Slipping through my fingers

The other day I dropped off Elsa, my almost six year old daughter, at school. It was her last day before holiday, and as I said good bye she walked off by herself without asking me to stay as she usually would. I watched her from afar. Her tiny body, her big backpack, her gaze seeking for her friends. I slowly walked back to my bike with my heart so tender. Once I was back on the rode, a few tears came down my cheeks and I started to sing ABBA’s ‘Slipping through my fingers’ - a song which is about that moment when you, as a parent, suddenly realise your baby is growing up. 

I don’t want to reverse time. But to say I’m not feeling all the feels in regards to our kids getting older would also be a lie. Since becoming a parent I do have a different relationship to life - it’s so clear how nothing lasts forever - and I really do my best to be in, and embrace, each and every moment.

And yet, moments like this catch me off guard. They arrive quietly, in the most ordinary of mornings, and suddenly everything feels a little bigger, a little more fragile. It’s not about holding on or wishing things were different, but about letting it all move through me—the pride, the nostalgia, the ache, the love. Maybe this is what it means to witness a life unfolding right in front of you. To stand close enough to feel it, yet gently learn to let go, one small step at a time.

In between YTT and school holiday

It’s not that I’m feeling crazily busy, but we are in the middle of a YTT as well as school holiday which means there isn’t much time for anything else. I’m not at all complaining. Running teacher training is definitely one of the things I love the most and being with my kids, especially at this stage in their development truly fills me up.

Having a lot to do always shines a light upon the moments in between. I ask myself: what do I want to prioritise? What feels important? How do I fill my cup? And one of the answers that came up, and it kind of surprised me, was that I wanted to create some space to write this blog.

From the very beginning, starting nikimariahelena.com was a response to some kind of inner longing. I’ve always loved words—to read and to write—and it simply felt like something I finally was ready to do.

So here I am. At my favourite cafe. Sipping on a kombucha. The kids are next door, at a kids club, and I have an hour to myself.

I have many thoughts waiting to be detangled, but I’m not sure where to start. And deep inside, I know, there’s no rush. No problems to solve, no answers to be figured out. Just doing this—taking a moment between YTT and school holiday to press pause, feel in, reflect—is absolutely enough.

We were never truly disconnected

One of the things we recently discussed in our YTT was the idea of connection.

It’s a word we use often—without always pausing to feel what it actually means. We speak about wanting more of it, searching for it, sometimes even losing it. But what is it, really?

To me, connection begins in a very simple place: presence.

It’s the moment we stop drifting somewhere else—into thoughts, distractions, or subtle forms of avoidance—and return to what is here. What is real. What is alive.

Connection to self is perhaps the foundation of it all. It’s the willingness to feel what moves within us, without immediately trying to change it. To sit with a sensation, an emotion, a thought—and let it be seen. Not fixed. Not judged. Just acknowledged.

And from there, something shifts.

Because when we are willing to meet ourselves, we become capable of meeting others. Not through roles, expectations, or carefully constructed versions of who we think we should be—but from something more honest.

Connection with another person isn’t found in perfect words or shared opinions. It lives in the space where something real is allowed to be expressed and received. Where there is no need to perform, only to be.

And maybe that’s why it can feel so rare at times. Because it asks something of us. It asks us to soften. To stay. To listen—without immediately turning away.

But when it’s there, we recognize it instantly.

There’s a sense of being met. A quiet knowing: I don’t have to go anywhere else right now.

And beyond all of this, there is another layer of connection—the one that isn’t tied to a specific person or moment, but to life itself. A sense of belonging that doesn’t need to be earned. A feeling that, even in the midst of uncertainty, we are not separate from what is unfolding.

Maybe connection isn’t something we need to find.

Maybe it’s something that is always here—waiting for us to arrive.

To slow down enough.
To listen closely enough.
To be present enough…

…to notice that we were never truly disconnected to begin with.

