The first snow always arrives quietly, like it doesn’t want to interrupt anyone. It drifts in on its own time,
soft and unbothered, settling over rooftops and lawns like a promise whispered under its breath. This year,
when I watched those first flakes melt against my window, something in me loosened. It felt like a
reminder I didn’t know I needed; that new chapters don’t always begin with fireworks or revelations.
Sometimes, they begin with a dusting of white on the pavement—a gentle nudge toward the idea that
change can be soft, too. We talk a lot about earning things; earning rest, earning joy, earning the right to
feel good. Somewhere along the way, many of us started acting like we had to hustle our way out of our
own minds, as if our brains were obstacles instead of homes. But our minds are the most intimate thing
we’ll ever possess. We live there every day. We know every corner, every crack, every quiet room. And
yet, we treat them like something to escape instead of something to tend to.
What if we stopped trying to “fix” everything and started planting seeds instead? What if we watered the
garden that already exists instead of shaming it for not blooming fast enough? Being gentle with yourself
isn’t laziness, it’s maintenance. It’s choosing to care for the one place you can never move out of.
Still, that kind of self-awareness is exhausting sometimes. Noticing every shift in your emotions, every
tug of anxiety, every quiet ache, it’s too much. And it’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to want silence, to crave
a moment where you don’t have to analyze yourself. Growth doesn’t need to be loud. Healing doesn’t
need to be performed for anyone.
Rest is also a form of becoming.
I’ve been thinking about the idea of a village; how we say that we need one to get through life, but rarely
talk about how much courage it takes to let one in. It’s not just about offering support to the people around
you; it’s about letting yourself receive it. It’s about allowing others to love you without making them pass
a dozen invisible tests first. We demand grace from ourselves, but forget to extend that same grace to the
people trying to show up for us. A village doesn’t thrive because everyone is perfect; it thrives because
everyone tries. And the most beautiful thing is when those who make the sacred promise to be there for
you, stand patiently at your door waiting to be let in.
And in a world obsessed with checklists; graduate, get the job, meet the partner, build the brand, curate
the aesthetic; it’s easy to think the goal is to assemble a life that looks good from the outside. A lifestyle
that fits into a square photo that proves we’re doing everything “right.” But life has never been about
convenience. It’s about the conversations you’re scared to have, and the love you fight for because it
matters. It’s about the moments that don’t photograph well: the messy beginnings, the imperfect middles,
the nights you choose honesty over image.
It’s about stepping out of the boxes we didn’t even realize we built around ourselves. The ones labeled
“should,” “must,” and “what will people think.” We fit our lives into these tiny containers out of habit,
never noticing how cramped they’ve become until something nudges us, something small, something
unexpected, and we realize there’s a whole world outside of them.
For me, that nudge was the first snow. The first shimmer of white that slowly laid itself across campus.
Watching it fall felt like watching the world exhale.
It was a reminder that everything settles eventually; our fears, our doubts, our tangled thoughts. And once
it settles, once the ground is covered and quiet and still, something new can finally take root.
The first snow didn’t bring answers. It didn’t bring clarity or direction or a five-step plan to becoming my
best self. But it did bring a message: beginnings don’t have to be dramatic. They can be gentle. They can
be slow. They can be as soft as a single snowflake landing on your coat sleeve, melting almost instantly
but still managing to remind you that there’s such sacred beauty that lies just beyond. There are
adventures coming. There is a version of you you haven’t met yet, waiting somewhere beyond this
season. And by the time the snow really settles in, maybe we’ll be ready to settle too; not in the sense of
shrinking or giving up, but in the sense of rooting ourselves. Expanding. Growing in all the directions we
once feared. Letting those new chapters truly unfold.
The first snow arrived, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could exhale. Like I could begin
again. And maybe that’s all we need right now: a quiet reminder that change is coming, and that we’re
allowed to fully and tenderly welcome it.