Words by Jill Kantor | Images by Anna Wilson
In Norway, mornings often start outside. You’ll see people walking to work in the cold, bundled in wool, their breath visible in the air. Children gather in snowsuits, ready for their teachers to lead them into the forest or down to a nearby field. It’s called uteskole, outdoor school, and it’s completely normal there. Growing up Norwegian means growing up outdoors.
The word for this way of living is friluftsliv (FREE-loofts-leev), which means “open-air living.” It isn’t just about hiking or skiing. It’s really about choosing to step outside, even when the weather isn’t ideal. You don’t wait for perfect skies. You just go, trusting that being in fresh air will give you what you need: a bit of energy, a clearer head, a reset.
While Norway lives and breathes friluftsliv, I’ve come to understand it from afar, through study, practice, and the simple act of noticing how much my own well-being shifts when I spend time outside, no matter the weather.
THE CALL OF THE AIR
Friluftsliv isn’t about doing something huge or adventurous. It’s about noticing the small, everyday moments that happen outdoors. A park on your lunch break. A walk around the block with your dog. A quiet cup of coffee outside while it’s snowing.
In Norway, people have a saying: “Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlige klær.” It means there’s no bad weather, only bad clothing. The idea is simple: if you’re dressed for it, you can always go out.
Even though I’m Canadian, I’ve come to understand that mindset. I think back to childhood mornings when the first snowfall covered everything and the world felt silent and new. The excitement of school closures due to snowstorms, building forts until we couldn’t feel our fingers, cheeks red from the cold. Also, growing up, our winter family trips often meant ski hills—that rush of carving down a slope, the laughter of rolling into the snow in our swimsuits, and then slipping into the comfort of a hot tub, steam rising in the cold air.
And I’ll never forget the day my daughter first touched grass. She was about thirteen months old and already walking, but when her toes met the grass, she just stopped. Her face filled with wonder, complete awe at the feeling of the earth beneath her feet. That moment reminded me that our connection to nature starts early. It’s instinct.
FIRE AND FROST
In Norway, the love of being outside starts young. Parents invest in wool and rain gear because every child spends time outdoors year-round. Schools teach lessons in the forest. Kids count pinecones, learn from weather, and grow up comfortable in nature. By adulthood, the outdoors isn’t a place to visit; it’s part of who they are.
There’s also the other side of it: koselig (similar to the Danish hygge), that warm, cozy feeling of being indoors after time outside. A lamp glowing in the window. Soup simmering on the stove. A soft blanket, a quiet conversation. One balances the other. The outdoors wakes you up, and the indoors restores you.
That rhythm resonates with me. I remember the small rituals that made coming inside special: the sound of boots being kicked off at the door, snow melting on the mat, and the warmth of the house after hours in the cold. It was simple and ordinary, yet it always felt good. The contrast of cold and warmth was part of what made winter memorable.
VELVÆRE IN MOTION
Science now confirms what people in Norway have always known: being outside helps us. It lowers stress, improves sleep, boosts focus, and calms the nervous system. But you don’t need studies to tell you that. You just know. The air clears your head. The light steadies your mood.
The word for that sense of balance is velvære (vell-vair-uh), which means well-being. It’s not about quick fixes or fancy wellness trends. It’s about a steady, lived rhythm shaped by weather, light, and the simple act of being outdoors.
I’ve felt it here in Winnipeg, too. The calm that comes with standing in falling snow. The smell of earth after rain. The quiet satisfaction of a short walk at dusk as the sun sets. These are small, real moments that bring us back to ourselves.
HOME, AGAIN
Friluftsliv isn’t about distance or destination. It’s not about fjords, the perfect hike or a weekend retreat. It’s simply a reminder that the outdoors is part of daily life, wherever you live.
Step outside. Let the wind touch your face. Let the rain hit your coat. Listen to the quiet of snow. Then go back inside and notice how good it feels to be warm. That’s the balance.
You don’t need to live in Norway to carry this spirit. You can live it anywhere; in a big city, in a small town, in your own backyard. It’s about creating small, steady rituals that help you stay connected, grounded, and well.
That, to me, is the heart of friluftsliv.
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