I don’t usually get anxious. I’m not wired that way. I move forward. I create. I trust. That has been my rhythm.

But this feeling, this physical wave of nausea that comes when I send out another e-mail offering people to buy my book Extraordinary Ordinary Lives of Bjäre, it’s new. It sits in my stomach and climbs into my chest. It’s uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

I’ve been trying to place it. And maybe the closest memory is from years ago, just before riding into the dressage arena at a competition. That exact second before entering. When everything you’ve practiced suddenly becomes visible. Measured. Judged.

It feels like that. Because this book is not a product. It’s my baby. It holds stories I’ve carried carefully. Conversations, people, places that matter. Selling it suddenly feels like holding up something fragile and saying, “Do you like it?”

And what if they don’t?

I would so much rather stay in the beautiful, wild space of creating. That free place where words just arrive, and images are captured. Where I don’t have to ask for anyone’s approval for anything. Where there is no price tag. No pitch. No performance.

But here I am. On the edge of the arena again.

And maybe this feeling isn’t anxiety after all. Maybe it’s simply vulnerability. The kind that appears when something truly matters.

Which probably means I should ride in.

My homemade promo video of the book (in Swedish only). Don’ mind the egg carton in the back…)