I never thought I’d be writing about minimalism while wrapped in three layers of wool, but here we are. Living in Edinburgh taught me that minimalism isn’t just about stark white surfaces and eliminating possessions – it’s about creating intentional spaces that actually work for your life. And when your life involves six months of proper cold weather, those Instagram-perfect minimalist interiors with their bare windows and cement floors start to look less like inspiration and more like a hypothermia risk.
My northern minimalism journey began rather accidentally. After relocating from Manchester with exactly what would fit in my aging Volvo, I found myself in a drafty Victorian flat with gorgeous high ceilings that unfortunately doubled as heat thieves. The first winter was, to put it mildly, a rude awakening. I’d sit huddled under blankets, staring at my carefully curated “minimal” space – all clean lines and empty surfaces – wondering why it felt so unwelcoming despite following all the minimalist design rules I’d absorbed.
The turning point came during a particularly bitter February evening when my mum visited. She took one look at my shivering form and my sparse living room and said, “Love, you can have less stuff without making your home feel like a waiting room at the GP’s.” Not exactly subtle, my mum, but she wasn’t wrong.
That conversation kicked off my quest to reconcile my love of minimalist principles with the practical needs of someone living where the sun sets at 3:30 pm in winter and “jacket weather” means something entirely different than it does to minimalists in California or Australia. I wanted the mental clarity and intentionality of minimalism without the cold aesthetic (or the actual cold, for that matter).
The first breakthrough came with textiles. Turns out, you can embrace minimalism while still owning more than one blanket. Revolutionary, I know! I invested in three high-quality wool throws in colors that complemented my neutral palette. They weren’t cheap, but I’ve now had them for seven years, and they’re still perfect – a testament to the minimalist principle of “buy less, buy better.”
I arranged them in a basket beside my sofa, creating what I now recognize as a “warm minimalist vignette” – a thoughtful arrangement that adds texture and function without clutter. That simple change transformed how the room felt. The basket and blankets became a practical feature in winter and a sculptural element in summer.
Lighting was my next focus. Most minimalist spaces feature lots of bright, white overhead lighting – efficient but about as cozy as an operating theatre. I experimented with layers of warmer lighting instead: a simple floor lamp for reading, a small table lamp with a amber-toned bulb, and a few carefully placed candles (real ones, not those battery-powered things that flicker unconvincingly).
I’m quite chuffed with the lighting system I’ve developed. At sunset (which, again, can be mid-afternoon in Scottish winter), I go through a quick ritual of turning on lamps and lighting candles. It takes about two minutes but transforms the energy of my space completely. The gentle pools of warm light create an instantly intimate atmosphere without adding permanent visual clutter to my home.
The floor was another cold-climate challenge. Minimalist spaces often showcase gorgeous bare concrete or pale wooden floors, perhaps with a single small rug as an accent. Absolutely stunning in photos. Absolutely toe-numbing in practice when it’s -2°C outside. My solution was a large, high-quality wool rug in a subtle pattern that covers most of my living area. It’s visually quiet enough to maintain that calm minimalist feel but brings essential warmth, both thermal and visual.
I still remember the day I found it after months of searching – not too busy, not too plain, ethically made, and within my budget (just barely). I did that thing where you try to walk away to “think about it,” made it halfway down the street, then turned back because deep down I knew it was exactly right. It’s been the foundation of my warm minimalist living room ever since.
Window treatments were another revelation. Minimalist inspiration often shows windows either bare or with those lovely sheer white curtains that look ethereal and gorgeous but have the insulating properties of tissue paper. After one winter of watching my heating money quite literally go out the window, I invested in proper thermal curtains.
The trick was finding ones that maintained the clean aesthetic I wanted. I eventually discovered simple floor-length panels in a color matching my walls, creating a seamless look when open. When closed, they provide a cocoon-like feeling that’s been brilliant for both heat retention and creating ambiance during long dark evenings. In summer, I swap them for lighter versions – yes, I own two sets of curtains, and no, the minimalism police haven’t come for me yet.
Materials make all the difference in warm minimalism. Cold climate minimalism isn’t about having nothing – it’s about choosing the right something. I gradually replaced synthetic or metal pieces with natural materials wherever practical. The sleek chrome and glass coffee table (that always felt cold to the touch) gave way to a simple wooden one. Plastic storage containers were swapped for woven baskets. My prized possession is a wooden armchair I found at a charity shop – its clean Scandinavian lines maintain the minimalist aesthetic, while the material feels inviting rather than austere.
Color was perhaps my biggest departure from traditional minimalism. The all-white palette that’s so prevalent in minimalist design is beautiful but can feel clinical and cold, especially when outside light is already cool and blue for much of the year. I shifted to what I call “minimalism with the edges softened” – a base of warm neutrals (oatmeal instead of stark white, taupe instead of gray) with small, intentional touches of color.
My walls are painted a color that the tin described as “Linen White” but is really the faintest hint of warm beige. It’s nearly white in summer light but takes on a gentle glow in winter that no pure white ever could. Against this backdrop, I allowed myself carefully chosen accent pieces in muted terracotta and olive green – colors that echo natural elements and provide warmth without visual chaos.
This doesn’t mean filling your space with stuff in warm colors – that would miss the point entirely. Instead, I’ve found that thoughtful use of warmer hues in your foundational elements lets you maintain the clean, uncluttered environment that makes minimalism so mentally refreshing while creating a space that feels like a sanctuary rather than a showroom.
The kitchen presented unique challenges too. Minimalist kitchens often feature expanses of cold marble or stainless steel – gorgeous but not surfaces you want to lean against while waiting for the kettle to boil in February! I compromised with wooden cutting boards left out as both functional tools and visual warmth. My countertops are quartz but in a warm tone that doesn’t feel stark. Open shelving displays just a few items – white ceramic mugs, wooden utensil holders, glass containers of grains – creating interest without clutter.
Perhaps the most important aspect of warm minimalism in cold climates is embracing seasonality. My space looks different in December than it does in June, and that’s not just okay – it’s necessary. In summer, I pack away some of the heavier textiles and enjoy the naturally brighter, lighter feel. As autumn approaches, I gradually reintroduce warmer elements – not as clutter, but as an intentional shift to meet changing needs.
There’s a lovely rhythm to these seasonal adjustments that feels deeply satisfying. It’s not about accumulating seasonal decorations (though I do have one small box of holiday items that bring me joy), but about adapting my space to support what my body and mind need as the world outside changes. This responsiveness feels more genuine than maintaining exactly the same sterile environment year-round regardless of what’s happening outside my windows.
The biggest lesson I’ve learned on this warm minimalist journey is that true minimalism isn’t about adhering to specific aesthetic rules or owning a particular number of things. It’s about intentionality – keeping what serves you, what brings genuine joy or utility, and eliminating what doesn’t. In cold climates, the things that serve you might include extra blankets, thicker curtains, and materials that retain heat. That’s not failing at minimalism; it’s succeeding at creating a thoughtful space that actually supports your life.
Seven years into this experiment, my home maintains the calm, uncluttered feeling that drew me to minimalism initially. But now it also feels like somewhere I want to be when sleet is lashing against the windows. The compliment I treasure most came from my friend Keira, who walked in last winter and said, “This place feels like a hug.” That’s exactly what warm minimalism should be – the peace of “less,” but with all the comfort of “home.”
