By Jill Kantor, The Hygge Wellness Company
I didn’t know what hygge was the first time I white-knuckled my way through a prairie blizzard or soaked in a hotel tub after a 14-hour workday. I just knew I needed warmth, stillness, something that felt like home when I was hundreds of miles from it.
For years, I drove to every corner of Manitoba and regularly flew to northwestern Ontario. Often alone, often in challenging weather, always carrying the weight of the workday and the need to feel grounded. Without realizing it, I started creating small travel rituals that made me feel okay, sometimes even more than okay. That was my version of hygge on the road.
Thunder Bay, and the First Spark of Comfort
In the early days of all that travel, I didn’t think much about where I stayed. I just booked the usual: safe, clean, forgettable. Chain hotels with matching carpets, humming mini-fridges, and air that always smelled a little like cleaning spray. They did the job, but never made me feel at ease.
Then something shifted. It happened slowly, and then all at once.
I ended up in Thunder Bay for work, one of those trips that wasn’t circled with excitement on anyone’s calendar. But that’s where I stumbled into something different. A small hotel near the ski hill, quiet and tucked away, with fireplaces in the lounge and soft corners that invited you to stay awhile. For the first time, a work trip felt like a break.
Later, I discovered a bed and breakfast by the port. The owners had moved from Manitoba, and by some wild coincidence, had once lived next door to my sister. That tiny, unexpected connection felt like home showing up in a place I never thought to look for it.
In the evenings, we’d sit on their porch, order Thai or Vietnamese takeout, and watch the sun go down over their backyard pond. It was simple, but it felt like something rare, something grounding.
That’s when I realized: comfort doesn’t always come from planning. Sometimes it comes from openness. From paying attention. From letting yourself land softly, wherever you are.
The Little Things That Grounded Me
Over time, I built a kind of personal hygge travel comfort kit—nothing fancy, just familiar:
- My own pillow and blanket
- Cozy socks, a well-worn sweater
- A few tea bags from home
- A book I wanted to disappear into
- Scented bath products, and sometimes a candle
- A playlist or an audiobook. (Back when they came on cassette, I’d borrow them from the library before heading out.)
- My travel mug, because morning coffee in your own cup is its own kind of therapy
These things didn’t make the trips glamorous. But they made them mine.
I brought my travel mug and never missed my morning coffee. That little act made every place I stayed feel instantly more familiar.
Hygge in Small Places
I had to slow down in smaller towns, not because I wanted to, but because there simply wasn’t much else to do. And that’s what made it meaningful.
Without the usual noise and rush, I found myself noticing the little things: a coffee shop with handmade mugs and scratchy jazz playing softly in the corner. A handwritten note on a chalkboard that said, “Today’s soup: chicken and conversation.” Those places didn’t just serve food or drinks, they offered presence.
I took yoga classes at rec centers and community halls, where no one wore designer leggings and everyone said hello. I wandered antique shops filled with creaking floors and dust and old stories, where I’d talk with the owners like we were already acquainted.
I didn’t always buy anything, but I always left with something, sometimes a tip about a trail nearby or a recommendation for a hidden lakefront bench where you could sit and hear your thoughts.
In summer, I packed my rollerblades and followed cracked paths through small parks, often the only one out there. It was movement, yes, but also meditation. Those slow laps around town made the days feel less transactional and more lived.
And every town had something: a diner where someone asked where you were headed next, a shop that smelled like cedar, a mural on the side of a building that made you stop. I started to treat those moments like they mattered, because they did. They brought texture to the trip, and often, they brought me back to myself.
Those small places reminded me that you don’t need much to feel held. You just need to be where you are and allow that to be enough.
Big Cities, Same Need for Stillness
As my work evolved, so did my travel. By 2014, I was spending more time in cities. Toronto. Calgary. Ottawa. Vancouver. Bigger meetings, busier agendas, more people, more pressure. But even in all that buzz, I found myself reaching for the same small hygge comforts: quiet cafés, tucked-away bookstores, green spaces where I could hear myself think.
