I was struck by a feeling of homesickness this afternoon. Most of the time, I move through my life without feeling it too sharply, but every now and then it comes over me with such force that it stops me in my tracks.

Being Finnish-Australian, I try to weave small threads of Finland into my everyday life in every way I know how. It is my quiet way of holding on. My home is filled with reminders of where I come from — Moomins, Marimekko, iittala, Aarikka and Pentik. They are more than just beautiful things to me. They are little pieces of memory, belonging, and identity.

In my kitchen, I bake pulla, Karelian pies, and Finnish coffee cakes, filling the house with familiar scents that speak to something deep within me. Every now and then I watch Finnish films or listen to Finnish music, just to hear the language, the tone, the feeling of it. And whenever I manage to get my hands on Fazer Blue chocolate or salmiakki, I buy some without hesitation, as though taste itself might carry me home for a moment.

Most of the time, these small things are enough. They comfort me. They keep something precious alive inside me.

But sometimes they are not enough at all.

Sometimes no matter how much Finnishness I gather around me, it cannot quiet the longing. It only makes me more aware of what is missing.

So I dream.

I dream of the beauty of Lake Saimaa, of its stillness and depth, of the forests around it with their fresh, earthy smell that feels like it belongs in my very bones. I dream of winter landscapes wrapped in silence, and of autumn colours so rich and deep they seem almost too beautiful to bear. I dream of the hissing sound of water thrown onto sauna rocks, that sound so simple and ordinary, yet so tied to comfort, warmth and home.

I dream of endless summer nights when the light never seems to leave, and of the peace of the Finnish countryside, the kind of peace that settles not only around you, but within you. I dream of berries eaten straight from the bush, of a bowl full of mämmi, and of the familiar taste of archipelago malt and honey bread. I dream of all the little things that once surrounded me so naturally, things I never had to reach for because they were simply there, part of the fabric of life.

I dream of the beauty, the peace, and the familiarity of the country of my birth. I dream of the people I love. I dream of all that shaped me long before I had words for it. I dream of happiness, yes, but also of belonging — that deep and tender sense of knowing exactly where your heart first learned to feel at home.

Sometimes all this dreaming is enough to make me smile. Sometimes it wraps around me like a soft blanket and leaves me feeling warm.

But today it made me sad.

Today it filled my heart with homesickness.

The dictionary defines homesickness as “a feeling of grief and discomfort caused by longing for home or a familiar place”. That may be true, but to me homesickness is deeper than any definition. It is an ache of the heart. It is love stretched across distance. It is memory mixed with longing. It is the quiet sorrow of knowing that what you miss so deeply cannot be reached by simply opening a door and stepping outside.

Today I realised again that the country of my birth, and so many of the people I love there, feel further away than ever before. They are beyond my reach for now. That is the part that hurts. I can carry Finland in my heart, in my home, in my cooking, in my memories, but I cannot hold it in my hands. I cannot close the distance however much I may want to.

I can only hope that next year I will be well enough to travel there again, to breathe in that air, to hear those familiar sounds, to stand once more on the soil that still lives so deeply within me.

Until then, pea soup and rye bread will have to do.