Everyday whimsy begins with noticing
Have you noticed a bunch of #cozycore content lately?
This time of year often brings out our desire to move in — book nooks, couches heaped with blankets, dim lights, steaming mugs of something warm. Cozy season is here, and with it comes a conversation about living a whimsical life.
Specifically, I’m seeing a bunch of “how to make my life more whimsical” posts on Threads and across social media in general. And I get it: the world is harsh, the news is awful, and even if you’re not directly impacted by this administration’s cruelty, witnessing the suffering is enough to send you into a doom spiral.
Is the antidote to doom whimsy? Maybe not — but it can’t hurt as we try to navigate these times.
Maybe it’s my Taurus nature (soft life? yes please!) or my upbringing (Nana bringing me milky tea and marmalade “buddies” to wake up in the morning — the #cozycore runs deep in my family), but I am a huge whimsy enthusiast. I truly believe that striving for a bit of whimsy every day makes us happier, more present, more us.
Still, I want to offer one perspective I’ve learned over the years: whimsy isn’t just candles and fairy lights and pretty notebooks.
It’s not about chasing an aesthetic of any kind. For me, whimsy is really just about noticing.
You can’t romanticize life if you’re not actually seeing it. Whimsy starts with awareness — with choosing to look up, look around, and be awake to your own existence and the world around you. It’s paying attention long enough to fall in love with what’s already here.
My whimsical place: the car
For me, noticing often happens in my car.
And for the record, I don’t drive a particularly cozy car — it’s a hybrid Honda CR-V. But it has two things that make me ridiculously happy to drive it (besides the all-too-critical reverse camera for San Francisco driving): a sunroof and Apple CarPlay. The sunroof means I can feel the sun and watch the sky change — two things that infuse my day with whimsy. And Apple CarPlay means I can pump my playlists — a critical component of my whimsical living, as you’ll see below.
Here’s the thing: I love driving. The car is where I feel calm and creative, and it’s one of the few places where my mind settles enough to pay attention. I “cozify” my errands — I always have a car beverage (often coffee, tea, or flavored water). I cue up a playlist or an audiobook, and lately, I’ve even been doing voice-to-text writing while I drive — the thoughts seem to come faster when the wheels are turning.
Errands become little adventures this way. The drive isn’t just a drive; it’s a scene. I’m in my own montage, soundtrack and all.
And because I’ve set myself up to enjoy being in the car, I notice more.
I notice the city — my favorite city in the world — where I still wake up and pinch myself that I get to live here (reader, I’ve lived in San Francisco for 21 years). Today, as I drove to pick up our teenager from the mall, I noticed hand-drawn Halloween cutouts still taped to a window: funkily shaped pumpkins and jack-o’-lanterns of all sizes. It reminded me of when my kids made holiday drawings that we taped up around the house, and even further back, to my own childhood — my mom letting us put one drawing per windowpane on the front door.
At a red light, I watched a grandmother and granddaughter leaving Bob’s Donuts, each clutching a small paper bag. They peeked inside, then looked up and shared a cheeky grin — did the parents know about this pre-dinner treat? Who cares — the moment was adorable.
At another intersection, I saw a young puppy spring up at a person crossing the street. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but the owner seemed to apologize; the other person smiled, leaned down, and soon they were both laughing, petting the puppy, who was blissed out, belly-up on the sidewalk. My own dog, Samwise, does that exact same thing.
I notice joy, kindness, and care — all these small exchanges of love that make up a day. To me, that’s a whimsical life.
Feeling safe enough to look up
Of course, it’s hard to notice anything when you’re struggling. It’s impossible to thrive if you’re barely surviving. Hunger, pain, grief, loss, anxiety, depression — they all make life harder, and noticing even harder.
When you’re walking through the world tense, your eyes are usually down — scanning for danger, bracing for impact.
Noticing requires a sense of safety.
It’s hard to see beauty in motion when you’re in survival mode. That’s why I think part of cultivating whimsy is finding the moments or spaces where you can relax your grip — where your nervous system says, “Okay, you can look up now.”
Maybe for you, that’s the bathtub, your morning walk, or sitting near a window with a mug of tea. For me, it’s often my car, but it’s also walking with Samwise, swimming, or being home. The point is: find a space where you can soften enough to see the world again.
