A long time ago I was hanging out with a guy I was barely getting to know. We were eating a bunch of snacks I bought the same day, while we were sitting in my living room watching a movie. As I leaned towards the table and reached for another handful of candy, he tugged at the skin on my belly and said with humor in his voice, “are you sure you want to eat more of that?“.

I spent the next couple of weeks analyzing my body from head to toe, and I kept noticing all these new flaws that I never paid attention to before. It was the first thing on my mind when I woke up and the last thing on my mind before I went to sleep. I completely stopped eating in front of people. I was so distraught by that comment that I could barely look at myself in the mirror without tearing up. I was a mess.

When I look back I realize that those words would have no impact on me if I hadn’t been already been insecure about my body. Instead of accepting that this was my insecurity, I put all the blame on him. (Important! I’m not saying what he said was okay, because it was kinda lame and unnecessary regardless, but I’m using this as an example to get to a bigger point). If the same thing happened now I probably would have laughed, called him an idiot and said something along the lines of “yeah, I actually am gonna eat more candy, and after I finish this I might even eat some more”, and we would be done with that. No crying. No fighting. No drama.

I like my body as it is, so why should I let anybody else affect that? The choice is up to me and I choose to form my own opinions regarding how I am and how I look, I don’t want to depend on other people to make those decisions for me. If somebody makes a rude comment about you, and you react strongly, it’s probably because you’re already insecure about that thing.

When you let your insecurities take control, you’ll always be on guard and notice anything that can trigger these feelings of insecurity. You’re always looking for critique. I promise if you want to, you can find hate anywhere. 

If your significant other acts distant for ten minutes, you’ll feel like they lost interest and don’t find you attractive anymore. You’ll think that people at work are angry because you’re annoying and bothersome, and that they wished you didn’t work there. You’ll feel like your friend hates you because they didn’t smile at you that exact day when they met you. Who wants to go around feeling like that?

When you think about it, it’s actually weird that people react so strongly to a few negative comments. Constructive criticism is one thing, but random shit-talking is something that should be completely unimportant to everyone. Why should it affect you?

My point is: build a strong foundation of faith in yourself that you can always fall back on. When you have that, nobody can affect your opinions on yourself. We’re all on a journey. Every one of us. Nobody is fully developed or shaped as a human being yet. If you can accept that and be kind towards yourself, your quality of life is going to get drastically better. If you face the world expecting rejection, you’ll find rejection in everything and everyone.




The other day I read an article from the Norwegian author, Ottar Grepstad, where he stepped forward with the following statement: “There are almost no biographies about a young person that are important. They are not important to our society”

In other words, Ottar is saying that young people don’t have an important voice. He’s basically writing off the importance of an entire generation, and that makes me frustrated. Why should the voices, feelings and lives of today’s youth matter less than those of someone 30 years older? Why do I have to wait until I’m 50 to write a book about the first quarter of my life, when it’s all so fresh in my memory right now. Do you not matter to society until you’re considered “grown up”? Do my words mean nothing? Should you, as a young adult, be forced to only read books written by someone from a completely different generation?

Wouldn’t it be amazing if I, or any other young writers, inspired teenagers and young adults to read more? If they pick up a book by themselves for the first time and it makes them want to read more? Books are amazing, and it’s so important that the younger generation opens up to them.

My book isn’t written by an adult speaking to the younger crowd – and that’s why it’s so important. It’s not a moralizing finger pointing at them, telling them what think, feel and do. It’s not a book meant to tell you how to live your life, or a reflection of everything I should have done better or differently. It’s supposed to talk about me, right now, feelings I’ve felt, for a generation that is growing up NOW so they can relate and learn. If I wrote a book 30 years from now about how my life as a young adult was, it wouldn’t be as relevant. I wouldn’t be able to write for the newer generation, and I wouldn’t be able to reach out to them.

I think it’s amazing that today’s youth have such a strong voice. But I guess it doesn’t matter what I think according to Ottar – I’m too young to know what I’m talking about after all.



My upcoming book “Role Model” is a self biography about finding your own identity, living with insecurities and complexes, and trying to come to terms with the fact that a human being has many sides, and that these aren’t necessarily in harmony with each other. Last but not least, it’s a book about becoming a role model, and what kind of responsibilities you then have for the choices you take in your own life. It’s far from done, but I wanted to share chapter with you.

One of the girls on my gymnastics team was celebrating her birthday, and I was invited. It was a Saturday and I was actually invited. For once I didn’t have to push myself on everyone else. I was allowed to come. They invited me, all by themselves. I was so happy I could have raised the flag that morning.

I curled my hair and I put my makeup on. I fixed up my false lashes and put on a sparkly pink lipgloss from Viva La Diva. Budget-lips. Somehow I ended up wearing three bras for the occasion as well. You could barely see them under the dress that fit me so nicely around them. It was difficult to breathe with tje multiple layers, but who cares as long as they look big, right? I didn’t care. There’s no diagnose for that kind of thinking, but it was twisted no doubt.

When I arrived at the party, which was one of my first parties ever, Julie opened the door. It sounds cliche, but she was the prettiest girl on my cheer squad. Her mouth opened and revealed a huge smile when she saw me. A smile that was contagious and so real. I didn’t smile back because I didn’t like my teeth, lips or how my nose looked when I opened my mouth.  I wish I smiled back.

