Midsommar (Indoors, with Pizza, and More Chaos Than Ceremony)

Midsommar is supposed to be graceful. Outdoors. Surrounded by nature and delicate things. Flower crowns, white dresses, wooden tables under trees, girls named Freja whispering folklore while sipping elderflower cocktails. That is not what happened at my Midsommar party.

Our version was inside, a little sweaty, and completely derailed in the best way. There were no birch trees or meadows. There was pizza. There were paper plates. There was a Bluetooth speaker blasting pop songs that slowly morphed into someone’s frat playlist. It was sticky and loud and covered in flower petals and glitter by the end. Honestly, it felt like summer itself cracked open and spilled onto the floor.

It started out sweet. We wore flower crowns and for a few brief moments, the room actually felt ethereal. People laughed, helped each other put them on, and took cute photos. Then the drinks started flowing. The playlist got louder. The air got warmer. The vibe went from “gentle pagan ritual” to “why is someone doing pushups in the kitchen?”

We ate pizza, a lot of it. There was a very serious debate about whether pineapple belonged on Midsommar pizza (it does, obviously), and someone toasted “to the sun god” with a slice of pepperoni. I’m not saying it was spiritually significant, but I’m also not saying it wasn’t.

We didn’t have a maypole, so we danced around the kitchen island instead. Someone knocked over the pong table. Another person wore their flower crown as a necklace.. It was unhinged, kind of gross, deeply funny, and somehow, it worked.

An old friend showed up, someone I hadn’t seen in forever. We didn’t talk for long, just enough to catch up in that casual, I-still-know-you kind of way. He told me, “Hey, I read your blog.”

It surprised me. Not because he read it, but because anyone does. The truth is, not many people read this blog. I write because I like writing. Because it helps me feel like I’m making sense of the mess. I throw words into the void and hope they land somewhere. Most of the time, I assume they don’t. And then, suddenly, someone says they’ve been listening.

So maybe Midsommar doesn’t have to be traditional. Maybe it doesn’t need the maypole, or the Instagram-perfect picnic, or even the right location. Maybe it’s just about light, whatever scraps of it we find, and holding them up. Saying yes to whatever joy we can create. Dancing barefoot in a living room. Eating pizza at midnight. Feeling seen, even for a second.

Not many people read this blog. But if you are… thank you. You’re here. And that makes it worth writing.