In smaller towns, coziness came easily. In cities, I had to create it more intentionally. I learned to choose the quiet corner instead of the flashy lounge. To slow down when everything else was speeding up.
But one trip stands out more than the rest.
It was January 2020, and I flew to Vancouver for a five-day work trip. The weather was brutal – cold, wet, and heavy in that way winter sometimes is. I felt sick, tired, under-packed, and completely out of rhythm.
On the first day, I bought a thick, soft sweater, something warm to carry me through. I wandered Granville Island during a break, hoping the buzz of the market might lift my mood. It did. I found handmade bath salts in a quiet little shop. That night, I ran a bath in the hotel’s deep tub, lit a candle, played soft music, and just…let go.
It didn’t fix everything, but it softened the day. And that’s the thing about hygge, it’s not always about beauty or bliss. Sometimes it’s about survival. Softness. Gentleness with yourself.
That trip reminded me that hygge is more than a mood. It’s a wellness practice. A way of showing up for yourself, especially when you feel run down. Or when you travel.
Meals That Felt Like Moments
In the beginning, I ate to keep going. Fast food in the car. Lobby snacks between meetings. Whatever was quick and convenient.
But over time, I learned to treat meals differently. Not as an obligation, but as a pause. A reset. A small way to care for myself.
I sought out restaurants that felt like someone’s second home, a bakery where the bread was still warm, an Italian place where the lighting was soft and time moved slower, a diner where someone behind the counter actually looked up when I walked in and asked how I was.
Something was grounding about those places. They made me feel like a person again, not just a name on a meeting agenda or a traveller passing through. They reminded me that comfort doesn’t have to be complicated, it just has to be real.
Sometimes, I’d bring dinner back to my hotel, place it on a napkin like a tablecloth, light a candle, and open a book. It wasn’t about presentation, it was about presence. I let it feel like a meal, not a transaction. I let it feel like mine.
Those quiet dinners, eaten alone but not lonely, became one of the most important rituals in my travelling life. Not just fuel for my body, but care for my spirit.
How I Travelled Later On
As I stepped into a director role and travelled a few times a year, I stayed with the rituals that worked.
- I packed light, always with a carry-on only
- I brought a robe if there was space, and always my slippers
- I chose healthy food that felt good, not just fast
- I downloaded my shows and made sure I had something to read
And when I could, I walked. I moved slowly. I made space to breathe, even during the busiest schedules.
How to Create Your Kind of (Travel) Hygge
- Bring something that feels like home: your mug, your favourite socks, a familiar scent
- Keep a small ritual: tea before bed, a journal entry, a walk at dusk
- Choose the local café over the chain, you might find a human connection there
- Let meals be moments, not just fuel
- Find the quiet corners, the soft seats, the slower roads
- And permit yourself to rest, even when you’re “on”
You don’t need luxury to feel cared for. You need comfort that comes from familiarity, connection, and permission to slow down.
I didn’t set out to build a wellness routine. I just needed to feel okay. And somewhere between roadside coffees, porch conversations, and candlelit hotel tubs, I found it.
Not in the destinations, but in the rituals.
In the quiet.
In the way I started showing up for myself.
Now, whether I’m 500 miles away or five minutes down the road, I carry it with me.
My own kind of hygge.
My own kind of home.
These days, my travel looks different.
After stepping away from corporate life, I now spend my time fully devoted to The Hygge Wellness Company, running retreats, workshops, and coaching sessions that help others reconnect to themselves the way I once had to learn on the road.
Now, when I travel, it’s to scout retreat venues or to host groups across Canada, places where we can slow down, breathe deeper, and create space for calm, clarity, and connection. Cozy, meaningful travel. The kind that nourishes, not depletes.
If you’re craving that, too, if you’re looking for a way to retreat, reset, and build your sense of hygge, you’re invited.
Come retreat with me. Let’s create space for what matters.