“My God… I’ve Created an IKEA Monster”

A blue-and-yellow temple of order in a land where “it’ll work out somehow” is a perfectly acceptable long-term strategy.

IKEA, to me, wasn’t about meatballs—though they have their place. It was about function before decoration. Durability before quick fixes. About buying something that lasts ten years, not until next Tuesday.

And that’s when the mission began.

The IKEA Mission

I didn’t say it out loud at first.
But I thought it.

“If they only knew.”
“If they only understood why things are done the way they are in Sweden.”

And like all missionaries, I began to explain.

The difference between cheap and affordable.
The difference between “it works now” and “it keeps working.”
Why something that weighs a little more is often better than something that feels like it might float away in the first breeze.

And she listened.

My partner.
My girlfriend.
The love of my life.

She smiled.
She nodded.
And she said things like:
“This one is cheaper.”

That’s when I should have stopped.

Swedishness Takes Root

But of course I didn’t.

I went deeper.

I talked about materials. About wood types. About why a drawer should survive being opened a thousand times without giving up on life. About how the things you own should cooperate with you—not lie in wait like booby traps for your shins at three in the morning.

I compared.
I analyzed.
I drew parallels to boats, stage constructions, craftsmanship, and—inevitably—life itself.

And slowly… very slowly… something began to change.

She started saying things like:
“That doesn’t feel durable.”
“It looks nice, but is it functional?”
“Shouldn’t we buy something that lasts longer?”

That’s when I should have realized.

But I was too proud.

The First Symptoms

The first real warning sign came on an ordinary day.

We were in a shop—not IKEA—and she picked up a decorative item. Looked at it. Turned it around. Weighed it in her hand.

Then she said:
“No. This is just cheap crap.”

I froze.

Cheap crap?
THAT WAS MY LINE.

I should have run.

The Monster Awakens

She’s not the same person anymore.

She now approaches:
– Plastic pretending to be wood
– Furniture fittings that squeak
– Objects with no clear purpose

with suspicion.

She asks questions.
Uncomfortable questions.

“What’s the lifespan of this?”
“Can it be repaired?”
“Do we need it—or do we just want it?”

She asks these things now.

An IKEA monster.
Fully formed.

When the Missionary Gets Scared

What’s truly terrifying isn’t that she changed.

It’s that she’s better at it than I am.

She plans.
She sorts.
She thinks long-term.

She talks about:
“Home investment”
“Function over aesthetics”
“We shouldn’t buy junk just because it’s cheap”

And suddenly I hear myself thinking:

What have I done?

It’s like Frankenstein—but with shelving systems.

Love’s Irony

And here I am now.

A man who moved to a country full of color, emotion, improvisation, and life—only to create a strict, sustainability-driven woman who scrutinizes every object as if she’s doing quality control for Småland.

I wanted to show quality.
I created consistency.

I wanted to teach sustainability.
I created discipline.

I wanted to explain why IKEA works.
I created IKEA.

The Truth

But here’s the thing.

I don’t regret a second of it.

Because between the laughter, the self-irony, and the blue-and-yellow monster, something beautiful happened.

We met in the middle.

Between improvisation and structure.
Between chaos and order.
Between cheap-now and sustainable-later.

And sometimes, when she stands there inspecting a piece of furniture with the focus of a Swedish quality inspector, I lean back and think:

My God…
I’ve created an IKEA monster.

And I love her for it.