This week, I genuinely got really mad. Not because of sleep deprivation, or the threenager in a constant state of emotional crisis, but because I’ve spent hours tangled in the maddening bureaucracy of Swedish authorities. Parental leave in Sweden is great unless you’re foreign. And especially if you live in Denmark and work in Sweden. Then it’s less of a well-oiled Scandi dream and more like trying to assemble IKEA furniture with missing screws and instructions in the wrong language.

I’ve lived in Denmark and commuted to Sweden for work for the past five years. On paper, this setup sounds efficient, even modern. A symbol of Scandinavian cooperation, neatly wrapped up in the SINK tax agreement and cross-border bureaucracy that’s meant to make life easier for people like me.

Spoiler alert: it’s a bureaucratic obstacle course designed by someone who’s never had children.

The first time I had to navigate maternity leave between Denmark and Sweden, it nearly broke me. I thought that doing it again, three years later, would mean fewer surprises. Fewer nights crying over government forms. Fewer hours on hold and feelings of sheer rage when getting through to someone, while simultaneously frantically bouncing a baby to sleep.

I was wrong.

This time, I started six months before giving birth. That’s right—six months of phone calls, document gathering, cross-checking with colleagues, endless Googling, and low-level anxiety, all in the hope of having a single thing sorted before the baby arrived. Spoiler number two: I still didn’t get paid for months.

And why? Because no one—not the Danish authorities, not the Swedes, not even that one lovely advisor who genuinely tried-can clearly explain how the system is supposed to work. Every person tells you a different version of events. The Swedish Försäkringskassan seems to run on vibes, confusion, and snail mail. Real, physical letters. That get lost. In 2025.

Yes, there’s a cross-border advisory service called Øresund Direkt. Supposedly there to help people like me. In reality? As useful as a car with square wheels. You can call, email, read the site, and still come away with absolutely no actionable advice. A website filled with links that loop you back to the same four confusing articles. No ownership, no clarity, and definitely no urgency.

Meanwhile, Swedish companies? They wash their hands of the whole thing. “Tax is a personal matter.” That’s the line I was served . Over and over. No help. No guidance. Just a polite shrug and a good luck message while you’re bleeding, sleep-deprived, and trying to figure out how to feed your newborn. It’s not their problem. But when you’re straddling two systems, with no clear ownership of your case, it becomes no one’s problem—except yours.

I often get asked how much parental leave my husband will take. In theory, I can split my generousparental leave allowance with him, but where do we even begin to navigate the cross-border system to make that happen? There’s no roadmap. No guidance. And no bandwidth left, frankly, to take on yet another administrative labyrinth. The mental load of figuring it all out, on top of having a newborn is just another unpaid job assigned to mothers by default.

By the time my son was born, I was already racing the clock to get his birth certificate and a British passport. Anyone who’s tried taking a passport photo of a newborn knows it’s one of the more ridiculous tasks you’ll ever do as a parent. But that turned out to be a cakewalk compared to what came next: getting my own maternity pay.

Three months postpartum, I’m still not done. Not paid. Still in limbo. I’ve spent at least 10 hours on the phone with Försäkringskassan and Skatteverket (plus countless more on hold). I waited three weeks for a letter to tell me I had to physically go to a Swedish tax office with my baby for ID verification. Every mum knows that getting out of the house for a walk is a victory. Getting to another country? That’s a logistical miracle.

Eventually, after three hours on hold and speaking to three different Skatteverket caseworkers, I managed to email a photo of my son’s passport and get the coordination number in five minutes. The absurdity of that alone sums this system up perfectly.

Now I wait. Again. For Försäkringskassan to finalise my case. No idea how long that will take. No idea how many more calls. I’m bone-tired and out of patience.

Every mum I’ve spoken to in a similar position has been told something different. But we’ve all lived through the same emotional labour. Some were still forced to cross the border with their newborns. Same company, same job, same citizenship. Different hoops. Different hellscapes.

So I’m asking; why is the system this broken? Why is it so discriminatory to people who, for years, have paid into the Swedish system? Where is the parental leave utopia that Sweden sells to the world? Because for cross-border mums like me, it’s a fairy tale.

We’re not asking for special treatment. We’re asking for clarity. For dignity. For a system that actually works.

And for the love of god, we’re asking you to stop sending vital documents by post.