There are things I love about Finland and things that quietly drive me insane.

Some days, I feel completely at home here. Other days, I feel like I was born in the wrong country, in the wrong emotional climate, surrounded by too many polite silences and not enough verbal confirmation that people care about each other.

But instead of trying to make sense of that contradiction, I’ve learned to write through it.

This post isn’t just about Finland. It’s about how this country feels – not through politics or tourism clichés, but through the quiet logic behind how we live. The spaces, the systems, the silences. All the invisible design choices that shape our everyday lives without ever being discussed.

Because whether I fit in or not, I keep circling around the same truth:

Finland’s entire user experience runs on one core principle – emotional bandwidth. Or atleast this is how I see it.

Why I write in English

Yes, I’m Finnish and yes, I write my blog in English.

I get that question a lot. People are curious, confused, sometimes even a bit suspicious. But for me, the answer is simple: I genuinely love the English language. In many ways, I connect to it more than my own mother tongue.

I’ve used English professionally for years, and I enjoy the international energy it brings. But it’s also about something deeper. When I write in English, something shifts – the tone, the rhythm, the space to be layered. Some things that sound beautifully thoughtful in English would come across as fake or melodramatic in Finnish. English lets me stretch my thoughts without losing their shape.

It’s not perfect. And it doesn’t need to be.

It feels right and that’s enough.

I love Finland, but sometimes I need a break from it

Sometimes I feel like Finland slowly drains my color palette. If I don’t travel for six months, I start to feel… wrong. Flat. Like I’m stuck on grayscale. No one really gets this. To most people, it’s just a trip. To me, it’s oxygen. Travel isn’t about escape – it’s how I recharge, recalibrate, re-remember who I am. Because the longer I stay in one place, the more I lose contrast. But the moment I land somewhere else – even just for a few days – I feel everything switch back on. The colors come back. The sounds feel warmer. My thoughts move differently. I laugh louder. I see more. And then, finally, I feel like myself again.

I love the structure of Finland, though, the quiet competence. The unspoken trust in people.

I love how no one makes a scene, wastes your time, or tries to impress you.

There’s something deeply comforting in knowing that if you forget your wallet in a café, someone will (most likely) return it without expecting thanks. That kind of psychological safety is rare and precious.

But sometimes, I just need to get away from the national vibe.

I recently came back from my honeymoon (blog post coming later, obviously). Right before the trip, I joked to my husband:

“I really hope we don’t run into any Finns.”

Not because I don’t like them, I just needed a break from everything Finland related.

We booked through Aurinkomatkat, which is… not my usual style. I don’t do package holidays. But this time, we wanted ease: everything pre-booked, no taxi stress, just land–chill–repeat (and drink a lot of local wine 😜).

Well.

The bus back to the airport was full of Finns. And I whispered to him:

“This is my nightmare. It’s the entire neighborhood in one place.”

He laughed. I did too. Kind of.

Because the vibe followed us – quiet nods, no small talk, subtle sighs of “joo-o.”

Even 3,000 km away, Finland finds you. And in a weird way… that’s comforting too.

Silence, by design

If you arrive in Finland expecting noise, chatter, or warmth-on-arrival, you might be disappointed.

Our public transport is quiet. Our elevators are silent. Our waiting rooms are peaceful.

That silence isn’t accidental, it’s infrastructure. It’s a system-level respect for everyone’s personal space. It tells you: you’re trusted to figure things out. Where to sit. When to get off. How to pay.

No one interrupts your thoughts. No one forces energy on you. And that, in a noisy world, is a gift.

That’s Finland’s UX: a soft, invisible structure that protects your emotional bandwidth.

You don’t spend it filtering chatter or fake friendliness. You keep it for yourself.

The queue is the interface

If you want to understand Finland, watch a queue. There’s no signage, no shouting, no staff managing it. But it works.

Everyone knows their place – literally and socially.

No cutting, no sighing, no small talk. Just quiet, precise human choreography.