Still becoming

Lately I’ve had two, slightly conflicting, emotions present within:

1) Feeling like a grown up. I have a husband, two kids, a job and most likely soon a mortgage. Young people would probably identify me as an adult and maybe even call me old. Looking back at life I do feel that I’ve lived. People have come, people have gone. I’ve learned a lot - about myself and the world around me.

Yet, at the same time.

2) I still feel incredibly young. New. As if I’m still just a beginner. I find myself doing things - like putting a bottle of water in my bag without properly closing the lid - only a child would do. Often I ask myself: shouldn’t I be done making these kind of mistakes by now?

It’s like I’m physically aging. I can see the seasons passing by. And partly I’m one with the leaves changing colour, falling, becoming one with the soil. I don’t look like a twenty year old anymore. Inside, however - mentally and emotionally - I’m still that girl. Perhaps a bit more at ease within my skin, okay being who I am, in some ways matured, but also just who I’ve always been.

Will I ever step fully into the role of an adult? Does anyone? Or is it just a silly idea I’m holding on to?

I really don’t have the answers.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe growing up was never about arriving somewhere solid and certain. Maybe it isn’t about becoming a finished version of yourself who no longer forgets, spills, questions, or doubts. Maybe it’s about learning how to hold it all — the responsibility and the softness, the knowing and the not knowing.

Because the truth is, I am an adult. Not because I have everything figured out, but because I stay. I show up. I take care of what’s mine to take care of, even on the days I feel like I’m still just pretending.

And I am also still young. Still curious. Still learning how to move through this life with a little more awareness, a little more grace. Still making mistakes that remind me I’m human, not complete.

Perhaps the two aren’t in conflict at all.

Perhaps this is what it actually feels like to be alive — to be rooted and growing at the same time. To carry both the weight of experience and the lightness of beginning again.

And maybe, just maybe, the moment we think we’ve finally “become” an adult is the moment we’ve stopped allowing ourselves to evolve.

So for now, I’ll keep both.

The woman who knows.
And the girl who is still learning.

I’ll do my best to let them walk side by side.

Where shoulders soften, hearts open and eyes begin to shine

A few days ago we began another yoga teacher training. This year marks ten years of teaching, and by now I’ve guided thousands of hours of trainings. Our last YTT finished at the end of January and since then we’ve been on a break. I’ve continued teaching drop-in classes and recorded a few online practices, but I haven’t been holding a group over time.

During our welcome circle, with 35 new faces around me, I felt a deep sense of excitement.

It’s hard to put these trainings—or experiences—into words. And somehow, it feels even harder to describe what it’s like to facilitate them.

Just as each student embarks on an inner journey, so do we. In just a few weeks, shoulders soften, hearts open, eyes begin to shimmer. Something shifts—often quietly, but unmistakably.

Sometimes I ask myself: could I imagine doing something different? And the answer is clear—not unless I have to. I know this is just a chapter, that life moves and changes, and we are asked to meet whatever comes. But in my ideal world, I will stay immersed in this work for as long as I’m here.

Nothing inspires me more than being surrounded by people who are willing to look closer, to feel deeper, to uncover what lives within them.

Because the truth is, there is so much inside of us waiting to be explored. But no one else can take us there.

We each have to be willing to step in, again and again.

Meeting her again

There’s a side of me that I sometimes miss. Or perhaps more accurately, a part of me that doesn’t get fed very often these days.

During my last few years in Sweden I was a university student, and so were most of my friends. I know this isn’t true for everyone, but within my circle enjoying school — especially at that level — was very much a thing. We were curious. Hungry to learn. Interested in exploring the world from an academic point of view.

Back then we often had long conversations — sometimes deep, sometimes intricate, but always meaningful. We looked at life from different perspectives, shared our thoughts openly, and welcomed the ideas of others.

Reading was also a natural part of our lives. My tiny apartment was filled with books, and I rarely left the house without one in my bag. Diving into literature — well-written pieces that sparked something inside — brought an immense sense of meaning to my life.

Every now and then we treated ourselves to the theatre. I still remember the first play I ever saw. It left me completely speechless, moved to the very core of my being. I would even call it a sacred experience.

Today my life looks very different.

