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004 | A Weekend in Stockholm

I booked the ticket on a Thursday night, right after loading the dishwasher and Googling “how to unclog a toddler’s nose without losing your will to live.” It was impulsive, but not entirely reckless — I’d been dreaming of Stockholm for years, pinning photos of snow-dusted alleyways and cinnamon buns the size of my face like it was a vision board for a life I didn’t quite have.

So here I am — Daphne Mustaine, standing on a cobbled street in Gamla Stan with my first real coffee in months and no one tugging on my sleeve or shouting about lost Peppa Pig toys.


The city feels like it was built for quiet moments. Everything is hushed and bright, like Stockholm is whispering to me, “Take your time.” And for the first time in a long time, I do.

Saturday, I walked for hours. Through Södermalm, where every café is full of beautiful people in perfect knitwear, and into shops that smelled like pine and clean laundry. I bought a tiny ceramic bird I didn’t need and a secondhand poetry book in Swedish I can’t read — but I liked the way the words looked, like lace. I ended the day at Fotografiska, and there was this one photo of a woman standing barefoot on a frozen lake that made me cry for reasons I couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the stillness. Or the bravery.


I’ll go home tomorrow, and the chaos will be waiting. But tonight I’ll sit by the window with a glass of wine and watch the city twinkle like a secret. And I’ll try to carry a little piece of Stockholm with me — the calm, the quiet, the knowing smile of a woman who gave herself permission to pause.

xoxo
D. Mustaine