I sat down in a chair in her living room. I was late, and the others were already socializing. Playing. Drinking. I drank, and I drank and I drank. I couldn’t speak, it was so strange. I felt like everyone thought I would be the type to talk a lot. But I didn’t. When someone complimented my curves,  I was happy. But the fact that those curves didn’t really exist was always on the back of my mind. They were just several layers of underwear and stuffing. Anybody could do that.

One glass. Three glasses. Ten glasses.

Even though I was getting drunk and I had problems focusing, I couldn’t speak. If I was asked questions, my answers would be short and vague. I wanted to ask back. I wanted to ask where Sigrid got her top. I wanted to ask what Julie thought of our math teacher. Or if we could listen to my favorite song. Conversation came so naturally to everyone else.

I shut up and the world was spinning. The boys arrived, and I could barely tell them apart. I knew they were much older, and I knew they went to the same high school. But they all seemed pretty similar, with their Ralph Lauren polo shirts and love for Kings of Leon. Not surprisingly, they started playing Kings of Leon quickly after they arrived. The song was called “Sex on Fire”, and I knew the lyrics. I wanted to sing. The others did. I listened, and smiled with my mouth closed and my eyes firmly planted on the ground. Even fairly intoxicated, with a lot on my heart and a lot I wanted to say, with a fairly nice singing voice and three sets of bras on, I couldn’t sing. It was like a bad movie where I was the insecure loser who can’t talk to anyone, yet found themselves at the popular kids’ party. Only in the movies that loser always opens their mouth eventually, or does something drastic and then get attention, or the loser turns out to actually be really hot and they end up as one of the popular kids after all. But I promise you that the loser in the movies doesn’t wear three bras, they’re not ashamed of their smile because their lips are too small. I could have said something smart. I was smart. But I was insecure. And this wasn’t a movie, it was life.

Eventually one of the guys pulled out a guitar. I wanted to joke about it. We all know that guy who pulls out his guitar at 3 AM at parties and tries to serenade all the drunk girls. People started leaving and I grew increasingly uncomfortable with the shrinking crowd and hookups that were happening all over the house. I should have been at home. Instead I was sitting here thinking about how I hated that guy with the guitar. He was just there acting like he was better than everyone. He went after the prettiest and drunkest girl at the party. The vodka had made her so vulnerable to his cheap tricks. It was all so obvious, a cliche, and I started feeling like life was already so predictable. I’d spend a big part of my youth at parties like these, with people like him, and I wasn’t gonna say anything.

Luckily some people are actually capable of surprises.

“How long have you been playing the guitar for?”

There. The shock. The words came out of my mouth. Silently, but clearly. Really I wanted to say “Come on, buddy. You’re really reaching here.”, but instead  I asked about his background, and his below-average at best guitar skills.

He looked at me. Not just him, but everyone was looking at me.

One second. Three seconds. Ten seconds. 

It could have been an hour. Silence. Before everyone looked away again. I didn’t exist. He didn’t answer.

But strangely enough, that was the moment I felt the strongest. I felt that life was everything but predictable. And that one day, this boy would be asking me something.

And I was right. Because he did. Six years later he asked me to share one of his songs on my blog to my rapidly growing audience.

I didn’t answer. 



I’ve never in my life seen a man comment on the intelligence of another man, based on the pictures he posts or the clothes he chooses to wear. But women? Oh, god what an idiot I must be. That’s what I hear every time I post pictures of myself. Not even from guys, because guess what? Women are the worst when it comes to this.

It’s as if I, who I’ve been told have a “sensual” appearance and form of expression, can’t like sex and be open about it, because then I’m suddenly a whore. Yes, I have a sexuality and I sometimes blog about that kind of stuff. That doesn’t mean I sleep around or that I sleep with anybody. because I don’t. But even if I did – so what? If my pictures play on sex, who cares? Without wanting to sound arrogant, I’m a fairly intelligent person. I speak five languages, I read 15-25 books every year, I graduated high school at the top of my class, I got into the best Norwegian university, I’m writing a book, I’m well-articulated, I’m kind AND I appreciate sexuality. One doesn’t cancel the other. It doesn’t make me stupid, worth less, an idiot, a whore or anything like that. There’s no wonder girls go through life never experiencing orgasms, faking it and having uncomfortable, silent sex in the dark if you’re not allowed to talk about your own body or sex without instantly being branded a whore. At least I can’t, because I’m instantly branded as a breadhead, and apparently according to media, comments and personal messages I’ve recieved, I degrade my entire gender by being so open about sex.

Have you ever heard that Lilly Allen song, “Hard Out Here”? It’s supposed to be empowering, but then she sings: “Don’t need to shake my ass for you, cause I got a brain”. What? I’m the first one to shake my ass at the club, not because I need to, but because I want to. Does that make me an idiot? Does that make me brainless? Does sexuality really cancel intelligence?

I know guys speak degradingly about women too, because I see that everywhere online, and I experience it first-hand daily. But I’ve never experienced in real life that a group of guys have been talking about a girl behind her back and having an extensive conversation about how slutty she is, and I have a lot of male friends. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but growing up you so often heard from other girls that if you sleep with different guys, if you get too much attention, if you appear to0 sexually, if you dress too lightly, if you’re too outspoken etc etc, then you’re a whore. There was a big difference between the genders there. Luckily today I’m in a group of friends where we high five each other for doing what we want, no matter what we like, what pictures we choose to post, do or don’t do, say or don’t say or what clothes we choose to wear or take off.

I suppose the point of this post is this: If we want men to speak to us or about us in a different manner, then maybe it would be a good start if we started being nicer towards each other as well, no matter what you look like or choose to do. Empowerment shouldn’t exclude anyone.