Winter in Sweden is a strange thing. It’s dark. Really dark. By three in the afternoon, the daylight has already vanished, leaving behind a sky that feels heavy with grey clouds, as if the sun has decided it simply can’t bear to be here anymore. The first few days of this seem manageable—almost romantic, in a way. But as the days stretch on and the darkness lingers longer, there’s a weight that begins to settle into your chest. It’s hard to ignore that biological pull towards light. The longing for the sun feels almost primal, and some days, it feels like there’s nothing I want more than a bit of brightness, a bit of warmth, just something to pull me out of this endless night.
I don’t think I’m alone in this. Winter blues are a common visitor this time of year. There’s no way around it—the lack of sunlight takes its toll. It’s easy to feel defeated by it, like the darkness is something to endure rather than experience. But I’ve come to realize that the true essence of Swedish winter isn’t about pretending it’s not dark. It’s about embracing that darkness, and in a strange way, it’s through the very absence of light that we become so obsessed with creating it.
Finding Light in Darkness
At Home: Creating a Sanctuary
One of the first things I do when I feel the weight of winter settle in is light candles. I don’t even have to think about it anymore. It’s automatic—this need to bring some light into the house. I light a row of candles on the windowsill, their warm glow flickering gently in the silence of the afternoon. It’s a ritual in its own right, this small act of resistance against the long, cold hours. Each candle is a defiance of the dark, a small, radiant rebellion. The light is soft, intimate, and offers a fleeting sense of warmth that wraps itself around me, pushing away the emptiness that the winter darkness can bring.
In many ways, this is the heart of Hygge—the Scandinavian art of coziness. It’s not about escaping the cold or pretending it’s not there. It’s about finding comfort within it. The candlelight becomes a conversation between me and the season, a promise that the dark will not win, even if it takes some effort to create the light ourselves.
In the City: Collective Warmth
When I step outside, Stockholm feels different during the winter. The streets are lined with Christmas lights, their colorful glow bouncing off the frost-covered windows. Every store has its own set of lights twinkling in the window, almost like the city is wearing a soft, twinkling coat of warmth. The air is crisp, biting, but there’s a certain magic to it. People gather in cafes, sipping their coffee in the glow of the shop lights, chatting, laughing, and, in their own way, sharing light with each other. It’s almost as if the city, in its own quiet way, is fighting back against the darkness with its lights and the connection between people. In these moments, you don’t feel alone; there’s a shared energy, a collective effort to make the most of the season.
Inner Light: Finding Solace in Simplicity
Winter also offers the rare gift of stillness. While the outside world is dark, it feels like the perfect time to turn inward. I find comfort in simple acts—reading a good book, spending time with a loved one, or baking something that fills the house with warmth. There’s no rush to do anything, no pressure to be somewhere else. Winter, in all its darkness, is a season that encourages slowing down. It’s the perfect opportunity to recharge, to reflect, to hibernate in a way. I’ve learned to see winter not as a season of stagnation, but one of rest and renewal. There’s light to be found here, in the stillness and the quiet.
Embracing the Darkness
So, how do we live with the darkness of the Swedish winter? It’s not about pretending it isn’t there or hoping it will go away. The darkness is as much a part of this time of year as the snowflakes that fall or the lights that twinkle from windows. But what we can do is embrace it, welcome it even, and use it as an opportunity to create our own light. Whether it’s the soft glow of candles at home, the warmth shared with others in the city, or the personal space to reflect and recharge, we have the power to find light—even in the longest, darkest days.
And, just like that, the season transforms. It’s no longer something to survive, but something to experience, something to cherish. So, here’s to finding joy in the winter—because of the winter.
The sun will return, but for now, we make our own light. And that’s enough.