Peeling Potatoes

I was peeling potatoes the other day.
Which is funny, because in my family I’m famous for never peeling them. Every meal with potatoes — and in Denmark, that means almost every meal — comes with eyes turning toward me. I can read their minds: Will she dare? Or will this one also come from a jar?

But this time, I chose to. And as the knife slid across the skin, a memory slid back into me.

Many years ago, during a bronchospasm crisis, I was hospitalized for fifteen days. At the time, I had already been in treatment for depression for six months, and the truth was… nothing was getting better. I remember the exhaustion of that hospital bed, the weight of hours pressing down. And then, one day, out of nowhere, I had a vision: me, peeling potatoes.

I missed it desperately.
The ordinariness. The silliness. The thing I hated suddenly became the thing I longed for.

That’s the strange nature of memory. It can turn a chore into a symbol. It can turn peeling potatoes into proof that life is moving, that breath is steady, that tomorrow might come with something as small and steady as dinner.

So yesterday, peeling them again, I asked myself: why do I hate this so much?
And the answer was complicated. Because peeling potatoes isn’t just peeling potatoes for me. It carries the memory of illness, of longing, of fear. It carries the weight of a season I thought I’d never survive.

But here’s the other truth: it also carries peace.
Because as the skin curls away and the potato emerges clean, my mind wanders. I find myself calm, focused, almost creative in the rhythm. It becomes a whisper of meditation.

Maybe life is like that: the things we fear can also hold what we need. The same act that once felt like a monster can turn into a quiet companion.

I don’t know if peeling potatoes will ever be just peeling potatoes for me.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe, just as in life, it can be both: the memory of a battle and the promise of peace.