I live in Thailand, on a tropical island surrounded by nature, with the sun almost always wrapped around us. I get to serve what feels like my true purpose while raising a little family. In many ways it’s a dream. I feel lucky, grateful, deeply rich in the life I have created here.

And truly — I wouldn’t want to change a thing.

But that part of me — I’m not even sure what to call her — sometimes makes herself known.

Sometimes I feel her when I come across a photo from Sweden: the city bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the air cool, the scents familiar.

Sometimes she appears while I’m reading, when carefully chosen words awaken a quiet hunger for more.

And sometimes it happens through language. Speaking Swedish rather than English comes with a surprising ease. In my everyday life I mostly think, write, dream and speak in English. But when I switch — when a friend from home is visiting, or during a phone call — something shifts. I notice myself becoming slightly sharper, a bit more poetic, maybe even funnier.

I sometimes wonder if this side of me is becoming more audible now simply because I’m ready to meet her again.

For the past six years much of my attention has gone toward work and, above all, motherhood. I’ve never really felt that I lost myself — something I know can happen when life changes so dramatically — but I do recognize that priorities shift along the way. They have to, in order for life to work.

Still, a small part of me longs for the things that once nourished this other side.

’m not entirely sure how to give myself more of that here. This island offers so much — an abundance, really — but I’m unlikely to stumble upon the kind of bookshop where I once browsed for hours, or the theatre plays that moved me so deeply.

Perhaps my next trip to Sweden simply needs to happen sooner than planned.

Or perhaps this is simply a gentle reminder that certain parts of us never disappear. They wait quietly, patient and unchanged, until we are ready to meet them again.

What revealed itself

A few days ago I participated in my first ever official HYROX race. I wrote a little about the lead-up in an earlier post.

Arriving in Bangkok, where the event was being held, I noticed something had shifted. The resistance I had felt before wasn’t as present anymore. On the morning of the race, sitting at one of my favourite cafés, a quiet thought came to me:

this is an adventure.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic — just a gentle shift in perspective.

My racing partner and I arrived at the venue a few hours before our start time. Thousands of people moving through the space, music playing, a kind of collective energy in the air. And somewhere in the middle of it all, something in me clicked.

I suddenly couldn’t wait to begin.

We started at 5 pm, and from the very first moment to the last, it felt almost like a dance. Of course we worked hard — there were moments of real effort — but what surprised me was the feeling underneath it all.

Ease.

A steady, grounded kind of ease that stayed with me throughout the race. And as we finished our final station, my heart didn’t feel overworked. It felt open. Happy. Full.

I’m so glad I went. That I didn’t let the question “why am I doing this?” stop me. Because something else revealed itself along the way.

That showing up is not just a first step — it’s often the step that shifts everything.

That being in a shared space, moving alongside others, is deeply nourishing. We’re not meant to do everything alone.

That energy creates more energy. Momentum builds on itself.

That a change in environment can open the door to new thoughts, new perspectives, new versions of ourselves.

That I do, in fact, enjoy being challenged.

And maybe most of all — that life is here to be lived.

Eight questions

From time to time I will answer a few questions here.

Not the fast kind we often see online, but slower ones — the kind that invite reflection.

Here are a few to begin with.

Where in the world do you feel most at home?

I feel most at home in Thailand. Half of my DNA is from here, but I don’t think that’s the only reason. The combination of the people, the culture, the warmth, and the way of life allows me to simply be myself. I feel more honest, more in touch, more real.

I can just be.

What are the small things in life that bring you back to yourself?

Time in nature. A cup of matcha. My arms wrapped around my kids. The presence of Michael, my husband. Teaching. Reading. Writing. Deep, real, honest conversations.

What first opened the door to yoga for you?

I’ve always been a seeker — someone drawn to the bigger questions in life, born with a kind of spiritual hunger.

The first yoga class that truly moved something in me was taught by an excellent teacher who invited me into a whole new world. It wasn’t just movement; it was a philosophy and a way of living.

Getting a glimpse that those big questions might actually have answers, I believe, opened the door for me — a quiet voice saying welcome home.

