I’ve lived through three Kingston winters now which means I should know what to expect—but the thing about winter is, you never really do. I usually go home for the summer which gives me a reset and a chance to prepare mentally for the upcoming winter because it breaks up the year. It makes the cold feel tolerable when it comes. But this year, I stayed. From last August, straight through now, I watched the city shift around me. And maybe that’s why this winter feels sharper than ever. I’ve seen the glory of summer, the golden light spilling over the lake and the streets lined with trees. I know what warmth feels like, and now watching it fade to grey, I understand exactly how the myth of “maybe this winter won’t be that bad” seduces you every October. Spoiler: it’s always that bad.
I’ve gotten better at surviving winter over the years. I know how to layer, when to switch to hot tea, how to mentally brace for the sun clocking out at 4 p.m. I know which streets are wind tunnels and which corners are protected from the most bitter gusts. Even with preparation, though, the season has a way of making you feel smaller. There are days when moving through my to-do list feels like wading through snowdrifts, when getting out of bed feels like half the battle, when keeping up with friends, classes and work feels impossible. It’s exhausting, but it’s also familiar, in the sense that I’ve learned how to soften my own edges enough to keep going.
Half of why I’m writing this is to remind myself of all the things I do to take care of myself this winter and hopefully, you might find a little inspiration too. Romanticizing winter isn’t about pretending it’s easy. It’s about finding warmth wherever you can: pushing yourself through a workout even when you don’t feel like it, cooking something that reminds you of home, celebrating the small victory of simply showing up to class, and curling up with music and a book. It’s checking in on friends, sharing meals with them and letting yourself quietly notice the world as it shifts from gold to grey.
I try to treat winter like it’s a story I’m living in, one where I’m allowed to be both the main character and the observer. Some days that means leaving my apartment to see the sky, even when it’s overcast. Other days it’s turning the small rituals of survival into something almost cinematic—tea steaming in my mug, blankets wrapped around my knees, the glow of my laptop reflecting in my eyes. These are not heroic moments. They are not glamorous. But they are mine, and they matter.
Because if I don’t pretend the cold is poetic, I’ll cry on the sidewalk again. And sometimes pretending is enough. It reminds me that winter isn’t just a season to endure; it’s a season to witness, to notice and to carve small corners of warmth and beauty for yourself. For me the beauty of winter isn’t in the weather itself, but in the way we survive it, in the ways we choose to be gentle with ourselves and the little rituals that make life feel bearable.
Winter isn’t glorious. But it’s ours to navigate, and in noticing, in surviving, in finding the poetry where we can, we can make it something worth remembering, even if only for the quiet victories of showing up, day after day.