Marshmallow-Soft Hug

I could barely sleep through my anxiety, thinking about what minus ten degrees with a real-feel of minus seventeen would do to my already blistered toes and fingers—chilblains brought on by living in a poorly insulated house (the price paid for Victorian character), the UK’s wind-stabbing winter, and my Raynaud’s disease deciding this was the year to take my circulation issues up a notch.

My rheumatologist wavered between bemusement and concern at my announcement of heading to Stockholm for Christmas, having just spent the last ten minutes analysing my ballooned, purple digits. He added thermal shoes and electrical gloves to my shopping list, wishing me “good luck” with immense gravity.

But here’s the thing: Sweden’s December, though colder and darker than England’s, didn’t shake my bones or chill my core, nor did it eat away at my extremities. Instead, its crisp air soothed like a eucalyptus rub against my weather-beaten body, and inside its every konditori, there waited a warm, marshmallow-soft hug (and a beckoning pastry). Somehow, under the white blanket of the Swedish capital, I healed.