lonely.

    After that I slipped into my little routine: a bit of makeup in front of the mirror, hair still slightly messy from sleep, trying to make my face look at least as awake as my mind felt. I don’t know why, but I like the idea that if you saw me in that moment — bare feet, coffee on the sink, mascara in hand — you’d smile and think, “There she is, getting ready to conquer another ordinary day.”

    Today I actually remembered to plug in the car to warm up in time.
    Outside it’s already properly cold, the kind of frost that bites your fingers when you forget your gloves. So it felt extra good to step into a warm car instead of sitting there shivering and waiting for the windows to defrost. I pulled on my wool socks before leaving — my personal little act of survival against the winter. You’d probably laugh if you saw how seriously I take my socks.

    Work had a light feeling today.
    My colleagues were in a good mood, smiles came easily and laughter kept popping up in small pockets between tasks. The children brought their usual chaos and sweetness, and the day moved so quickly that I barely had time to check the clock. There’s something comforting about those days when time just… flows. No huge drama, no heavy clouds, just little moments that pass gently by.

    By the time I finished and walked out, it was already completely dark.
    Where I live, the sun doesn’t stay with us for long at this time of year — by four in the afternoon it’s already slipping away, and at five the world feels like late night. There’s a strange beauty in that too, though. The air is cold, the sky is deep and dark, and the lights from windows and street lamps become tiny floating stars.

    When I opened my own front door, the first thing that greeted me was the glow of the seasonal lights at home. It’s such a small thing — a string of warm lights, a soft sparkle here and there — but they make such a difference. It felt like the apartment was saying, “Welcome back. You did well today.”

    Tonight I’m not planning anything big.
    Just the small, necessary things: a few dishes, a quick tidy-up, whatever absolutely has to be done. The rest I’m saving for myself.

    My plan is simple:
    to let the evening slow down.
    To sit in the living room with the Christmas tree lights on, the rest of the room dim and quiet, and just breathe. Maybe put on some soft music, maybe nothing at all. Just me, the lights, a warm drink… and you in my thoughts.

    I wonder how your day has been.
    Did you have a moment for yourself today, even a tiny one?
    Did someone make you smile? Did something annoy you? Did you eat well, or did you just grab whatever you could on the go?

    If you were here, I think I’d pull you onto the sofa with me, tuck your feet under a blanket and place a mug in your hands. We wouldn’t need to talk much — unless you wanted to. Maybe we’d just sit there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the little lights on the tree and letting the day fall off us piece by piece.

    But since you’re there and I’m here, this letter will have to be my way of doing that.
    My way of sitting next to you for a while.

    So tonight, as I lean back and let my body finally relax, know that somewhere in this cold little corner of the world, there’s a woman in wool socks and soft light who is thinking of you with a warm, steady kind of affection.

    Sleep well when your night comes, honey.
    Wrap yourself in something soft, close your eyes, and if you feel a little extra warmth in your chest, maybe that’s just my thoughts finding their way to you.

    Good night, my love.
    I’m already looking forward to telling you about tomorrow. 🤍✨

  • Hey my love, from the in-between

    Hey my love, from the in-between

    Hey my love,

    Tonight I’m writing to you from somewhere in between.
    Not from a forever home, not from a fresh new beginning – but from that strange quiet place where you’re still waiting to see what happens next.

    Maybe you know that place too.

    This morning I woke up in our little rental, with a warm coffee in my hands and the kids still sleepy around me. The apartment is cosy and kind to us: it keeps out the snow and the wind, it holds our pizza nights and movie marathons, the drawings on the fridge and the shoes piled in the hallway.

    And still, underneath all that, there’s this soft constant thought:
    this isn’t it. Not yet.

    It feels a bit like sitting in a train that hasn’t started moving. You know you’re going somewhere, you sort of know the direction, but the platform outside the window still looks exactly the same.

    During the day I move through all the practical things.

    I get ready for work, pack snacks, answer messages from banks. They’ve seen my numbers and heard my dreams. They’ve looked at the house I fell in love with – a tired but beautiful one, full of potential – and repeated the same answer in different words:

    “Not this one. Not like this. Not yet.”

    According to their calculations I can borrow a certain amount, but only if the house is already in good condition, with no big renovations needed.
    The funny thing is: the houses that are “good enough” for the bank are too expensive for me, and the ones that are affordable enough for me are “too broken” for the bank.

