Swedish women married to a Yankee and living in the US often get something dreamy in their eyes when I mention that I live in Stockholm with an American guy. “Wow, how did you manage to get him over there?” they say, painfully conscious that they will never be able to return to their home country – at least not with their relationship intact – nor reap the fruits of our wonderful pre-school system.

In these situations it’s tempting to just shrug my shoulders, laugh coyly and say “well… I guess he just fell in love”, and pretend that I have the power to attract men across half the globe.

But this would be untrue. The truth is that my hubby had developed a liking for Stockholm and Sweden even before we met at a garden party in Greenpoint, Brooklyn a chilly spring afternoon five years ago. During his years in New York he had met an abundance of friendly Swedes who had brought him along when they went back to visit over the summer. When I met him, he had already visited Sweden three times. He admired our society and loved our nightlife, and it wasn’t hard at all to convince him to move here; in fact, it was very much his own idea.

I think this is crucial when it comes to moving to another country. You have to fall in love with it yourself, independently of any rational reason to establish a life there, or any other person who wants you to go and live there. Because even when you do fall in love with another culture and make the move, this love will be challenged by a million things, big and small, that make you want to give up and go home. If the urge is not strong to begin with, those challenges might become overpowering.

Here in Sweden, the biggest hurdle for most people is the long, cold, dark winter, but it could just as well be small frustrations, like the fact that “var” means both where, each, was and that yellowish-white fluid formed in infected tissue. In those situations, it’s easy to feel the desire to return to reality, where things are normal.

Growing up in a small town in southern Sweden, I dreamed about living abroad as a grown-up, in big exciting cities. And I did. London, Los Angeles and New York are among the places I’ve had the honour to call my home for extended periods of time. But I always knew that I wouldn’t stay forever. Some people are just not meant to live in exile and – as much as I love the kick I get from living abroad for a limited amount of time – I am definitely one of them.

Because, just like I never stop converting the foreign currency to Swedish kronor in my head, I never stop converting the emotional currency. What happens abroad has to be re-created on some sort of Swedish platform, and presented for my loved ones back home for the experiences to be fully emotionally valid. I have to tell my mum about it on Skype, or put it on Instagram for my friends, or write an article about it for a magazine. I have to filter it through my Swedishness, or it will just be like a silent shout in space, with no real value to me.

I’m glad not everyone is like this, and especially happy that my companion in this life is not. It’s interesting to follow his progress in learning my own mother tongue, and increasingly exciting to see how his personality will develop once his emotional currency is fully exchanged into Swedish.