Why I wear my jeans rolled up in the snow

There was a truly hilarious moment at the airport in Luleå when I realised just how much of a fish out of water I am: my wheelchair got stuck in the deep powder on the tarmac. The young man assisting me was persistent, but the chair simply wasn’t designed for northern drifts, and we ended up crunching our way to the terminal with a mix of laughter and sheer effort. Now that I am back in Stockholm, settling into the familiar rhythm of the city, I’ve had some time to reflect on the steep learning curve of navigating this Swedish winter. It’s an environment that demands respect, but it also rewards a bit of creative adaptation.

Today, while wandering the streets of Södermalm, I saw something I hadn’t seen once since arriving in the north—a man wearing shorts. He was rugged up in a heavy, professional-grade puffer jacket on top, but from the waist down, he was braving the sub-zero temperatures with completely bare legs. In a country where they famously say there is no bad weather, only bad clothes, he was a true outlier. I watched him for a moment, wondering if he was a local who had simply reached his limit with thermals, or perhaps a fellow tourist making a bold, if chilly, statement.

Seeing him made me realise that I’ve reached my own halfway point in dressing for Sweden. While I’m not quite ready to go full-shorts in the snow—my Australian blood isn’t that thick yet—I’ve adopted a lopsided look that has become my daily uniform. I keep my jeans rolled down on my intact leg for warmth, but I roll them up high over my prosthetic on the right. It’s a strategy I first trialled in the damp, cramped tunnels of the London Underground a week or so ago, and it’s been an absolute game-changer for my time here in the city.

The mental exhaustion of travel as an amputee often comes from the invisibility of the disability. Back in London, tucked behind denim and layers of winter gear, I found myself swaying unsteadily in packed carriages, scanning faces for a flicker of eye contact while everyone was buried in their phones. Having to verbally justify my existence just to get a priority seat—explaining the prosthetic, the hip replacement, and the fall risk—felt like an exhausting negotiation of my dignity. By rolling up the jeans, I’ve effectively made the invisible visible, and the result has been a significant reduction in social friction.

It has become a silent, immediate communicator that helps everyone involved. On the Tunnelbana—Stockholm’s metro system—or the local buses, passengers can see the prosthetic and the socket at a glance. The offer of a seat becomes seamless and intuitive; I no longer have to be the one to speak up and break the silence of a crowded train. People look up from their screens, see the leg, and the seat is offered before I even have to reach for a handrail.

At the airport, the benefits are just as clear. There’s no “surprise” or awkward explanation when the metal in my leg or my hip sets off the scanners. The security staff can see exactly what they’re looking at from across the room. They understand immediately why I can’t easily remove my shoes or why I’m requesting a chair for the screening process. The situation is handled with total grace, moving straight to the necessary pat-down without the need for a preamble.

Even out on the icy streets, showing the leg changes the rhythm of my interactions with the world. Stockholm’s footpaths can be treacherous when the ice hasn’t been fully gritted, and my prosthetic can be unforgiving on slick surfaces. When the leg is visible, people in the street understand why I’m moving with such deliberate care. They give me a little more space, or they understand why I might occasionally need to reach out for a steadying shoulder or a sturdy arm when navigating a particularly slick corner or a steep gutter. It turns a moment of potential vulnerability into one of shared understanding.

Plus, on a purely physical level, the lopsided roll is a relief. With the biting outdoor cold and the dry, blasting central heating used in every building here, my skin has been becoming incredibly parched and itchy. Giving the stump a break from the constant friction of heavy denim is a total luxury.