To an English-speaking ear, Finnish can sound a little blunt. The words do not always arrive wrapped in softness. They are not dressed up or sweetened unnecessarily. Finns tend to say what they mean and mean what they say. There is a plainness to it, a spareness, a certain unvarnished honesty. To some, it can sound abrupt. But to those of us who grew up with it, it does not feel cold. It feels familiar. It feels true.

Finns are known for their dislike of small talk. In fact, one could quite reasonably ask whether Finnish small talk exists at all. And yet, amusingly, there is no shortage of conversation about the fact that it does not.

If you are trying to understand a Finn, there are a few things worth remembering. The first is that silence is not something to fear. The second is that the absence of small talk is not the same as the absence of warmth. And the third is that Finns usually go straight to the point.

For a Finn, silence is not awkward. It is natural. It can settle gently between people without needing to be broken or filled. Even in a group, silence can simply be allowed to exist. And when I say silence, I mean real silence — no one speaking, no one scrambling to rescue the moment with unnecessary words. For many non-Finns, that kind of quiet can feel uncomfortable, almost unbearable. There is often an urge to rush in and smooth it over, to say something, anything. But for a Finn, silence can feel peaceful. Respectful. Even comforting. It is not empty. It has texture. It has meaning. It says, I do not need to perform for you. I do not need to crowd you. I can simply sit here with you, as I am.

Perhaps that, too, is part of the Finnish soul — this deep respect for space, for stillness, for not taking more than is needed. Finns cherish their personal space, yes, but not always out of distance. Sometimes it is simply another form of care.

The same is true of the Finnish habit of going straight to the matter at hand. If a Finn launches into the topic without much greeting, or without the kind of pleasantries others might expect, it does not necessarily mean they are rude. More often, it means the opposite. It means they assume your time matters. They do not want to waste it with words that feel unnecessary. Why circle endlessly around the subject when you can simply arrive?

Even our sayings reveal something about us. In English, when something fits perfectly, it fits like a glove. In Spanish, it fits like a ring on the finger. In Italian, it fits like shoes painted on with a brush. But in Finnish, it fits like a fist in the eye. I grew up hearing that expression because my grandfather used it often. Even now, it makes me smile. There is something so unintentionally funny about it, so severe and so vivid, and yet to me it carries the sound of home. It reminds me of the people I come from, of their dry humour, their plain speaking, their refusal to make things prettier than they are.

I often think of one particular memory from when I first started school in Australia. I was eleven years old, newly arrived from Finland, trying to find my footing in a country that felt at once strange and dazzling. I asked my teacher for something in the straightforward Finnish way that came naturally to me. She looked at me and asked, “What is the magic word?”

I had absolutely no idea what she meant.

Finnish does not even have a word for please, not in the way English does. So I stood there, puzzled, trying to work out what answer she wanted. Then, with all the earnestness of a confused migrant child, I replied, “Abracadabra!”

Maybe my answer fitted like a fist in the eye. But at least it made her laugh.

There is something almost tender to me now in that memory. A child standing between two languages, two cultures, two ways of being in the world. In one world, directness was normal, silence was comfortable, and words were used carefully. In the other, there were new rituals to learn, new social codes, new little phrases that seemed to hold more weight than I yet understood.

So much can be misunderstood between cultures. Silence can be mistaken for coldness. Directness can be mistaken for rudeness. Few words can be mistaken for a lack of feeling. But often the truth is something else entirely.

Underneath the Finnish bluntness, there is often deep sincerity. Underneath the silence, there can be trust, gentleness, and respect. And beneath those old sharp-edged expressions, there is often a quiet warmth that does not announce itself loudly, but is there all the same.

That is perhaps the best way I know to explain it. Finnish may not always sound soft. It may not bend itself into politeness in the ways other languages do. But to me, it carries the voice of my childhood, the rhythm of my people, and the unmistakable feeling of home.