What part of life feels most alive for you right now?

After six years of pregnancy, breastfeeding, and having very young children, I feel that a new chapter is slowly beginning to unfold.

It feels like a returning to myself — or perhaps the meeting of a new version of me. There is a curiosity and a willingness to look a little deeper within that feels very alive and vibrant.

What have the past few years quietly taught you?

How powerful life becomes when we put intention into everything — from our thoughts, through our words, and into our actions.

Is there a book, song, or piece of art that has stayed with you through the years?

I love the way art — whether it’s a book, a song, or a painting — has the ability to touch us deeply.

Recently I’ve found my way back to a song I’ve loved for years: Into My Arms by Nick Cave and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

The lyrics make my heart tender, open, present. And from a place of love, I believe almost anything becomes possible.

What is a side of you that tends to get neglected?

Ever since I was a child I’ve loved clothes — dressing up and playing with different styles. At the age of twelve I even made my own fashion magazines. At school we didn’t wear uniforms, and I can still remember the thought and care I put into my outfits. Sometimes it probably didn’t serve me, but often it created a space for creativity and joy.

When I moved to Thailand in 2016, I left behind bags and bags of clothes and shoes. The first years on the island were all about simplicity. Most days I was dressed in a bikini or a plain dress, and at that time it was exactly what I wanted.

Over the past few years — perhaps since having Elsa and witnessing that spark of curiosity and playfulness in someone else — I’ve slowly begun to explore that side of myself again. And as superficial as it might sound, I’m really enjoying it.

Maybe this is my sign to buy a pair of pointy boots and wear them anyway — even if they aren’t particularly practical on a tropical island.

What are you learning to trust more as you grow older?

That the journey is what it’s all about.

The more present I can be with what is, the richer life becomes.

Okay, that’s it for now. Maybe I’ll return to a few more questions another day. Before I go, I would love to know: Where in the world do you feel most at home?

A different kind of yes

Tomorrow I’m going to Bangkok.

At the beginning of last year, after having gone through a long, dragging stomach bacteria that really wiped me physically, I started doing HYROX classes at one of the gyms on the island. HYROX is a form of high-intensity training, combining running and strength, and at that time — with a deep desire to be guided rather than being my own trainer — it was exactly what I needed.

Many people who attend HYROX classes do so with the aim of eventually participating in an official race. A HYROX race is built around eight stations — things like burpee broad jumps, rowing, and wall balls — combined with eight kilometres of running. A mix that pushes you in just about every way.

These races take place all over the world, and on Friday I’ll be doing one in Bangkok together with a friend.

When we signed up, many months ago, I felt genuinely excited. The idea of going all in — pushing hard, feeling strong — really spoke to me. It felt like something I wanted to experience.

Since then, something has shifted.

At the end of January I turned 36, and almost on that exact day I felt a quiet change within. Like an inner voice gently whispering: slow down.

And I have.

My HYROX classes have been replaced by slower gym sessions. I run less. I’ve been prioritising time to reflect, to write, to be. The idea of spending an hour and a half with my heart beating at its absolute maximum doesn’t quite inspire me in the same way anymore.

And yet, here I am.

My flight is booked. We have our start time.

To say I haven’t felt any resistance would be a lie. But I also trust that once I’m there — surrounded by people, music, and energy — something will carry me through.

Maybe it’s not about chasing a feeling or proving anything.
Maybe it’s simply about showing up for something I once said yes to.

This will most likely be the first and last race I ever do.

But then again — life has a way of surprising us. Who knows what the future holds?

Starting a blog in 2026 - why?

For the past twenty years I have been a fairly consistent blog reader.

There are a handful of blogs — all thoughtful and beautifully written — that I’ve followed for years. Reading them always sparks something inside of me. They leave me thinking, feeling, and often in a quiet state of contemplation.

I’ve always loved writing myself.

For a long time Instagram has been my outlet for sharing parts of my inner world. I’ve posted photos and videos, almost always accompanied by a long and reflective text. Not because it would bring me followers or serve the algorithm — most likely the opposite — but simply because it felt authentic to me.

