Why Cosy Isn’t the Cure
By Holly Price
Hygge. Wintering. #slowliving. Each one has gently reminded us to settle into the season instead of resisting it. After the bright, breathless rush of Christmas, in the frozen heart of midwinter, with digital noise pressing in from every direction, the pull towards softness and stillness feels irresistible.
Curating comfort
As I write, I’m tucked up in a hoodie, an ‘oodie’ and a blanket. A lamp and fairy lights cast a gentle glow across this little nook. My latte smells faintly of gingerbread… It’s almost Instagrammable… And yet I have a nagging feeling I’m missing something… A scented candle, perhaps. A Netflix fireplace?
A coffeeshop playlist hums softly through my earbuds, punctuated by pings from WhatsApp, Teams and Outlook. Copilot greets me, ready uncover all things hygge (starting with how you actually say the word: 'hyoo-guh').
A decade ago, London publishers were scrambling to commission books on a little-known Danish philosophy, hoping to tempt UK Christmas shoppers. Hygge resonated with our desire for comfort, self-care and Pinterest-worthy homes – not to mention a break from discussing Brexit. By the following year, the word was commonly understood as:
‘A quality of cosiness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being.’ (OED, 2017)
I came to the party late. During the first lockdown, I stumbled upon a ‘cosy minimalism’ podcast and launched into a major decluttering mission (before homeschool scuppered every attempt to do anything). The Minimal Mom and The Lazy Genius became my virtual companions as I tried to create a safe haven for my family, one which no longer yelled a ‘silent to-do list’ at me.
When stillness isn’t peace
Hygge has seen a revival over the last year, perhaps as a quiet rebellion against digital overload, distraction and loneliness. Having walked through burnout recently, I recognise the deep need to recover a sense of safety – even sanctuary. Burnout can lock you into what feels like a permanent state of ‘fight or flight’, or more accurately, ‘freeze’. It takes time to retrain your nervous system, to remind it that rest is not only possible but permitted.
When I first attempted to slow down, unplug and be still I found a restlessness that scared me even more.
I wonder whether the cosy nooks we retreat to – even the digital noise we surround ourselves with – are kinds of blankets – ones that layer us up, to cover, hide, protect. In the UK, hygge is private, curated at home and shown off on social media. When I’m feeling overwhelmed, I reach for a product to fix it, a practice to perfect, a little scrolling time to numb out. But, at a heart level – even at a home level – they don’t deliver the ease they promise.
The social soul of hygge
Whilst the British flavour of hygge unintentionally isolates, the original Danish idea is fundamentally social. It’s a feeling of belonging, of ease in each other’s company, of relaxing together because it’s feel safe. It shows up in unpretentious meals and in unhurried conversation. It’s a call to be present, instead of trying to be perfect.
Maybe what I’m missing isn’t another candle or a curated corner, but the warmth that comes from being known – in unpolished, unfiltered shared moments.
And yet, whilst a cosy evening with loving friends can warm the body and calm the mind, can it heal the soul? Even the Danish ideal of hygge depends on circumstances. It also depends on other people, who are just as messy on the inside as me. It offers belonging, but not transformation. That’s burden too heavy for my friends to bear!
Beyond the comforts we create
Hygge beautifully points to a deep longing for connection, peace and rest, but I feel like this blanket is not quite weighty enough to relax my heart. Or maybe it’s that I fear my heart’s restlessness might pop up when my friends least expect it.
Burnout taught me that no amount of decluttering or selfcare can quiet a restless soul. Hygge offers a moment of ease, but I needed something far more profound. I found it in an ancient but ever-present invitation. Jesus says this: ‘Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.’ The kind of rest that steadies your nervous system, silences your demons, and anchors your weary soul.
As winter stretches on, I’m learning that true warmth isn’t found in retreat, but in returning – to the one who welcomes me without requiring performance or perfection, and who is always present. Maybe the comfort I’m searching for isn’t something I can create, but something I can receive.
Read a second version of this written by Holly for The Navigators.