September in Helsinki. The light shifts from that endless summer gold to something softer, more amber. And every year, like clockwork, I get the itch to rearrange everything.
It happened last Saturday. I was drinking my morning coffee on the balcony — still barefoot, still pretending it was summer — and a single birch leaf, bright yellow, landed in my cup. That was it. The signal. Time to transition.
I’ve been doing this seasonal shift for about seven years now, and I’ve gotten it down to a single weekend. No massive shopping sprees. No Pinterest-fueled panic buying. Just a series of small, intentional changes that take the apartment from “airy summer” to “wrap me in wool and light every candle we own.”
Here’s exactly how I do it.
Summer Mode: What We’re Working With
Before I get into the autumn switch, you need to understand what my apartment looks like during summer. Because the transition only works if you know what you’re moving away from.
June through August, my place is stripped back. White linen curtains. Cotton cushion covers in pale grey and washed blue. Fresh flowers — usually from the Hakaniemi market hall, because the vendors there know me by now and throw in extra stems when I buy ranunculus. The windows stay open until 11 pm because the light never really disappears, and the whole apartment smells like outside air and whatever’s blooming on the balcony.
The rugs get rolled up. The wool throws go into vacuum bags in the hallway closet. I swap the heavy Iittala Kastehelmi candleholders for simple clear glass ones — lighter, less serious.
It’s minimal. Almost bare. And I love it. But when the temperature drops below 15°C and stays there, bare stops feeling fresh and starts feeling cold.
The Weekend It All Changes
I always pick a Saturday in mid-September. Last year it was September 14th. The forecast said 11°C and overcast. Perfect.
I start with coffee (always), then I pull out what I call the Autumn Box. It’s a large IKEA SKUBB storage case that lives on top of the wardrobe, stuffed with everything I need. Cushion covers, candles, a couple of dried flower arrangements I saved from last year, and a small bag of cinnamon sticks that still somehow smell incredible after twelve months.
The whole process takes me about four hours. Maybe five if I get distracted, which I do, because I inevitably put on a playlist and end up rearranging the bookshelves too.
Step One: The Textiles
This is where ninety percent of the mood shift happens.
I pull out the wool throws. I have three: a dark grey Lapuan Kankurit pocket shawl that I bought in 2021 from their factory shop in Lapua (€89, and I’d pay double), a rust-colored mohair blanket from a vintage shop in Kallio, and a cream chunky knit that was a birthday gift.
The Lapuan Kankurit one is genuinely my most-used home item. It lives on the sofa arm from September through April. The wool is dense enough to actually warm you up but not so heavy that it feels like a weighted blanket. And the color — this deep charcoal with a subtle herringbone — goes with everything.
The cushion covers get swapped next. Summer’s pale cottons come off, and on go the autumn textures. I keep a set of four: two in burnt sienna velvet (H&M Home, €12.99 each — bought three years ago and they’ve held up remarkably well), one in olive green bouclé, and one that’s a Johanna Gullichsen Doris pattern in warm brown tones. The Gullichsen was a splurge at €65 for just the fabric, which I had sewn into a cover at a local ompelimo. But the geometric pattern adds so much structure to the sofa arrangement. You know how I feel about mixing different eras and styles — this is a prime example.
The bedroom gets a treatment too. The light cotton duvet cover swaps for a heavier linen one in a dark mushroom shade. I add a wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed. These two changes alone make the bedroom feel like a completely different room.
A Note on Storage
I know not everyone has space for seasonal textile storage. My old studio apartment certainly didn’t. If you’re tight on space: vacuum bags. They compress throws and cushion covers down to almost nothing. I keep summer textiles in vacuum bags under the bed from October to May. Works perfectly.
Step Two: Lighting Changes Everything
Finnish autumn means losing light fast. By October, it’s dark by 5 pm. By November, darkness arrives before I leave work. The lighting in your home isn’t just aesthetic — it’s survival.
Here’s what I change:
Bulb temperature. I swap the cool-white bulbs (around 4000K) in the living room pendant and the bedroom reading lamp for warm ones (2700K). This takes ten minutes and costs maybe €8 for a pack of LED bulbs from K-Citymarket. The difference is enormous. Cool white in September feels clinical. Warm white feels like a hug.
Candles. Oh, the candles. This is probably the most Finnish thing about me. I go through roughly 40 candles between September and March. Mostly beeswax tapers from Hunajainen, a small Finnish producer — they burn cleaner and smell subtly sweet without being perfumed. I stock up in September: about 20 tapers (€2.50 each) and a few pillar candles. They go in the Iittala Kastehelmi holders I mentioned, in brass candlesticks I found at a flea market, and in simple ceramic dishes.
I group candles in odd numbers — three on the dining table, five on the windowsill, one on the bathroom shelf. And I light them every single evening. Every single one. It takes two minutes and it transforms the apartment.
The reading lamp. I move my smaller table lamp from the shelf to the side table next to the sofa, so there’s a warm pool of light right where I sit to read in the evenings. Small thing. Makes a huge difference. The fundamentals of good Scandinavian spaces — light, function, warmth — they really do matter. I wrote more about that here.
Step Three: Autumn Scents Without the Synthetic Stuff
I’m fussy about this. I can’t stand those plug-in air fresheners or the heavily scented candles that give me a headache after twenty minutes. Autumn scent should be subtle. Background. Almost subconscious.
