On fika and tiny rituals

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot (and writing a lot) about routines: the value they bring, how to embrace them, how to grow them. As much as I love winter, I’m not fully immune to its mental impact. I’ve been lounging in bed far past my alarm, if only because it’s so warm, instead of going out for my favourite pre-sunrise walks. I’ve been more likely to scroll TikTok in the evening instead of writing or crocheting. I haven’t taken my camera out since we got back from Portugal last month. At thirty-two, I know myself well enough to recognize these as little flags—not necessarily red flags, not even inherently good or bad. But signs to watch, indicators that I may be entering a harder time.

I am not unfamiliar with depression. I’ve had it in various forms throughout my life, from young teenagerhood right up until now. I’ve had it in every flavour, ranging from general malaise to bone-crushing hopelessness. Mostly, I have a good grasp on things now: on the cycles that my mental health takes, on the strategies available to me to deal with it. With age has come experience, and the knowledge to recognize those little flags when they arise.

Here, in late November, I am not depressed. But for various reasons, both seasonally-related and not, those flags are starting to make themselves known. And so, I am making tea.

Photos from a sunrise walk this past week.

Making tea is one of those tiny micro-rituals that give me a sort of satisfaction to complete. I have my standard recipe down to a science: put on the water; grab the Earl Grey leaves, teaspoon, and teabag; put one teaspoon of leaves in the bag; pour the boiled water on top; steep two to four minutes; add brown sugar and a tiny dollop of oat milk; enjoy hot. I’ve been drinking Earl Grey in more or less this exact way since I was a child, when my mom would make us both a nightly cup of decaf. There is comfort in this drink: in how it tastes, the process to make it right, the warmth of the ceramic mug.

And yet—and yet—despite how happy this tiny, simple thing makes me, I don’t do it every day. Somewhere between two and three in the afternoon, when my energy levels tank and tea would be just the thing to perk me up, I don’t always carry myself to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sometimes I don’t think of it, sometimes there’s some half-conscious thought that I shouldn’t have caffeine this late (even though a tea has never kept me from sleeping at night), and sometimes there’s just something so much more important to be done at work and I couldn’t possibly step away for five whole minutes.

Which is silly, of course. There are almost always five minutes that I can carve out of even the busiest afternoons to make a cup of tea. But it’s a question of priorities, and the reality is that I haven’t always been good at prioritising the things that I want and need. Because it’s becoming more and more obvious that these tiny pleasures are a need—especially at this time of year, and especially with the world the way it is right now.

Recently, I introduced my husband to fika, the Swedish concept of taking a little moment for a warm drink, a bit of food, and some socialising. Like hygge before it, it’s something that resonates deeply with me (those damn Scandinavians really know how to live, I guess). We’d brought home some stroopwafels from a local farmers market, and for the next few days we both—him in his office in the city, me at home—took a midmorning break to make a coffee and warm a stroopwafel on top of the steaming mug. A tiny ritual, shared across distance.

Six or seven years ago, when hygge was a big craze here in North America, I saw it described as a cure for seasonal affective disorder. Even though I fully embraced hygge (my candle budget is insane), I’m always pretty dismissive of claims that can trivialise mental illness—something about it has the ring of asking someone with a serious illness if they’ve tried yoga. But if you take the exaggeration off it, I can see what they mean. Tiny rituals, to get through the day.

So again, I come to this conclusion: maybe one of the most important things I can do for myself right now is to prioritise those little routines, the small almost inconsequential habits that come with a sense of comfort and warmth and satisfaction. To make the tea, to bake the bread, to brave the cold and see the sunrise. Maybe, right now, it can be that simple.

Until next time.