When we moved to Melbourne we sent over 10 boxes filled to brim with books and art and stuff. Things that would make up home. What I didn’t know was in the time between us leaving and the moving company picking up the boxes, my mother had managed to squeeze in a hundred or so envelopes all among our things. They were hidden in books, behind a frame or snuck into pockets.

These envelopes all held small treasures. From little wonderings and newspaper clippings from my mother, to lovely notes from close friends and family. And the best part: photos.

My mother had apparently rummaged through all their stashes of pictures and given to me what I can only think is the leftovers: the weird, the odd, and the not-so-great photos. Essentially: all the pictures that were deemed not good enough to make it into the actual photo albums.

Every time I found an envelope with photos I paused everything, sat down, and reminisced. Because much more than anything these photos connected me to memories, to distant days and feelings that I almost forgotten I had. They brought me back to a single moment, or a feeling, and connected me with myself in a way that I didn’t anticipate. I somehow come across this little bunch of photos every now and then and every time I pause, go through them, and then I catch myself smiling and wanting to find someone to show them to, to share the stories of them to.

I learnt something quite valuable that day. That when I photograph, I’m not just there to create pretty pictures for someone. I am there to document a memory. That my photos will be the ones brought out years from now, accompanied with a smile, a story and a cup of tea.

And with that said, I couldn’t help but share a few of the photos from the ones my mum sent me. I promise I will try to be brief!


Say hi to me as a baby! I’ve got a smashing 80s outfit on, and I’m being held my two brothers.


Then it’s a big jump to 1st or 2nd grade. I’m the one on the left side. This is me in the zone essentially all of my childhood. My best thing was drawing, painting, doodling. Anything that included a paper (wall, fabric, ground, whatever, I wasn’t picky!) and some pens (or pencils, watercolours, acrylics etc etc) and I was game. I was more than game. I should now tell you about that time when I only kept drawing people without noses, but we’ll leave that for another time.


Sweden in winter is all kinds of magical. At least when you look at it in pictures. It’s like a winter wonderland. This is from a chilly walk we took close to where I grew up. It was me, my granddad, my mum, someone I can’t pinpoint, and Steff, the dog. The dog of dogs that was my first dog love. He even took my mum by storm, and she’s not a fan of any pets of any sorts. He was a rad one. Also a clumsy little dude. 


I got baptised when I was 12. My brother did it at the same time, but I can’t really say why I did it? Most probably because I longed to be like everyone else, and everyone I knew had gotten baptised (with the exclusion being my two brothers). I wore a white dress and it was all nice n stuff and hey, look who was there – my grandmother. Her name was Siri, and she was the cheekiest and loveliest person ever. She baked wicked cookies and mean breads and she taught me how to cheat in poker (I’m sorry grandma, I don’t remember how!). I could go into so much detail now, but I’m not, or we’ll be here for a week. 


My family is weird. Say hi to my brother (approximate age 14?) all dolled up in bed, and another of the same brother + granddad working with stuff outside my parents country house. This is how I remember granddad: building, painting, prepping stuff at this country house. I also remember him from waking before everyone else and going outside to burn random stuff. He had a pyromanic streak that man. In a controlled fashion, of course. 


Me + my mum went to Prague to visit Karin! My mum’s not in these pics, but I am. This was in the beginning of my ‘black phase’. It never really went away. And look at those amazingly well used Doc Martens. 


Just finished high school! Whenever I see this photo I can just feel the same surge of FREEEDOOOOM that just pulsated through my body that day. I could do anything, be anything! It was awesome. And you know what? I think I made 18 yo Stina proud. It took some time, but then I found my passion, my way, my life. I chose it, it didn’t choose me. And for that I’ll always be proud. 

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