When the lilacs begin to bloom and the forest floor turns into a sea of white lily of the valley, that’s when I miss you most of all. The air grows heavy with a perfume that drifts through my memories like mist through the birch trees, soft and persistent, calling me back.

When your nights vanish into light and the sun refuses to sleep, I miss you most of all. In those endless summer days, when the sky glows with a promise too tender to name, I ache for your midnight sun.

When your people leave their city lives behind and return to the arms of their little summer cottages – nestled beside dark blue, mirror-still lakes — I miss you more than words can hold. I see them lighting fires in stone hearths, chopping wood with quiet purpose, the soft hiss of birch bark catching flame. I hear the familiar creak of wooden sauna doors, the gentle splash as someone slips into the cold water, steam curling like whispers into the evening air.

When coffee is poured into enamel mugs on weathered porches, when voices rise in laughter without needing to impress, I miss you. When the table is set with fresh rye bread, salted butter, new potatoes, dill, and herring, I ache for your simple abundance — the kind that nourishes the body and the soul.

I miss the soft crunch of gravel beneath my feet on your quiet country roads, the way wildflowers nod beside fields that stretch like pages from an old storybook. I miss the lullaby of the wind in the pines, the silence that is never empty, always alive with birdsong and memory.

When I hear a distant accordion or a melancholic folk song drifting from a radio, I miss your voice, your stories, your songs that speak of longing and belonging.

I miss the quiet pride in your people, the strength wrapped in silence, the kindness that doesn’t shout but shows itself in actions.

When I stumble across a photo of a lake at twilight, my throat tightens. Because it’s not just about its beauty. It’s about belonging. It’s about the piece of me that still walks those mossy paths, still watches the sun slip between tree trunks, still listens for my grandmother’s voice carried on the wind.

And when the first golden leaves of autumn start to fall, I miss you then too — but not like this. No, it is in your brief, shining summer — when the world opens wide and your light wraps around everything — that the ache in me becomes almost too much to bear.

You are not just my birthland, Finland. You are my first language of love and longing. You are every heartbeat that remembers where it began.

And sometimes, on a quiet Australian evening, I close my eyes and try to summon you — not just your places, but your pulse. I try to remember the hush of your forests at midday, the soft rustle of birch leaves in the lightest breeze, the shimmering heat that rises from sun-soaked rocks by the lake. I try to feel the stillness of your summer, that sacred slowness where time stretches wide and gentle.

I think of my grandmother’s hands shelling peas on the porch, the low murmur of her voice telling stories older than I was. And I remember my grandfather, swaying gently in his rocking chair, the soft strains of Metsäkukkia rising from his violin, drifting out into the quiet summer air.

I think of firelight flickering on log walls, and the way time seemed to slow down to the rhythm of a wooden clock ticking in a corner. I think of everything I didn’t know I would carry with me for a lifetime.

Because missing you, Finland, is not just about a place.
It’s about a version of me — the girl who once wandered wildflower meadows without a care.
She still lives inside me, tucked gently beneath the layers of years and distance.

And when the lilacs bloom and the forest floor is laced with lily of the valley, she stirs —
the girl I once was, reaching for you with all her heart.

And I, grown now and far away, reach too.
And that’s when I miss you most of all.