I’ve been living in Helsinki for twelve years now, and somewhere around year three, I stopped fighting this city’s aesthetic and let it change the way I think about home. Not in a dramatic, throw-everything-out sort of way — more like a slow unraveling. The heavy curtains went first. Then the dark accent wall. Then, eventually, most of the furniture I’d hauled across Europe in a rented van.
What replaced it all wasn’t some Pinterest board made real. It was something quieter and, honestly, much harder to get right than I expected.
These ten principles aren’t rules you follow to the letter. They’re more like a way of seeing — the kind of thinking that sits behind every good Scandinavian interior, whether it’s a 200-square-meter villa in Espoo or a studio apartment in Kallio. I learned most of them the expensive way, so maybe you won’t have to.
1. Light Is Everything
This is the one people underestimate the most. In Helsinki, we get maybe six hours of daylight in December — and that “daylight” is often a pale grey wash that barely clears the rooftops. By June, the sun basically never sets. Your home has to work in both of those extremes, and that single fact shapes nearly every design decision worth making up here.
When I renovated my apartment in Töölö back in 2019, the first thing my architect said was: “Where does the light come from, and where does it go?” Not “what style do you want” or “what’s your budget.” Light first. Everything else follows.
I ripped out the partition between my kitchen and living room specifically to let the western light travel farther into the apartment. Cost me about €3,200 for the demolition and replastering, and it changed the entire feel of the place more than any piece of furniture ever could.
Practically, this means: sheer curtains or none at all (I use white linen panels from Marimekko that filter without blocking), light-colored floors, and reflective surfaces placed strategically. A simple round mirror opposite a window does more work than a €500 lamp. Trust me on that one.
If you’re planning your own space, I wrote more about how Nordic light affects your choices in my guide to choosing the right color palette for a Nordic home.
2. Functionality First, Always
There’s this misconception that Scandinavian design is about making things look minimal. It’s not. It’s about making things work — and the minimal look is just a side effect of removing what doesn’t.
Alvar Aalto didn’t design the Stool 60 because he wanted something pretty in a gallery. He designed it because Finnish schools needed stackable, affordable seating that would last decades. It just happens to be beautiful because its form follows its function so precisely.
I apply this thinking to every purchase now. Before I buy anything for my home, I ask three questions: What job does this do? Does something I already own do that job? Will this still do that job well in five years?
That €45 decorative vase I almost bought from Stockmann last spring? Failed question one. The Artek tea trolley I spent months saving for? Passes all three — it holds my morning coffee setup, rolls to wherever I’m sitting, and it’s solid birch that will outlast me.
This doesn’t mean your home has to feel spartan. My apartment is full of objects. But every single one earns its place.
3. Natural Materials Over Synthetic Everything
Run your hand along an oak tabletop. Now run it along a laminate one. Your body knows the difference even if your eyes can’t always tell. Nordic design has always privileged materials that age rather than deteriorate — wood, stone, linen, wool, leather, ceramic.
My floors are white-oiled birch. The dining table is solid ash from a small workshop in Fiskars. My sofa throws are wool from Lapuan Kankurit, a weaving mill that’s been operating since 1917. The kitchen countertop is a pale grey granite from a quarry about two hours north of here.
These choices cost more upfront, almost always. The Lapuan Kankurit throw was €135, and yes, I could have gotten something similar-looking from a fast-furniture chain for €25. But the wool throw is warmer, feels better against skin, and four years later still looks exactly as it did the day I bought it. The cheap one would be pilling in a landfill by now.
Natural materials also do something subtle to a room’s atmosphere. They absorb sound differently, they interact with light in more complex ways, and they carry a warmth that synthetics simply cannot replicate. Wood grain, linen texture, the slight irregularity of hand-thrown ceramics — these imperfections make a room feel alive.
4. A Neutral Palette With Warm, Deliberate Accents
The all-white Scandinavian room is a bit of a myth — or at least, it’s only half the story. Yes, whites and pale greys form the base of most Nordic interiors. But the ones that actually feel good to live in always have warmth layered in.
