I’d Like One More Snowfall, Please

 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.

So when the air warms up and the ground starts to thaw, part of me hesitates.

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.

The Speed of Change and the Need to Breathe

 

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about change. Not the kind jangling in my pocket (though I do miss the weight of real coins), but the big “what’s-next?” kind. I realize that my playlist is stuck in the 70s, but I don’t think my mind is. Frankly, keeping up with it all is exhausting.

Philosophically, I’ve always tried to believe that change is a good thing. The ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus nailed it when he said, “The only constant in life is change.” He also compared life to a river, noting that you can never step into the same one twice. I read a study once that stuck with me: researchers found that people living in places where seasons change—with all the beautiful transitions from fall colors to spring blooms—report higher levels of happiness than those in steady, unchanging climates. I think the lesson is that we’re wired for change and rhythms. We need the turning of the page, the next chapter. We're just not built to stay parked in one spot forever.

But here's the thing I'm wrestling with lately: change is everywhere, and its pace has gone from a steady walk to a full-on sprint. It's hard to catch your breath. The political climate shifts so fast that the news feels like a channel you can’t keep up with. Frankly, it’s alarming.

And in my own backyard—higher education, where I’ve been a student or faculty member for over forty years—the change is profound. It seems the focus has shifted from the "ivory tower" to the "express lane." The drive is to get students in and out as fast as possible, credentials over contemplation. I find this rapid shift alarming, too. Don't even get me started on AI. It's handy, but it's also making us mentally lazy. It reminds me of a study I read about, where programmers using AI assistants actually produced worse code if they blindly followed its suggestions. The tool made them think less critically.

Sometimes I wonder if change is really happening faster now, or if I’m just noticing it more. Psychologists talk about something called psychological flexibility. Basically, the idea is that we stay healthy not by controlling change, but by learning to roll with it. When change comes too fast, our brains get overloaded, and we can feel frustrated or tired. There is nothing wrong with us; we’re just human.

And as we get older, research shows we naturally focus more on what really matters, such as meaningful experiences and relationships, rather than chasing every new thing. So maybe my resistance isn’t to change itself, but to change that never gives me a moment to breathe. That’s why the changing color of the trees outside my window feels so grounding.

Honestly, there’s probably no big point to this blog. I’m just thinking out loud about change, and maybe you’re feeling it, too. If you are, then we're in this together, figuring it out as we go, one day at a time.