It snowed earlier this week. Tuesday morning. The kind of snow that looks pretty when you first wake up, when it’s still clinging to the rooftops and the trees. By noon, though, it turned into gray slush that soaks your shoes and makes the air smell like cold pavement.
Now, it’s Wednesday, and it’s just overcast and damp outside. It’s not the kind of winter scene you’d put on a postcard, but somehow it still flipped a switch in my brain. Every time it starts snowing, I get this urge to completely change my life.
It’s ridiculous, really.
One weather shift and I’m suddenly reorganizing everything—my playlists, my clothes, my routines, my entire mindset. I start imagining this cleaner, more composed version of myself who wakes up early, cooks breakfast, journals, drinks tea instead of energy drinks, and somehow always looks effortlessly put together.
It’s like the snow falls, and my brain goes, “Okay, new season, new me”.
What makes it funnier is that I literally just wrote an article last week about my music taste throughout the seasons. How in winter, I’m supposedly calm and deliberate, all soft light and silence. I said, “Winter doesn’t even try to be subtle. It arrives like silence after the music stops.” It sounded peaceful at the time—poetic, even.
But now that it’s actually here, it feels nothing like silence.
It’s messy and restless and loud in its own strange way. My playlists didn’t hibernate after all. They evolved. This week, I’ve been looping Nickelback, Fall Out Boy, Matchbox Twenty, and Ozzy Osbourne. Not exactly the soundtrack of stillness. It’s noise, but the kind that shakes something awake in me.
The kind that makes me want to rearrange my life and see what happens next.
So, I did. I built a new Pinterest board—winter wardrobe, recipes, hair care, the whole clean-slate fantasy. I wrote out a schedule and even color-coded it. I wrote out when to wake up, when to sleep, when to finally stop scrolling and do something real, etc.
None of it feels forced. It just feels like the next thing I’m supposed to do. Plain and simple.
I think that’s what winter does to me. It doesn’t make me slow down; it spins me. It makes me want to rework the blueprint, to try again, to just make sense of who I am right now.
And maybe by spring, it’ll change again. The music, the mood boards, the little habits I swear I’ll keep. I don’t have control over that, and I don’t really want it. That’s just who I am—a constant draft of a person, always shifting, always rewriting the story.
And I love it, honestly; I love the little versions of myself I leave behind. The ones who thought they had it figured out for a minute. They’re proof that I’m still moving, still curious, and still trying.
So, this winter arc? It’s not about stillness after all; it’s about learning to love the motion.