Sometimes people ask me why I stayed in Stockholm when I could have chosen any other city. I don’t always have a clear answer, but maybe it’s because I’m stubborn. Or maybe because I learned to see a side of this place that most people don’t bother to look for.
Why People Call Stockholm Cold
When I first googled Stockholm before moving here, I found so many posts and forums with the same question: “Why are Swedish people so cold?” I laughed at it then. I thought it was just a stereotype, another cliché that melts once you live it long enough.
But when I arrived, I realized it’s not exactly untrue. People here aren’t rude. They won’t push you on the street, they won’t shout, they won’t stare. But they also won’t talk. Not at the bus stop, not at the bar, not at the table next to yours. They keep their world small, neat, polite, and distant.
I remember reading an article about the ‘no small talk rule’ in Sweden. It made sense once I lived it. Here, silence is a way to respect your space — but for someone new, that silence can feel like a wall you don’t know how to climb.
The First Winter
My first winter in Stockholm nearly made me pack my bags. I didn’t mind the snow or the short days — I knew what I signed up for. But I didn’t expect the empty streets at 7 PM. I didn’t expect to drink coffee alone so many times. I didn’t expect to come home from a bar feeling more invisible than when I walked in.
One Friday night I sat in a tiny place near Gamla Stan, scribbling notes on a napkin, pretending I was busy so I wouldn’t look alone. I watched groups of friends laugh at private jokes. They all knew each other. And there I was, the foreigner with a cheap glass of wine and no one waiting for me to come home.
That was the night I promised myself I wouldn’t let Stockholm freeze me too. If I stayed, I’d find warmth somewhere — or make it myself.
How I Started to See the Warmth
Maybe that’s what people miss when they say Stockholm is cold: they don’t stay long enough to see the cracks in the ice. If you live here a while, you notice the small signs. The man who holds the subway door so you don’t get stuck. The bartender who remembers your drink without asking. The friend who might take three months to open up — but when they do, they stay for life.
One night, a few months after that lonely Friday, I met Ava. I’ve written about her before — the escort who taught me more about Stockholm in one hour than my first six months did. We were sitting in a bar in Östermalm, talking about men, mistakes, and money. She looked at me and said, “You can’t expect warmth here. You have to deserve it.”
I laughed at the time, but she was right. Stockholm isn’t a city that hugs you first. You make the first move. You stay even when it’s easier to leave. You lean in, even when you feel ignored. And slowly — so slowly you barely notice — it starts to lean back.
People Who Stay, People Who Go
I’ve seen people come and go here. Erasmus students who never unpack properly because they know they’re leaving. Expats who spend two years complaining about how reserved Swedes are, then move to Berlin because it’s ‘more open’. Tourists who think they’ll find wild nightlife and end up drunk in a silent line at McDonald’s at 3 AM.
And I get it. If you want instant warmth, Stockholm is not your city. If you want small talk with strangers and hugs at first sight, try Spain. If you want a place that feels like family in a week, go to Lisbon.
But if you want to earn your place, if you don’t mind the work — then Stockholm gives you something better: people who mean it when they say you’re a friend. People who won’t ask about your day just to be polite, but because they really want to know. People who might take a year to trust you but then trust you completely.
The Quiet Kindness
Last month I was sitting alone again — this time in a bar near Hornstull I go to sometimes when I don’t feel like talking but don’t want to be alone at home. I had my usual: gin and tonic, too much ice, a slice of cucumber instead of lime. A woman sat next to me. She didn’t say anything at first. Neither did I.
After maybe twenty minutes, she asked if she could borrow my lighter. I don’t smoke, but I had one. We talked about the weather, then about the bar, then about how we both ended up there that night. She was Swedish, born here, but she said she still felt lonely sometimes too.
We didn’t exchange numbers. We didn’t plan to meet again. But for an hour we weren’t strangers, and that’s enough for me now. Sometimes that’s all the warmth you get — a brief spark that says: you’re not invisible tonight.
Later I walked home past Slussen, crossing the bridge with the cold wind in my face. I thought about how that version of me from my first winter would never have believed this was enough. But I do now.
What I’ve Learned — And What I Tell Others
If someone asked me today, “Is Stockholm really cold?” I’d say yes. And no. It’s cold if you expect it to hold you without asking anything back. It’s cold if you wait for people to come to you. But if you lean in — awkward, silent, patient — it gets warmer, bit by bit.
If you’re new here, don’t measure warmth in big gestures. Look for the quiet kindness. The invitation to a fika that actually means something. The friend who might not hug you every time but will help you move in the snow. The bartender who pours you one extra shot when he knows you’ve had a rough week.
Maybe that’s why I stayed. Not because Stockholm is easy, but because it isn’t. And because when you earn a place here, it’s really yours.
If you ever feel the city’s silence pressing on you too much — send me a message. Maybe I’ll tell you about Ava, or about that woman at the bar. Or maybe I’ll just remind you that sometimes, the coldest cities have the warmest stories hidden inside them.
– Nora