Elsewhere, order has to be maintained.

Here, it’s just expected.

It’s not about strict rules. It’s about emotional effort minimization.

No one takes more than they need, not space, not time, not attention.

The queue isn’t just a line. It’s our interface.

I’m not a typical Finn. At least I don’t think I am

I talk a lot – with my hands.

I wear loud colors, prints, and makeup that would make a Lutheran grandma cross herself. I don’t do beige at all.

I don’t complain when it’s 25°C and everyone’s melting – sorry, but that’s not heat.

I do complain when it snows. Unless I’m in Lapland with fairy lights and hot cocoa, miss me with the snowdrifts.

I get energy from light. From funny, smart, curious people who love the right kind of conversation, not small talk, but real talk. I love debating ideas, arguing thoughtfully, challenging assumptions. I love people with values, opinions, and good old-fashioned banter.

What I don’t love? Long silences that Finns find comforting. They make me feel like I’m supposed to shrink. And I don’t shrink well.

And yet…

I love sauna.

I love Finnish nature, not just the Instagram version, but the real thing: the cold lakes, the clean air, the quiet. That collective understanding that no one owns the forest, but everyone belongs in it.

🇫🇮 And most of all – the most Finnish thing ever, which I’ve finally learned to cope with: If someone asks how you’re doing, you always say “good” or “fine.”

Not because you are good or fine.

But because that’s the script.

No elaboration. No follow-up. No emotional detours. Just “hyvin menee” and move along.

God forbid you actually answer the question.

I hate meetings that start with “Let’s all go around and introduce ourselves. Taru, you go first!”

WHY? Why this ambush?

I take work seriously. Too seriously.

I’m the kind of person who lies awake at 3:17 AM thinking what to say on a Teams message the next day, wondering if I sounded too blunt.

I feel guilty for things I didn’t do. I’m working on developing a “who gives a f***” attitude. It’s not going well.

And to be clear – I do love Finnish humor.

That dry, deadpan, straight-faced absurdity? I’m obsessed with it.

Give me a one-liner so dry it goes to mid-air, and I’ll laugh for a week.

Also, if you catch me at the right kind of party, I absolutely lose it.

So yeah – maybe I’m 99% Finnish by DNA. But in spirit? Slightly chaotic, wildly emotional, and probably shouting Kippis in the wrong direction.

My relationship with Finland is… complicated

I don’t like the weather. I don’t like the melancholy. I don’t like the national habit of self-doubt, the quiet comparison game where we’re never quite good enough.

I hate the national sport of nagging. Everything’s wrong. Everything’s too much, or not enough.

So what if Iittala didn’t put the beige plates on sale?

I love ice hockey.

I hate the lack of emotional language.

No one says:

• I’m sorry
• Thank you for helping me
• I value you
• I made a mistake
• You matter to me

There’s a robotic stiffness sometimes, like words cost something. So we go quiet. Even when silence leaves the other person wondering if they were ever seen at all.

People sometimes ask me, “Are you really Finnish?”

And honestly, I’ve asked myself the same.

I even did a DNA test. It came back 99% Finnish.

And I cried.

I know. It sounds dramatic.

But it’s a longer story and not just about genetics.

I hate the envy in this country.

The way success makes people uncomfortable.

The side-eyes when someone works hard, earns well, or dares to say they’re proud of themselves.

But me? I love ambition.

I love when people do what they love and get paid damn well for it. I find it inspiring, not threatening.

Maybe I get that from my late father.

A hardworking, hilarious, bohemian engineer who hated political correctness but knew how to make people feel seen. A person of contradictions — like me. Like Finland.

Honestly, being told I look or sound Finnish sometimes feels like a personal insult.
Not because I think being Finnish is bad — but because I’ve spent most of my life feeling like a glitch in the system.

Like I missed the national software update where everyone learned how to be calm, quiet, and emotionally unreadable.