I keep about 70% of my palette neutral: warm whites on the walls (Tikkurila’s “Paper Y459” has been my go-to for years), pale wood tones on floors and furniture, and grey linen on the bigger textile pieces. The remaining 30% is where personality comes in.
Right now, my accent tones are muted terracotta (a few cushions, one large ceramic vase) and deep forest green (a vintage armchair I reupholstered, plus some trailing plants). Last year it was dusty rose and ochre. The beauty of a neutral base is that you can shift your accent palette seasonally without repainting or replacing big-ticket items.
If you want to go deeper on how to actually choose and test colors for Nordic light conditions, I put together a whole post on building a color palette for your Nordic home. The short version: always test paint samples on the actual wall, at multiple times of day. Nordic light is gorgeous but unforgiving.
5. Less, But Significantly Better
This is probably the principle I struggled with most. I grew up in a home full of stuff — not cluttered exactly, but dense. Every surface had something on it. Moving to Finland and gradually paring back felt like losing part of myself for a while.
But here’s what I eventually understood: “less but better” isn’t about deprivation. It’s about curation. It’s the difference between a shelf holding twenty-three random objects and a shelf holding five things you genuinely love.
The Finns have a term — “tarpeeksi” — that roughly means “enough.” Not minimal. Not excessive. Just… sufficient. My living room has one sofa, one armchair, one coffee table, one bookshelf, one floor lamp, and a rug. That’s it for furniture. But each piece was chosen carefully, and together they create a room that feels complete without being cramped.
I’d rather own one Muuto pendant lamp that makes me happy every time I switch it on than five generic ceiling fixtures I never notice. That €389 for the Muuto Fluid pendant was painful to pay, I won’t pretend otherwise. But three years later, I still look up at it and feel something. That’s worth a lot.
6. Bringing Nature Inside — And I Mean Actually Inside
Finns have this deep, almost spiritual relationship with nature. The right to roam, the cabin culture, the sauna tradition — it all comes from the same place. And Nordic interiors reflect that connection in ways that go beyond putting a succulent on a windowsill.
I have eleven plants in my apartment. Not because some article told me to. Because after a Finnish winter, when you haven’t seen green in four months, having living things around you is genuinely necessary for your wellbeing. My monstera sits by the south-facing window in the bedroom. A trailing pothos cascades from the top of the bookshelf. There’s a small herb garden on the kitchen windowsill that gives me fresh dill and basil even in January.
Beyond plants, I bring nature in through materials (the wood and stone I mentioned earlier), through color (greens and earth tones), and through objects. I have a collection of stones and driftwood from trips to the archipelago that sits in a shallow wooden bowl on my coffee table. A bundle of dried birch branches in a tall ceramic vase by the entryway. Pressed ferns in simple oak frames.
None of this is styled for a photograph. It’s there because these things connect me to the landscape outside my window — even when that landscape is frozen solid and dark by 3 pm.
7. Layered Textiles for Depth and Warmth
A room without textiles is a room without soul. I really believe that. The hard surfaces — wood, glass, metal, stone — provide the structure. The textiles bring the warmth, literally and visually.
Layering is the key word. Not just a cushion on the sofa, but a cushion on the sofa plus a wool throw draped over the armrest plus a sheepskin on the seat of the dining chair plus a heavy linen curtain filtering the window light plus a rug underfoot. Each layer adds texture, sound absorption, and visual depth.
My rug is a flat-weave from Finarte, a Finnish company that makes them from recycled cotton. It’s 170 × 240 cm, a warm sand color, and it grounds the entire living room. On top of the sofa, there’s a Johanna Gullichsen Doris cushion cover in black and cream — geometric, structured, very Finnish — next to a soft mustard wool cushion from HAY.
I swap textiles seasonally too. Heavier wool and darker tones come out in October; by May, everything shifts to lighter linens and cottons. It’s a small ritual that helps the apartment breathe with the year.