    So here I am in the middle.
    Not able to buy, not wanting to stay stuck. Looking for a rental that feels a little more like a real home while I keep working, waiting and quietly building the future piece by piece.

    On my break at work, a colleague and I talk about apartments and mortgages. We laugh, we complain a bit, and then we go back to our groups, to the kids who mostly care about who’s pushing the swing next and whose turn it is to choose the song.

    Life goes on, even when the paperwork says “not yet”.

    In the evening, after homework and dinner and dishes, I go out for a walk. The air is cold and my thoughts are full. I think about the house that slipped away, about the next email I’m waiting for from an estate agent, about whether the next place will finally feel like “we can breathe here”.

    Maybe you know that feeling too – when your life is safe enough, but your heart is still pressing its forehead against the window, looking at something a little further away.

    On the weeks when my kids are with their dad, the in-between feels even louder.
    The hallway is suddenly empty. The toys are still, the apartment seems to exhale. Those are the evenings when the silence stretches and the questions get big.

    And that’s where you come in.

    Knowing that I can sit down with a cup of coffee, a small ray of light slipping through the blinds, and write to you – that changes everything. This “just a rental” turns into a tiny writing room, a place where my thoughts become letters to you.

    I imagine you in your own in-between place.
    Maybe you’re waiting for something too: a new home, a message, a decision, a person. Maybe you’re also living in a room that isn’t quite yours, wondering when the train will finally start moving.

    If you are, I want you to know: you’re not the only one.

    There is a quiet strength we grow in these waiting rooms of life.
    We learn to make temporary spaces feel like home.
    We laugh with people we love on floors we don’t own.
    We keep dreaming, even when nothing is certain yet.

    I’m learning to be proud of that in myself.
    Of paying my bills, loving my kids, singing, working, planning – even before everything looks the way I hope it someday will.

    This is not the end of the story.
    It’s just one of those chapters where the character opens a lot of doors and most of them lead nowhere – until one day, one of them doesn’t.

    Until that day, I’ll keep doing what I can with what I have… and I’ll keep coming back here to you, letter after letter.

    So if you’re also in a borrowed space, or sleeping in a room that feels temporary, come sit by me for a moment.
    We can be in-between together.

    You bring your stories, I’ll bring mine,
    and maybe this little corner of the internet can be our shared living room –
    a place that feels like home even before we find the next one.

    For tonight, I’m closing the tabs with loan offers and housing listings.
    The uncertainty can wait until tomorrow.

    Right now it’s just you, me, this quiet screen…
    and the soft promise that things can change – slowly at first, and then all at once.

    Sleep well, my love.
    We’ll keep walking toward together, one small step – and one letter – at a time. 🤍

  • Hey my love – this is the day before silence

    Hey my love – this is the day before silence

    Hey my love,

    Today was my last day of beautiful family chaos before the quiet week begins. Somehow that makes every tiny moment feel a little louder, a little brighter — like my heart is trying to memorise it all before the volume suddenly drops.

    This morning was slow and soft. The little ones climbed into bed on both sides of me, warm and sleepy, until one of them pointed at the pale winter light sneaking through the curtains and whispered, “It’s time to wake up, mum. It’s morning.”
    Do you know that feeling — when you’re still half in a dream, but someone you love is already smiling you into the day?
    I slipped out of bed, made myself a cup of coffee and sat down to write to you about my week. The apartment smelled like freshly ground beans and sleepy kids, and I remember thinking how lucky I am to have someone to share even these simple details with. You.

    Later we headed outside. Most of the snow had melted overnight, leaving the ground wet and a bit sad-looking. The kids were disappointed that we couldn’t go sledding after all, but it didn’t last long. We grabbed a ball and started playing instead. Soon there were shouts and laughter, shoes slipping in the slush, cheeks turning pink from the cold. It wasn’t the winter wonderland they were hoping for, but it became our own little version of it anyway.

    Afterwards we came back in with cold fingers and hungry stomachs and turned the kitchen into a small, noisy restaurant. My oldest daughter’s friends from vocational school were visiting, and they all wanted to eat with us. So we cooked together: oven sausages, some with cheese and some without, smooth boiled potatoes, pea soup for the sausage-haters, and a big salad with carrot sticks that the younger ones proudly chopped and mixed.

    The table was crowded — plates everywhere, kids talking over each other, someone always reaching for the ketchup. For a moment I just stood there, looked around and thought,
    “I wish you could see this too, my love.”
    What did you eat today? Was it quiet where you were, or was your table full as well?

