This autumn, on the rare occasions I venture out, I’ve taken to looking back at my house. With warm yellow light radiating from the window, framed against the blue-black sky, the glow from the woodburning stove and my husband sitting in the ragged red and pink armchair, happily absorbed in a book (OK, usually his phone), it just looks so cosy.
Who doesn’t love cosy? It’s like loving puppies, or presents. Even the young – who are supposed to be out with no coat in all weathers, wreaking enjoyable havoc – have embraced it. There are 5.4bn views for #cozy on TikTok, where they’re dressing like chic grandmothers and doing “cozycardio” workouts. But we’re all fully paid-up members of the cult of cosy; we’ve got, not the T-shirt, but the chunky knit, the slipper socks and the Richard Osman novel. How did cosy become our dominant aesthetic, one of our most enduring pleasures, and why?
Arguably, cosy has exerted its spell for as long as animals have been making burrows. “We have an evolutionary predisposition to seek out warmth and comfort because in the past, these things would have been essential for our survival,” says psychotherapist Kamalyn Kaur. There’s an architectural theory called “prospect refuge”, which suggests we instinctively prefer spaces that offer both enclosed, concealed safety and a good look-out point; nooks and hollows we can peep out of. That sense of insulation and protection is key: cosy thrives on contrast. “You can’t really get that feeling of being safe and warm without the awareness that it’s cold out there,” as the writer Kathryn Jezer-Morton puts it.
That cold can be figurative as well as literal. It’s no coincidence, according to Annie Auerbach, founder of trends and futures agency Starling, that hygge took over the world and our collective imagination in 2016, “a time of Brexit, Trump and a profound sense of turmoil”. Nordic winter survival strategies felt perfectly suited to a time of existential bleakness and we turned inward, deriving our comforts from the place that felt safest: home. Then came Covid, of course, which powerfully reinforced that notion of home as refuge and sanctuary, but perhaps even more crucially, made staying there easier. Logistically easier, because technology and commerce pivoted to enable work and leisure to take place in our slippers, but also more socially acceptable. Hunkering down was the responsible choice; an act of solidarity. We also made a virtue of necessity, learning wholesome, homespun skills and making our nests as nice as possible. Kaur recalls a constant bustle of delivery vans in her street. “I think people invested in their environment because they thought, if we’re going to be here all the time, we may as well make it look nice, and feel warm and inviting.”
The immediate threat has receded, but we still aren’t feeling particularly adventurous. It’s not so much the roaring 20s this time around as the napping 20s. Partly, there’s a hangover of trauma and fear from the pandemic, but there are also more and different threats. As Auerbach puts it: “Today’s turmoil feels more existential – inequality, climate crisis, mental health epidemic, war – and the hellscape of all that makes us retreat even more.”
It’s also just really nice in our technologically enabled cosy bubbles. I’m writing sitting under a blanket with a candle on my desk, fairy lights twinkling in the dark garden as an autumn storm howls. When I finish work, a heated throw awaits; there will be TV and toast. My targeted ads know – a “Velvetiser” promising the frothiest hot chocolate and sheepskin slippers like fluffy clouds for your feet pursue me across the internet with the single-minded determination of bounty hunters. The cosy economy is booming – John Lewis reports its biggest sellers this year include the “duvet sandwich” (two tog weights you can combine to create an enveloping marshmallow of cosiness), vast sofas and statement rugs. Auerbach thinks our cosy aesthetic has evolved from the steaming mugs and cushions of the hygge era. “My sense is the cosiness of today is more chaotic – a bit like Goblincore or the Finnish concept of kalsarikännit or ‘pantsdrunk’ – drinking at home in your pants. Perhaps a more diffuse threat spawns a more chaotic retreat.” I suspect, too, we’ve gradually refined our individual vision of what kind of cosy we like.
Is it OK to snuggle into whatever cosy means for you? On one level, sure; give your soft animal the woolly socks it loves. A survey of 13,000 Europeans by the Happiness Research Institute (whose director, Meik Wiking, wrote The Little Book of Hygge) found that 73% of people who are happy with their home are happy in general. “We can gain a sense of control and stability by retreating to our own private space, where we can benefit from the physical comfort and safety to promote a sense of calm,” says mindset psychologist Dr Rebekah Wanic. “Their familiarity and predictability can provide a mental escape for introspection and relaxation, away from external pressures.”
“For some people, cosiness is really good for their mental health,” says Kaur, highlighting social anxiety sufferers and those who are overloaded or rundown (all of us, surely?). An avowed and happy homebody, she now consults exclusively online. “Home is where you recalibrate, re-energise, recharge, relax.”
Where it becomes problematic, Kaur says, is “if you feel that this is leading to isolation and withdrawal. If your attachment to cosiness is beginning to hinder your personal growth or it’s stopping you from pursuing new experiences, then you’re going to have to maybe try to strike a balance.” Anxiety among younger people remains troublingly high – a Deloitte report this year found “nearly half of Gen Zs and four in 10 millennials feel stressed or anxious all or most of the time” – and so does loneliness; cosiness can’t be an adequate substitute for connection.
I’m also aware, as I burrow delightedly into my soft, warm cocoon this winter, of what a luxury that is. Now, more than ever, it’s apparent how precious comfort, safety and sanctuary are, and how inaccessible for many. So in celebrating and embracing cosy – that flickering flame against the surrounding darkness – let’s remember how lucky we are.
