The Work You Carry With You

I flew out of Copenhagen in the afternoon. The window seat faced west. Below, the city faded into farmland — quiet blocks of color, neat roads, water cutting in at the edges. I’ve taken this route often enough not to feel like I’m leaving anything behind, but I always look down anyway.

I was headed to London for a few days of filming. It was a short trip, the kind that slips in between other responsibilities. As a Danish actress, this kind of travel sits somewhere between routine and ritual. You check your documents twice. You rehearse quietly in your head. You watch people walk quickly, alone, toward something. I’ve always liked airports. They have a certain logic to them. Even when they’re chaotic, they move.

I stopped for a coffee, even though I don’t normally drink any past midday. Actor logic usually keeps me in check — no caffeine after thirteen hundred, no screens an hour before bed — but travel hours shift the boundaries. You end up adjusting quietly to what’s needed in the moment: a warm drink, a stretch of silence, a small seat near the charging point.

Boarding after 1 a.m.

My return flight left late. The terminal at Heathrow was nearly empty when I boarded. The flight had been delayed, and the last passengers were quiet, almost whispering, like the hour had made everything feel thinner. A British Airways crew member smiled as she scanned my pass. She didn’t rush me, which I noticed. I sat near the gate reading Michael Caine’s acting book with my phone charging, plugged into the wall behind me. There was a calmness to the whole space — bright corridors, muted sound, everything still functioning but just barely.

Earlier that day, I’d sat on the lawn outside Keats House, rehearsing lines for another project. It was quiet there too — filtered light, green trees, a few other visitors on benches nearby. I sometimes wonder what people assume when they see someone speaking quietly to themselves, over and over. The lines don’t always make sense out of context, but you say them anyway, because that’s part of the work. Repetition until it sounds like a thought.

I carry more than one passport. It’s something I’m quietly grateful for — especially after crossing enough borders to know the difference. The rhythm of switching languages, accents, and roles. My accent is American now, mostly. It passes easily, especially on set. People often ask where I’m from and don’t believe the answer. That’s fine.

People often imagine that acting takes place in dramatic settings. On stages, under lights, on sets filled with cables and noise. And of course, it does. But there's this other part — the part where you wait in airports with dialogue in your head, carrying characters between countries, rehearsing in quiet places where no one’s watching.

There’s no real behind-the-scenes. Just the work, and the places you carry it.

I write these in between projects — on quiet days or travel days, when there’s time to think a little longer.

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