When my husband and I first began planning our move to Minnesota, I often wondered how it would change my work. What I did not anticipate was how deeply Minnesota would change me. As I reflect on our second anniversary here, I'm struck by the profound impact this move has had on my life.
Shortly after we moved, I realized that the chronic pain I had endured since 2011 had vanished. It happened overnight. My neck, shoulders, back, and arms were pain-free. I woke up one morning and realized that for the past several nights, I had slept through without waking up multiple times due to numbness, tingling, or stabbing pain. It was simply gone. The pain didn't return, even as I unpacked and repacked boxes for our final move. I heard a quote: "You only know how much pain you are in when it is gone." This resonated deeply with me.
Over the years, I had sought help from various experts and doctors, who tried different treatments without lasting relief. Looking back, I wonder how I managed to get through grad school with such a demanding workload while dealing with this pain. My high pain tolerance muscled me through, but it came at a high cost. Despite numerous trips to physical therapists, relief was always temporary. It wasn't until after grad school that I read "The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma" by Bessel van der Kolk. The book's thesis—that our bodies hold memories and trauma, manifesting as physical pain and illness—made sense to me, though I didn't fully grasp its meaning until my pain returned alongside old memories.
With the pain gone, I had more mental space to settle into a new state, new routine, and learn my way around. This relief lasted about six months before the pain slowly began to return, accompanied by resurfacing memories from my prior career in education and childhood. Moving away from a place filled with both wonderful and painful memories was freeing. There are no ghosts from my old life in my new home. Starting over was unexpected, but I am grateful for the opportunity.
Last summer, I began working with a therapist to better understand what was happening. We discussed my heritage, past events, and how they have carried forward. This work has been hard, painful, and rewarding.
Reflecting on my past five-year plans from college and art school, I realize that none of them came to fruition as expected. Things turned out better or worse, but ultimately, I made it through. I've had moments of regret for wasted time or missed opportunities, which is such a human response. Recently, my therapist mentioned that much of human development focuses on early years, as if we stop developing past a certain point in adulthood. Nothing could be further from the truth. We continue to grow, learn, and make leaps forward in later adulthood. I don't wish to return to any earlier age of my life.
One of the best changes brought by our move is how physically active I've become. I've always liked walking, but now I've added lake swimming, kayaking, and biking to my routine. There are countless opportunities to get outside here. The osprey, loons, and swallows have all returned, and it's like greeting old friends. Recently, my husband and I sat by our local lake, listening to the loons calling to each other. It felt magical, like encountering mystical creatures.
Back in January 2023, I wrote about a Finnish proverb I found on artwork in Duluth: “Minä istun iloissani ja annan surun huilata,” translated as “I sit here contented while sorrow catches its breath.” Finnish scholars later told me it was mistranslated and should be something stronger, like "delight." I've finally embraced those stronger, deeper feelings. My new life is filling me with endless delight, and I'm learning to stop anticipating the other shoe dropping. Sorrow is part of life, and some of us have walked with it for a long time. But now, in Minnesota, I'm learning to embrace joy and let sorrow catch its breath.
Minnesota’s Many Delights
