Do y’all remember the hygge craze that swept through back in 2017? Some of you probably got caught up in it—cozy blankets, flickering candles, warm mugs of tea. But in case you missed it, hygge is a Danish tradition centered on creating a warm, comforting way of life.
I brought it up to a friend recently who’s going through a hard time. And, honestly, it was a nice little reminder for myself. I’ve been going through it lately too. It might sound a little silly at first, but for a lot of us, hygge was more than a passing trend. For folks who live with PTSD or depression, it became something deeper—a shift in how we think about comfort and care. A mindset change. A lifeline.
I know, because I’ve lived with PTSD for more than 20 years. And of all the things that have helped me along the way, hygge has been one of the most meaningful. Even now, I still rely on those simple rituals to quiet my mind and bring a little peace back into the room.
Of course, I’m not Danish—I’m Southern. So my version of hygge looks a little different. I’m not even sure that’s the right word for how I practice it. Maybe it’s more like, “whatever floats your boat.” Because that’s really what it comes down to: finding the small things that make you feel good and leaning into them. Whatever brings you peace—whatever brings you home—embrace that.
So what floats my boat?
Honestly? It’s the little things. And they’re all around me.
I chose the colors for our home with a specific purpose: to soothe. They’re pulled straight from the WNC landscape—blues, greens, creams, and browns—drawn from a historic palette that reminds me of Wilmington. Two places represented in my paint selections – both of them home.
Our bedrooms? They’re designed for deep rest. Painted in darker hues, lined with blackout curtains—cozy little dens made for sleeping in.
Quilts and wool blankets are tucked everywhere. They remind me of cold nights in Dutch Cove. Antique furniture—pieces other millennials may have passed up—fill our home. We kept ours. They carry memories of holiday dinners, grandparents’ laughter, and stories told around worn kitchen tables.
Historic family photos are scattered throughout the living room—not just decoration, but touchstones. Daily reminders of who we are and where we come from.
And our decor? It’s personal. Rooted. You’ll find Original Owens Pottery and hand-carved decoys from Harkers Island. I recently bought a painting for our bedroom—a giant oak draped in Spanish moss beside a quiet waterway. It takes me right back to Myrtle Grove in Wilmington.
But it’s not just about the things—it’s about the atmosphere.
There are candles in every room—and we light them. Twinkle lights hang in the trees near the patio, and some evenings I step outside with a glass of wine just to listen to the cicadas. A fire pit? That’s a must. Sitting around the fire with my family, swapping stories under the stars—that’s the kind of moment I live for.
The plants in my yard are planted with purpose. The roses and gardenias remind me of Mama. The camellia and scuppernong grapes—Grandmama and Granddaddy. The blackberries and mint? Mamaw and Papaw. Each one carries a memory.
Music plays a constant role, too. Christmas carols while decorating the tree. Loud, happy tunes when we’re cleaning. Something soft humming in the background when we cook together. And at night, Alexa plays rain sounds while we wind down for bed.
Even the food we eat is built around joy. Homemade bread with organic, unbleached flour. Hearty soups. Well-seasoned vegetables. Real fats. Jams and jellies put up from summer’s bounty. Most of it’s made from scratch—because homemade always tastes better than anything dumped out of a can.
Our hobbies are just as intentional. Hiking, reading, golfing, gardening, swimming, travel—we don’t chase trends. We reach for the tried and true. The things that nourish our spirits.
And the places we go? They’re rarely hot spots. I’m not looking for trendy restaurants. I want the leaning little shack that’s been serving the best plate of food in town for 50 years. I’ll skip the shiny new amusement park to explore the quiet historic site just down the road.
That’s what comfort looks like for me. It’s not flashy. It’s not curated for Instagram. It’s personal. It’s rooted. It’s built from memory and meaning and the steady pull of what feels like home.
So maybe it’s not hygge in the traditional sense. Maybe it’s just life, lived with intention. A soft place to land when the world feels too loud. A little warmth, a little light, and the things—and people—that make it all worthwhile.
Around my house, it’s whatever floats your boat.
That’s more than enough.