8. Clean Lines, But With Genuine Personality
Here’s where a lot of people go wrong with Scandinavian design: they achieve the clean lines but forget the personality. They end up with a space that looks like a furniture showroom — technically correct but emotionally empty.
Clean lines don’t mean sterile. They mean intentional. It means that your sofa has a clear, considered shape instead of an overstuffed, blobby silhouette. It means your shelving has consistent proportions. But on those clean-lined shelves, you should absolutely have your grandmother’s slightly wonky ceramic bowl, your kid’s drawings, a postcard from that trip to Tallinn.
I keep the bones of my apartment very disciplined — simple furniture profiles, consistent hardware finishes (all brass, no mixing), clean sightlines. But the stuff that lives on and around those bones is personal and sometimes a bit odd. A taxidermy-style ceramic fox from the Helsinki Design Museum shop. A framed vintage Marimekko fabric swatch I found at Hietalahti flea market. A stack of well-worn cookbooks in Finnish, Italian, and English.
If you’re interested in how I balance older, sentimental pieces with modern design, I wrote about that in the art of mixing vintage with modern decor.
9. Sustainable Choices as a Design Philosophy
Sustainability in Nordic design isn’t a marketing trend — it’s woven into the philosophy itself. When you buy quality pieces that last decades, when you favor natural materials over petroleum-based ones, when you choose to own less but better, you’re already making sustainable choices without even trying.
But I’ve also become more deliberate about it. I buy secondhand whenever possible. About 40% of my furniture came from Tori.fi (Finland’s version of Craigslist) or from flea markets. My dining chairs are 1960s originals by Ilmari Tapiovaara — found at a vintage shop in Punavuori for €80 each, a fraction of what reproductions cost.
I’ve learned to ask about supply chains. Where was this made? What’s it made from? How far did it travel to reach me? Finnish and Scandinavian brands tend to be more transparent about this than most — companies like Artek, Nikari, and Woodnotes publish detailed information about their materials and manufacturing.
When something breaks, I repair it first. The leather on my armchair has been patched twice. My Artek stool has been re-oiled annually for seven years. These maintenance rituals are part of living with good design — they’re how you build a relationship with the objects in your home.
For pieces worth investing in for the long haul, take a look at my post on design icons worth the investment.
10. The Hygge Factor — Coziness as a Necessity, Not a Luxury
I know, I know — hygge is a Danish word, and I live in Finland, where the equivalent concept is koti (home) or the broader idea of kodikkuus (homeyness). But whatever you call it, this feeling is non-negotiable in Nordic interiors.
It’s not about fairy lights and cashmere blankets, though those are fine. It’s about creating a home that physically and emotionally supports you through a winter that lasts roughly half the year. When it’s –22°C outside and the sun set at 2:45 pm, your home needs to be the warmest, most comforting place you know.
For me, this means: warm lighting everywhere (2700K bulbs, no higher — the Muuto Leaf table lamp on my desk is perfect), candles at dinner even on a Tuesday, soft surfaces within arm’s reach, and a space that invites you to slow down. My reading corner has a deep armchair, a wool blanket, a good floor lamp, and a small side table for tea. That’s it. Four elements. But together they create a micro-environment that says “stay here a while.”
The truth is, most of these ten principles overlap and support each other. The natural materials create warmth. The warm lighting creates coziness. The coziness makes you want to be home. And when you want to be home, you care more about the space around you — which is how the whole cycle starts.
Where I Am Now
My apartment isn’t finished. I don’t think it ever will be, and honestly, I’ve come to see that as the point. The Scandinavian homes I love most aren’t the ones frozen in perfection — they’re the ones that show evidence of a life being lived. A coffee ring on the oak table. A crease in the linen sofa cover. A stack of books that’s outgrown the shelf.
If I could give you one piece of advice after a decade of figuring this out, it’s this: stop trying to get it right all at once. Buy one good thing and live with it for six months before buying the next. Let the room tell you what it needs. It will, if you’re paying attention.
And if you’re just starting out, maybe begin with the light. It’s where everything else begins up here.