The art of noticing
When you start noticing, life changes shape. The world becomes less of a backdrop and more of a companion.
On any given afternoon, I might catch glimpses of connection — a smile between strangers, a child pointing at a mural, the way late light hits a building just right. I might drive past my kids’ old elementary school and see the mural they helped paint in fifth grade, and suddenly I’m awash in memories of field trips, bake sales, and the simple magic of belonging to a community.
These aren’t “special” moments. They’re ordinary ones. But ordinary things, when seen with attention, start to shimmer. And that shimmer — that’s whimsy.
What whimsy really means
If you look it up, whimsy is defined as “playfully quaint or fanciful behavior.” But in real life, it’s deeper than that.
Whimsy is imagination meeting gratitude. It’s not about escaping reality; it’s about being enchanted by reality.
Whimsy is realizing the world is already brimming with tiny miracles — the way wind rustles bamboo, the way sunlight shifts across your face, the sound of hummingbirds in the morning. It’s about seeing it all and thinking, how cool that I get to be here for this.
Five simple ways to invite whimsy in
1. Notice your surroundings. Start with kindness — the little human exchanges that make the world feel soft. Notice the grandmother sharing donuts with her granddaughter, the puppy pulling toward a stranger who smiles back, the post office clerk who remembers your name.
Then, widen your view to the sensory: the light hitting your kitchen counter, the smell of rain on asphalt, the flicker of a candle reflected in a window, your dog finding something thrillingly ordinary in the yard.
Noticing is the foundation of whimsy. I like to mentally (or even out loud) say “this” or “wow” to make my brain lock in the moment — to remind myself: I am here, this is happening, and I get to see it.
2. Have favorites. Favorites turn the world into your personal storybook.
I have favorite trees all over San Francisco: a magnolia that bursts open every February around Valentine’s Day; a Japanese maple that glows copper in autumn; the ginkgoes that go electric yellow just as the air shifts to cold. I even have favorite houses — ones that go all out with twinkle lights or have cheerful porch pumpkins that linger into December.
Claiming favorites makes your city (or your neighborhood, or your block) feel like home. It makes the world smaller, more personal, more enchanted.
3. Make your own soundtrack. Music is a mood spell.
Create playlists that match your seasons and your errands — a “fall montage” list, a “holiday errands” mix, a “rainy walk” vibe. I have a whole lineup of them: cozy, caffeinated, cinematic. It’s how I trick myself into feeling like I’m in a movie scene — main character energy in the Trader Joe’s parking lot.
Sometimes I even imagine the montage sequence: me buckling my seatbelt, sipping my car beverage, crossing the Golden Gate under a dramatic sky. Every errand can be a chapter if you set it to music.
4. Romanticize your routines. Add a small ritual that transforms an obligation into an offering.
A beverage in the car. A candle at your desk. A spritz of perfume before you walk the dog. Tiny, sensory cues that tell your brain, “This moment matters.”
Errands? Think of them as side quests. Laundry becomes potion-making when you use lavender soap. Groceries become foraging when you choose the prettiest produce. Whimsy doesn’t require props — it just asks for presence.
5. Become pals with nature: talk to animals and name spaces. I talk to animals constantly. I’m that person who says hi to every dog on the sidewalk, who greets the neighborhood crows, who thanks the hummingbirds for stopping by.
And at home, we name our spaces. Our little backyard nook is The Tea Room — two chairs under a weeping cherry tree, just big enough for a cup of tea and a pause. Naming spaces and things adds play to the day; it turns ordinary corners into story settings.
Be someone that the dogs want to say hello to. Be someone who waves at the blue jays you gave full names (we call our duo of scrubjays that always stop by for peanuts Jack and Babs). The world becomes friendlier when you treat it like a companion.
Whimsy isn’t performance — it’s permission
Permission to play. Permission to notice. Permission to feel awe.
To love your life not because it’s perfect, but because it’s yours — imperfect, fleeting, and real. Life is happening anyway, and if you’re in a position to look up — even for a moment, even in the middle of a shitstorm of a day — you might catch the good part.
You might even savor it. And savoring life, my friend, is the point.