6 warming vegan soups that make winter feel slightly less unbearable

I used to think I was immune to seasonal gloom.

Years of powering through Manhattan winters in heels, clutching coffee cups like lifelines between subway stations and fluorescent offices, convinced me that cold was just another obstacle to optimize around.

Then I left finance, started actually feeling things again, and discovered that winter hits differently when you're no longer numbing yourself with spreadsheets and stress.

These days, my relationship with the cold months is more honest. Some afternoons, when the light fades at 4:30 and the wind cuts through everything, I need more than a meal. I need a ritual.

Something warm held between both hands. Something that fills the kitchen with steam and fragrance and the quiet promise that this season, too, will pass. These six soups have become my winter anchors, and I hope they might become yours.

1. Creamy roasted butternut squash soup with sage

There's a reason butternut squash soup has become a cliché. It works. The natural sweetness of roasted squash, deepened by caramelization, creates a velvety base that feels indulgent without any cream. I roast the squash with a whole head of garlic until everything is soft and golden, then blend it with vegetable broth and a splash of coconut milk.

The sage is non-negotiable for me. Fried in a little olive oil until crispy, those leaves add an earthy, slightly peppery note that elevates the whole bowl.

Sometimes I'll add a pinch of nutmeg or a drizzle of maple syrup, depending on my mood. What makes this soup special isn't complexity. It's the way simple ingredients, treated with care, become something greater than their parts.

2. Spicy red lentil soup with lemon

When I need something that warms from the inside out, I reach for red lentils. They cook quickly, break down into a thick, satisfying texture, and absorb whatever spices you throw at them. My version leans heavily on cumin, coriander, and a generous amount of smoked paprika, with a kick of red pepper flakes that builds slowly as you eat.

The lemon is the secret weapon here. A squeeze of fresh juice right before serving brightens everything, cutting through the earthiness and making each spoonful feel alive. I often make a double batch on Sunday evenings, portioning it out for quick weekday lunches.

Have you noticed how certain foods taste even better the next day, after the flavors have had time to settle into each other?

3. Coconut curry vegetable soup

This soup is what I make when I want to feel like I'm being taken care of. The coconut milk base, enriched with Thai curry paste and a splash of tamari, creates something simultaneously rich and light. I load it with whatever vegetables need using up: sweet potatoes, bell peppers, spinach, mushrooms, snap peas.

The beauty of this soup is its flexibility. Some weeks it's heartier, with chunks of tofu and thick slices of carrot. Other times it's lighter, more brothy, with delicate ribbons of bok choy floating on top. A handful of fresh cilantro and a wedge of lime finish it off.

This is the soup I make when Marcus and I need a quiet night in, something nourishing that doesn't require much conversation to appreciate.

4. Classic minestrone with white beans

Minestrone reminds me that abundance doesn't require excess. It's a soup built on scraps and staples: onions, celery, carrots, canned tomatoes, whatever greens are wilting in the crisper drawer. The white beans add protein and creaminess, while a parmesan rind would traditionally provide depth. I use a splash of white miso paste instead, and honestly, I don't miss the cheese at all.

What I love about minestrone is its democracy. Every vegetable gets equal billing. Nothing dominates. The whole is genuinely greater than the sum of its parts.

I often add small pasta shapes in the last ten minutes of cooking, turning it into something substantial enough for dinner. A crusty piece of bread on the side, and you have a meal that feels both humble and complete.

5. Smoky black bean soup with avocado

This soup satisfies a craving I can't quite name. Something about the combination of smoky, earthy black beans with bright, creamy avocado hits a specific spot. I build the base with sautéed onions, garlic, and jalapeño, then add cumin, smoked paprika, and a chipotle pepper or two from a can of chipotles in adobo.

I blend about half the soup to create a thick, velvety texture while leaving enough whole beans for interest. The toppings matter here: diced avocado, a squeeze of lime, fresh cilantro, maybe some pickled red onions if I've planned ahead.

Each bowl becomes customizable, which makes it perfect for feeding people with different preferences. Do you find that the ritual of adding toppings makes a meal feel more intentional?

6. Ginger miso soup with greens and tofu

After a long winter run, when my fingers are numb and my lungs are still adjusting to indoor air, this is what I want. The broth is simple: vegetable stock infused with plenty of fresh ginger, then enriched with white miso paste stirred in at the end. The miso should never boil once added, or it loses its probiotic benefits and develops a harsh taste.

I keep the additions light: cubed silken tofu, ribbons of kale or spinach, maybe some sliced shiitake mushrooms. A drizzle of sesame oil and a sprinkle of green onions finish each bowl.

This soup feels cleansing without being punishing, warming without being heavy. It's become my reset button, the thing I reach for when I need to come back to myself.

Final thoughts

Winter asks something of us. It asks us to slow down, to turn inward, to find warmth in smaller, quieter ways. These soups have become part of how I answer that ask.

They're not complicated or impressive. They don't require special equipment or hard-to-find ingredients. They simply require presence: the willingness to stand at the stove, to stir, to taste, to adjust.

Maybe that's what I love most about soup season. It invites a kind of attention that the rest of the year doesn't always demand. So as the cold settles in, I hope you find your own anchors, your own rituals, your own bowls of something warm held between both hands. Winter is long, but it doesn't have to be unbearable.