A few months ago, after spending some time feeling into myself — what truly nourishes me and what I want to continue pouring my energy into — I decided to go offline for a while.

Some people need to delete the app to stay away. For me it was surprisingly easy to step back. The habit faded quickly, and before long the world of stories and likes felt very far away.

And yet, during that break, I noticed that something was missing.

I journaled more than usual, but my “writing cup” still didn’t feel full.

That’s when the idea of a blog came to me.

What if it’s time for me — not only to read blogs, but to have my own?

A part of me can’t help but think that I might be a little late to the party. Back in the day blogs were everywhere, and people had the attention span to actually sit down and read them.

Today we seem to prefer things that move quickly. Short snippets. Fast information. A few seconds of advice on how to do something, or how to be something. And if it takes too long, we simply move on.

But the truth is, my presence on the internet has never really been about being seen or heard.

I’ve always been here for myself.

When I was in year six, around twelve years old, we were asked to write a paper about our favourite songs — to reflect on the lyrics, share our thoughts, and explain what it was that made us feel something.

The song I chose was My Way by Frank Sinatra.

My grandfather had introduced me to his music, and this particular song always touched me deeply. And even though I was just a child, I remember having a very clear sense that at the end of the day, I simply needed to live life in my own way.

Long story short: blogs might be on their way out. Or maybe they aren’t.

Whatever the case, I’m here now.

And the truth is, it already feels incredibly right.

Two months of “just” being a mother

We ran our last yoga teacher training in January, and for the past month and a half I’ve essentially been off duty.

This is the only time of the year when there is a real gap between our offerings and, maybe for the first time ever, I can say that I’ve fully embraced it.

I love my work. I’m deeply passionate about sharing the teachings of yoga — and of life — and being part of what we do. For as long as I can remember I’ve called it a vocation rather than a job. I’ve even promised myself that if it ever becomes something I simply do to pay the bills, then it’s probably time to stop.

But because it is such a big part of who I am, pressing pause hasn’t always come easily. In many ways it has defined me. And without it — who am I?

I’m not entirely sure what has changed this time around. Perhaps I’m simply maturing. Evolving. Remembering that nothing ever stays the same.

The first few days I was still “on,” taking care of admin and finishing tasks I had started but not yet completed. But then something softened, and I allowed myself to let go.

We went on a holiday with the whole family for the first time ever. And for those days, all I did was be a mother.

That isn’t a small thing — I know that very well — but allowing that part of me to take up space, without anything else competing for my attention, made it feel surprisingly simple.

Since coming home from Bali, with still weeks before anything in-person begins again (apart from a few classes here and there), I’ve been able to stay in that slower rhythm.

Fully immersed with Elsa and Nils, my darling kids. Moving slowly. Intentionally. With ease.

And I’m really enjoying it.

It feels as though my whole system has been given the chance to reset. This isn’t how I want to live forever — I love my work far too much for that — but I’m savoring this moment fully.

The rest of the year will soon fill up again. People arriving from all over the world — open, curious, ready to grow. Training after training.

But for now, in this moment, I’m staying here.

Fully present with what is.

And happily giving myself permission to be “just” a mother.

A place of peace

There is something I have been longing for.

Not more work.
Not more visibility.
Not another offering.

But a place.

A place where my thoughts do not have to become teachings.
Where reflections do not need to turn into guidance.
Where I can write without shaping it into something useful.

This is that place.

It is not a project.
It is not a strategy.
It is not an extension of anything.

It is simply a room I am creating for myself.

A quiet corner of the internet where I can think slowly.
Where spirituality is lived, not explained.
Where questions are allowed to stay open.

I don’t know exactly what will be written here.

I only know that I want somewhere to return to.

Somewhere that feels open, inviting and alive.
Like a deep breath before the day begins.

If you are here, welcome.

You don’t need to agree.
You don’t need to learn.
You don’t need to do anything.

You are simply invited to sit.

With love,
Niki