Almost exactly a year ago, I was living in Munich, having travelled there for a two-month journalism fellowship. I couldn’t have been more excited to spend the winter in the foothills of the Alps and had romantic visions of sitting under blankets in delightful squares, drinking mulled wine and steaming hot chocolate with new friends.
For the most part, my dreams came true. I had a marvelous time in Munich, hiking around alpine lakes, visiting Christmas markets and cycling along the river to the office. There was just one small catch—I didn’t make any mates. Not a single one. I was utterly and cripplingly lonely.
Now, if you are even just a periodic reader of this column, you can probably imagine what happened next. I do not have the kind of brain that can keep a sense of proportion. Instead of rationalising this loneliness as an unfortunate but normal part of a short stint living abroad—a temporary and common experience that is no reflection of my worth as a person—I spiralled into self-criticism and eventually a severe episode of OCD.
Why am I rehashing this sorry affair a year on? Because the looming winter has brought back not only memories of my time in Munich, but also some lessons that my time there taught me. I can now see the mistakes I made, and know that I won’t be repeating them this winter.
As I sat alone in my bedroom in Munich, I listened to the advice of countless influencers who spoke to me as I spent my evenings scrolling miserably. Unsurprisingly, they instructed me to buy things: to get myself a scented candle and a soft blanket and create some snuggly vibes in the comfort of my living room. It was strange, then, that, cocooned in a beautiful flat I was subletting from a German journalist on the same scheme, I became increasingly miserable. I watched so many seasons of Downton Abbey that the opening notes of its theme tune still make me feel faintly nauseous.
From the outside, my life looked like the embodiment of the “cosy autumn” I kept seeing online. The problem was that I was getting increasingly ruminative and insular, and the more I shut myself from the world, the more mental I became. What I was missing in Germany was not self-care, but connection. I was socially isolated, which is horrible at the best of times, but can be truly catastrophic when you are struggling with your mental health.
Connection with other people is one of the most fundamentally important elements of wellbeing: various studies suggest that a lack of social connection poses a comparable risk to health as obesity, smoking and high blood pressure. But for all that we’re encouraged to bleed money tracking every minute detail of how our bodies function, from blood sugar to heart rate to sleep quality, social connection is the one indicator of health that we rather curiously ignore. In OECD countries, people are spending less and less time socialising with others in person, while hosting has seen a particular decline—a recent poll found that four in 10 Britons avoid inviting people over due to the clean-up it requires afterwards; in the US, the number of people regularly hosting has declined by 70 per cent in the last 50 years.
It is hosting friends and family that is so fundamental to the Danish practice of hygge, a tradition that has been coopted and corrupted by the social media influencers telling us all to have cosy nights in. While hygge certainly does mean indulging in the delights of a snug aesthetic, it also crucially involves communing with other people. The Scandinavians are not self-caring themselves into isolation.
I love a scented candle as much as the next person, but if you’re going to light a roaring fire this winter, be sure to invite some mates to sit round it.