My approach:
Simmer pot on the stove. On transition weekend, I fill a small saucepan with water, add cinnamon sticks, a few cloves, orange peel, and a sprig of rosemary. Let it simmer on the lowest heat for a couple of hours. The entire apartment smells like autumn without any artificial anything. I do this maybe once every two weeks through the season.
Dried eucalyptus. I buy one bunch from Plantagen (about €6) and hang it upside down in the bathroom. The steam from the shower releases the scent. It lasts a good six weeks before it loses its punch.
Pine and spruce. Later in the season, when I start foraging spruce branches for arrangements, the fresh green scent handles itself. There’s something about having actual forest inside your apartment. Living in Helsinki, the forest is never far — I just walk fifteen minutes to Keskuspuisto and come back with an armful of branches. Free. Beautiful. Smells like everything good.
Step Four: Surfaces and Styling
This is the fun part. The little vignettes around the apartment that make it feel considered.
The coffee table. Summer: a stack of magazines and a small vase of fresh flowers. Autumn: I add a wooden tray (mine’s a simple oak one from Hay, bought secondhand on Tori.fi for €15), arrange a candle, a small stack of books, and whatever foraged bits I’ve collected — rowan berries, dried grasses, a particularly beautiful leaf. The tray corrals everything and makes it look intentional rather than cluttered.
The dining table. I switch from the pale linen runner to a heavier one — I have a beautiful dark green linen runner from Balmuir that was a Christmas gift. A low arrangement of dried flowers in the center, flanked by candlesticks. During the week it’s simple. On weekends when friends come for dinner, I add more candles and maybe foraged branches in a tall Aalto vase.
The entryway. A shallow bowl for keys gets swapped for a slightly deeper one (pottery from a Fiskars Village artisan, bought at a summer market years ago). I add a tray for gloves that I know I’ll start needing soon. A hook for the heavier coat. These practical changes count as styling too — they shape how the space looks and functions.
Bookshelves. I rearrange a bit. Pull forward books with warm-toned spines (yes, I am that person). Add a small dried arrangement on one shelf. Move the lighter decorative objects to the back and bring forward the heavier, darker ones — a black ceramic vase, a dark wooden sculpture I picked up in Tallinn.
Step Five: The Kitchen Gets a Turn
People forget the kitchen. But considering I spend half my autumn evenings cooking soups and baking, it deserves attention.
I switch the fruit bowl contents from summer berries to autumn apples and pears — the ones from Hakaniemi market that are slightly imperfect and cost half as much. I put out the heavier ceramic mugs (Pentik’s Saaga series — those dark, earthy glazed ones that feel so right when you’re wrapping your hands around hot cocoa). The lighter porcelain cups go to the back of the cupboard.
My herb pots on the windowsill transition too. Summer’s basil doesn’t survive the temperature drop, so I replace it with rosemary and thyme in simple terracotta pots. They’re hardier and the woody scents fit the season.
What I Deliberately Don’t Do
I don’t buy new everything. That’s the whole point. Maybe I’ll pick up one or two new candles or a single cushion cover if something catches my eye at Stockmann’s autumn home event. But the aim is rotation, not acquisition.
I don’t follow trends. Burnt orange was “the” autumn color last year. Before that, it was terracotta. Before that, mustard yellow. I’ve landed on a palette that works for my apartment — warm greys, rust, olive, cream, touches of dark wood — and I stick with it. Everything works together because it’s been curated over years, not bought in a single IKEA run.
I don’t overthink it. The transition should feel joyful, not stressful. If I don’t get to the bookshelf rearrangement, it happens the following weekend. No rush.
The Feeling After
Here’s what I want to tell you. By Saturday evening, when the candles are lit and the apartment smells like cinnamon and wool and pine, and the first really dark evening of the season is pressing against the windows — that feeling is one of my favorite moments of the year.
It’s not about having the perfect home or the most Instagram-worthy shelfie. It’s about the shift. The conscious decision to acknowledge that the season is changing and to change with it. In Finland, we don’t have the luxury of ignoring seasons. The difference between July and November is so extreme that your home has to adapt, or you’ll be miserable.
I think of it as a ritual. The same way I check the ice thickness before skating season or know exactly when the first snow will make the city quiet — the autumn transition is part of the rhythm of the year. It’s domestic. It’s small. And it matters enormously.
The Quick Checklist (If You’re Doing This Too)
For those who want the summary:
- Swap textiles — throws, cushion covers, bedding. Heavier, warmer, richer colors.
- Warm the lighting — change bulb temperature, add candles everywhere, move lamps closer to where you actually sit.
- Introduce autumn scents — simmer pots, dried eucalyptus, foraged greenery. Nothing synthetic.
- Restyle surfaces — trays, foraged elements, book rearrangement, heavier ceramics.
- Kitchen touches — seasonal fruit, heavier mugs, woody herbs.
- Edit and store — pack away summer textiles properly. Don’t just shove them in a bag.
That’s it. One weekend. Mostly with things you already own.
And if you’re already thinking about December — yes, I have strong opinions about that too. I once decorated an entire Christmas on €23 and it was one of the most beautiful holiday homes I’ve ever had. But that’s a story for when the first snow falls.
Now I’m going to light these candles and put the kettle on. It’s only 4:30 and it’s already getting dark outside.
Hyvää syksyä. Happy autumn.