    After we’d eaten, one of my daughter’s friends shyly asked if I could shorten her new shirt. It’s important to her — a shirt from her favourite artist’s concert two nights ago. So I took out the sewing machine, smoothed the fabric, pinned it carefully and started working while the living room kept bubbling with laughter and chatter. There was something really tender about it: trusting me with something she loves, letting me adjust it so it fits her life better.

    At some point the noise in the other room changed — you know that specific sound that makes every parent lift an eyebrow? Half giggle, half “this is getting out of hand”. I went to look and there they were: three young adults, two preschoolers and two teens all piled up on my bed. And my poor sofa-bed, already a veteran of many movie nights, had finally had enough: two legs broken clean off.

    For a second I just stared… and then I laughed. What else can you do, really?
    So now my bed is pushed into a narrow couch until I can find new parts for it. Everyday circus, always.

    But from that little disaster came something unexpectedly lovely. With the bed pushed back, the living room suddenly had extra space — just enough room for a small Christmas tree. So we brought it out. The kids helped untangle the lights and we decorated together, Michael Bublé’s Christmas album playing in the background.

    Tiny hands hanging ornaments, someone carefully placing tinsel, warm yellow fairy lights reflecting in the window… It felt like our own little snow globe moment, even without the snow outside. I caught myself thinking of you again — wondering if you have any lights up where you are, and if you also get that quiet, nostalgic feeling when the first Christmas songs start playing.

    Now the day has gently folded itself into night. We’ve had our evening snack, the little ones are in bed, and I’m sitting here in the half-dark, lit mostly by the tree and the soft glow from the kitchen. The apartment is finally still.

    And that’s when it hits me: tomorrow starts my week without the kids.
    The switch from a full house to an empty one is always a bit of a shock. One day it’s tiny socks everywhere and constant “mum, look!”, and the next day it’s just… silence. I love my quiet moments, but there’s also a little ache that comes with them — the kind that curls up next to you when the door closes and the echo fades.

    That’s why I’m so grateful you’re here.

    I hope you’ll stay with me through this next week too — from the first steaming cup of morning coffee, through the small daytime mishaps, all the way to the quiet evenings when the only sound is the hum of the fridge and my own thoughts. Knowing I can keep writing to you, that you’ll be on the other side of these words, makes the coming silence feel less sharp and more like a soft blanket.

    So if you’re willing, walk with me through these child-free days as well.
    Share them with me the way you’ve shared this week — the little joys, the heavy moments, the ridiculous ones (like broken bed legs and flying mattress springs). Let me be the voice that keeps you company when your own rooms feel a bit too quiet too.

    For now, I’m going to let this long, lovely day settle.
    I hope your day has treated you kindly. I hope you’ve had at least one moment that made you smile without realising it. And if not, I hope these words can be that moment, even just a little.

    Sleep well, my love.
    I’ll leave the fairy lights on for both of us. 🌙💛

  • What a Week – Glad You’re Here to Share It With Me

    What a Week – Glad You’re Here to Share It With Me

    Hey my love,

    This week has felt like one long, messy, beautiful heartbeat.
    I thought I’d sit down and tell you about it — the way I would if you were lying next to me, and I was tracing shapes on your hand while I talked.

    The days have been starting slowly, in the best way.
    I’ve been waking up wrapped in my ridiculously soft bed, the kind of bed my kids say is “dangerous” because you could easily oversleep and miss school.

    Most mornings go like this:
    my smallest one climbs into the bed, leans close and whispers,
    “Good morning mum, it’s morning,”
    and points to the light that’s sneaking in through the curtains.

    There’s that first stretch, the weight of the blanket, the feeling of warm skin and cold air. Then I drag myself to the kitchen, hair gone wild, and wrap my hands around a big mug of coffee that basically says, in Finnish and with swear words:
    “Yeah yeah, I’m trying my damn best all the time.”

    It makes me smile every time I read it.

    And then there’s Dashboard Disco.
    That’s what I call my car — my everyday circus on four wheels.

    Imagine this: kids in the back, music loud, and the dashboard blinking at me like a Christmas tree. Warning lights, mystery symbols, doors that sometimes decide “nope” when I try to open them. It’s a love–hate relationship, but there’s something strangely comforting about it too.

    I wrote a whole song about that car.
    It’s chaotic and a bit broken, but it carries us where we need to go.
    A little like me, maybe.

    Work has been its usual mixture of exhaustion and magic.