So when someone says, “You’re so Finnish,” I’m like… Where?! Show me the proof. Is it the guilt? The silence anxiety? The over-apologizing for existing? Because it’s definitely not the beige wardrobe or snow worship.

And don’t even get me started on speaking English. Sometimes my brain slips into full rally mode – like I’m giving a post-race interview with zero facial expression.

Then I start panicking:

• Am I saying everything wrong?
• Do I sound like Mika Häkkinen on autopilot or Kimi Räikkönen mid-sponsorship contract?
• Flat tone, short answers, no context — just add a helmet and a Red Bull cap.

Honestly, it’s a miracle anyone keeps talking to me.

If you really want to understand me, like really get how my brain and national awkwardness collide 1 please go watch videos below including epic “Up in the ass of Timo” interview.

It’s not just a meme. It’s a cultural artifact. A masterclass in Finnish emotional bandwidth, rally-English, and unintentional comedy.
That video lives rent-free in my head.
It’s the chaos I suppress daily – and also my entire personality in 47 seconds.

Finland carries its war quietly

Finland doesn’t shout about its past. We don’t wear our history like a badge, and we definitely don’t dramatize it. But it’s there — underneath everything. In the silence. In the way we move through the world with a certain kind of emotional caution.

A country that has survived being sandwiched between superpowers learns to think before it speaks.

The Winter War and Continuation War shaped more than just borders — they shaped how we function. Culturally, emotionally, socially. They gave us resilience, yes. But also restraint. A national tendency to downplay, endure, survive in silence. To keep our pride clean and our emotions private.

And today? That legacy still lingers.

You see it in the obsession with self-sufficiency. The emotional economy. The trust in systems, and the suspicion of attention-seeking. The pride in doing things well without having to talk about it all the time.

We don’t glorify war. But we inherited a mindset from it — one that values stability over spectacle. Function over flash.

And that’s why, even in peacetime, Finland still moves like a country that remembers what it’s like to have to hold itself together.

A country with pride doesn’t have to be loud

Finland is a country where people don’t wave flags for attention, but they know exactly where they come from.

National pride here isn’t shouted, it’s built in. Quiet. Steady. Lived, not performed.

It’s in the way people care about land, language, and legacy.

It’s in the fact that every child learns the national epic, even if they secretly roll their eyes at it.

It’s in the summer cottages passed down through generations, and the old family names etched into the corners of things such as boats, houses, grave markers, memories.

People here don’t say “I’m proud to be Finnish” every day.

They just show up, do the work, and believe that doing something well, properly, thoughtfully, with humility, is pride.

Roots and traditions run deep. Not for show, but for stability.

In a world obsessed with reinvention, Finland holds onto its sense of place.

Not because it fears the future – but because it respects where it started.

Closing remarks

So what does “Finland’s UX is emotional bandwidth” actually mean?

It means the systems here, both visible and invisible, are built to protect your energy ima sense. Your privacy. Your right not to be bothered. Whether you’re on a bus, in a queue, or just trying to exist in public without being sold a vibe, Finland mostly lets you be.

The silence isn’t emptiness. The rules aren’t control. The distance isn’t coldness.

They’re features, not bugs. Quiet ways of saying: we won’t interrupt you, take from you, or demand more than necessary.

Of course, it’s not perfect. I’ve already told you I struggle with parts of it – the stiffness, the emotional caution, the endless grey.

But when you zoom out and stop expecting warmth in the usual forms, you start to realize: the warmth is there. It’s just structural. Practical. Built-in.

Like a sauna that doesn’t say a word but somehow gets you. Where you can sit fully naked next to other people, and it’s still respectful. Where no one asks private questions, no one pushes you to open up. If you don’t want to talk – if you just want to be – you’ll most likely be left alone. And that, in its own quiet way, is a kind of care too.

Finland doesn’t shout for attention. It doesn’t brand itself as comforting.

But it gives you room to breathe. And in a world that constantly demands your everything, that’s rare.

That’s emotional bandwidth.

And in Finland, that’s the UX, at least how I see this.