When Winter Comes Inside
Hi, I’m back—it’s been a while. I know how winter can settle inside you, turning days into a blur, making silence heavy. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that winter always feels endless—until it isn’t. If you’re in that place, here's a reminder: you’re not alone.
It starts with the cold—
but not the kind that bites your skin.
The kind that settles under it,
a slow, creeping frost winding through the marrow,
seeping into spaces you once thought were safe.
The days shrink,
folding in on themselves like a body bracing for impact.
Light becomes something you remember
rather than something you live in.
The sun is an old friend who stopped calling.
You wake up, and it’s dark.
You go home, and it’s dark.
Everything in between feels like a dream
you are only half awake for.
Somewhere, laughter rings
like the distant chime of a train you missed.
People move in warm, golden rooms,
holding cups of tea, holding each other,
holding on.
You watch from behind a window that won’t open.
The silence grows heavy—
like an extra layer of skin you never asked for,
like wool soaked in ice water.
You carry it anyway.
You carry it because you’ve forgotten how to put it down.
But—
(hang on, stay with me)
somewhere in the deep and hollow hush of this season,
something stirs.
Maybe it’s the quiet scrape of dawn returning,
a voice—small, raw, but real—
whispering that even the longest nights have edges.
Maybe it’s the matchstick warmth
of a stranger’s kindness,
a dog’s sigh,
a song you once loved breaking through the static.
Or maybe, it’s just this:
the quiet, stubborn truth that you are here.
That you have made it through every winter before.
That the frost does not own you.
One day, you’ll step outside and realize—
the air is still cold,
but it no longer hurts.
And that will be enough.