    One of my favourite days was “take your child to work” day.
    My daughter came with me, and from the moment we walked through the door she was… radiant. Calm, grounded, smiling in that quiet way of hers.

    She joined the kids on the floor, helped with the more challenging ones, and somehow held the whole room together with her presence. My colleagues kept telling me how balanced and gentle she is, how naturally she handles the children.

    I stood there watching her and thought:
    oh.
    I did something right.

    There was birthday cake, a forest trip through soft snow, kids eating pizza and drinking juice with red noses and bright eyes, and a little dance outside while the snowflakes fell around us. I came home tired to the bone and full in the heart.

    When the children at daycare got pizza, I promised my own kids we’d have our very own pizza day at home too. So we put on Italian music, turned the kitchen into a tiny trattoria and just let the flour fly. Little hands pressing dough, tomato sauce finding its way onto cheeks, laughter bouncing off the walls… for a while, the whole apartment smelled like a pizzeria and sounded like a holiday. It was messy and loud and absolutely perfect.

    Home, of course, decided to add its own drama.

    One evening I opened the door and walked straight into a wall of smoke.
    The smell hit first — burnt, heavy, the kind that clings to your hair and clothes. For a second my heart stopped. I imagined flames, alarms, sirens.

    But it wasn’t that.
    The fuse had blown and saved us, and my poor old dryer had finally given up on life. May it rest in peace and never set anything on fire again.

    So now on my mental list there’s:
    new dryer,
    new vacuum (the last one also died on me this week),
    car battery change,
    back doors to fix,
    inspection coming up,
    hopefully a move to a bigger, healthier home…
    and somewhere between all that, a small wish to one day sit in an actual salon chair, with someone washing my hair and saying, “just relax, we’ll take care of you.”

    In the middle of all this “real life”, a melody visited me.

    I was sitting by the window in the kids’ room when a Christmas song suddenly looped itself into my head — soft, emotional, a little bittersweet. I grabbed the mic and recorded a rough demo right there, toys on the floor, daylight fading outside.

    No studio lights, no perfect acoustics.
    Just me, a microphone, and a feeling I didn’t want to lose.

    I’m shy about my own songs.
    Playing covers is safer; people like hearing what they already know. They sing along, they clap, they book us again.
    But my own songs… those are little pieces of my heart, and putting them out into the world feels like stepping outside without a coat in the middle of winter.

    Still, every time someone tells me I should share more of them, it moves something in me.
    Maybe one day soon I’ll be brave enough to let them go.

    At one point I was prepping some eggs for the kids’ snack, and when I opened the carton I realised I’d apparently received a little piece of chicken butt as a free extra. Lucky me.


    So here I am tonight:

    The kids have crumbs of pizza still hiding somewhere under the table.
    The air in the apartment smells like tomato sauce.
    There’s a soft chill creeping in from the windows, the kind that makes you pull the blanket up to your chin.
    My body is tired in that good way — from swimming hall echoes, grocery bags, little feet in the snow, and all the memory of the week.

    And in the middle of it all, I’m sitting here with my laptop, writing to you.

    To the you who reads this.
    To the you who maybe also juggles bills and dreams, kids and loneliness, cosy mornings and complicated messages from strangers.
    To the you who sometimes wishes someone would ask,
    “How was your day? Really?”

    I hope you can feel this:

    I’m here, typing these letters as if I were talking to you, my long-distance love.
    I hope my words wrap around you like a warm blanket, the way your presence — even from far away — wraps around me when I imagine you reading them.

    And I hope, more than anything,
    that my letters make you feel even a fraction of the warmth I feel
    knowing that you’re here,
    reading them.

    Until the next one,
    hey my love —
    sleep well tonight. 🤍

  • Hey my love, this is for you

    Hey my love, this is for you

    Hey my love,

    I don’t know who you are yet.
    Maybe you’re reading this in bed, on the couch after a long day, or on your phone somewhere between “I’m fine” and “I really wish someone would ask how I am”.

    So let me ask:
    How was your day? Really.

    I started this blog because I realised how good it feels to write to “you” – to tell someone about the small, real moments of life. The messy kitchen. The kids’ laughter and meltdowns. The broken things, the money stress, the little victories, the crushes, the music, the quiet late at night.

    These posts are letters.
    You can read them as if they were written just for you.

    If you ever feel lonely, I hope this space makes you feel a little less alone – like someone is talking with you, not just at you.

    I’ll keep writing.
    If you keep reading, maybe we’ll both feel a bit less alone.