Here in the Midwest, we are in a “false spring.”
One day, it’s in the 30s, and I’m digging my winter coat back out. The next day, it’s sunny and in the 50s or 60s, and everyone is outside like we’ve been released from captivity. The daffodils are coming up. Tulips are poking through. Crocuses have already made their appearance. The birds sound happier. Even the grass looks a little greener.
And so, before you throw snowballs at me, hear me out.
I am grieving the loss of winter.
I know. It sounds dramatic. Especially when everyone else is celebrating longer days and warmer air. But winter, for me, is sacred. It’s my season of introspection. It’s my season to slow down. It’s when I do my best reading and writing. The world gets dark around 5 p.m., and I love that. It feels like built-in permission to stop.
I love quiet. I mean really love quiet.
I also know winter doesn’t feel this way for everyone. For some, shorter days bring real heaviness. Seasonal affective disorder is very real for many people, and for them, spring is relief, not loss. We all move through seasons in different ways.
In winter, I don’t feel like I should be anywhere else. I can wrap up in a blanket, sit by the fire, and read for hours. I can write without thinking about what I “should” be doing outside. There are fewer events. Fewer expectations. Fewer distractions.
In her book Wintering, Katherine May describes winter as more than a season on the calendar. She reminds us that we all go through winters in our own lives, periods when things look still or even bare on the outside. But underneath, something important is happening. Roots are going deeper. Energy is being gathered. Winter isn’t a failure. It’s a pause we actually need.
That makes so much sense to me.
And snow. Oh, I love snow. It’s bright and quiet at the same time. It softens everything. It hushes everything. The sound of boots crunching on fresh snow might be one of my favorite sounds ever. Snow makes even an ordinary neighborhood look beautiful. It feels clean. Calm.
It’s not that I don’t love spring. I do. I love sitting on the porch. I love trees filling out with leaves. I love hearing kids riding bikes and playing outside. Most days, I’d rather be outside than anywhere else. Yes, I can still read on the porch. I can still write with the windows open. If I want a fire, I can build one outside.
And still.
There’s something about winter that feels safe. Simple. Focused.
Maybe I’m not grieving winter exactly. Maybe I’m just slow to bloom.
Psychologists sometimes use the word liminality to describe this kind of in-between space — when we’re no longer in one season but not fully in the next. Transitions, even good ones, require adjustment energy. Even positive change can feel a little unsettling. We need time to shift.
Think about a caterpillar. It’s just living its life. Eating leaves. Moving slowly. It’s not rushing to become a butterfly. It’s not setting goals about wing development. It’s content.
Sometimes I think I’m a very content caterpillar. I like my leaf. I like my slow chewing and my quiet branch.
Blooming means visibility. It means energy. It means movement. Winter lets me stay small and thoughtful. Spring asks me to leave the quiet and join the noise.
So if you see me lingering in my sweater a little longer, or secretly hoping for one last snowfall, please don’t throw snowballs at me. I promise I’ll come outside. I’ll admire the daffodils. I’ll welcome the sun.
I’m just taking one more quiet moment in the hush of winter before I spread my wings.