I won’t be cold forever
“Winter Silent” by Rich Lo|Greatsketch, all rights reserved.
January feels like waking up from a two-day hangover, not from partying, just from the emotional whiplash of it all – the rush of the holidays fades, leaving exhaustion behind. Gray skies replace twinkling lights, and the lingering scaries settle in. Everything I said. Everything I didn’t do. Everything I promised I’d change this new year. It feels like the opposite of new beginnings, and the optimism of resolutions doesn’t stand a chance against the weight of winter.
I drag my feet out of bed each morning, weighed down by layers that barely make sense together just to stay warm, using all my might to accomplish the one goal I wrote down and swore to myself I’d finally complete, trusting myself less than I trust the seasons themselves. Outside, crisp air slaps me awake, ushering in early sunsets and shorter days that feel punitive in their brevity.
If this sounds familiar, you're not alone.
Every winter, I bargain with time – counting weeks, refreshing weather apps, searching for any sign that Punxsutawney Phil was wrong, that he didn’t see his shadow after all. But the cold doesn't negotiate. It settles in stubbornly, forcing me into slowness instead of letting me sprint toward spring.
And in that stillness, everything I’ve been avoiding finds me. The past crowds in, not as absence but as presence. Memories resurface in grocery store aisles, in cold hands fumbling with keys, in routines I repeat just to feel steady. Winter doesn't let me outrun anything. It holds everything close enough that I have to look at it, feel it.
This haze, this looping back, this tenderness mixed with fatigue, has its own name: seasonal depression, or at least that’s how it shows up for me.
I’ve learned to meet it with resolve. Walking even when I’d rather stay bundled up, lighting candles like I can manufacture warmth, keeping my kettle at arm’s reach. And while these rituals don’t make me despise winter any less, they stop me from resisting the slowness long enough to let it wash over me instead of fighting it. Still, I don’t stay here by choice. I endure, reminding myself that this season lies about permanence.
Because spring always comes. Green returns to the landscape. The sun lingers long. My bones loosen their grip on warmth, and my smile – dimples and all – is kissed by light instead of hidden behind layers.
In March, I still carry winter with me, wearing its habits long after the air has softened because I don’t trust the warmth right away. I’m suspicious, having let one soft afternoon trick me too many times before. So I brace myself, keeping my coat close, my guard up.
Then one day, I stop flinching. Suspicion fades into relief and relief into joy. Spring is in full bloom, and the thaw happens internally. Life feels breathable again. I make plans more easily and laugh louder, sleep better – drunk on the abundance of sunlight instead of craving it.
And in these euphoric moments, I remember what winter tried to make me forget – that the cold never stays. Seasons lie about permanence. I won’t be cold forever. The roads will thaw, the mornings will stretch and, eventually, the streets will radiate heat, too hot to touch barefoot, pretending permanence until the season slips away without asking, like it does every September.
