When the Cold Didn't Bother Me

When we were children, didn't it seem like the cold never bothered us?

We could play outside for hours. Snowball fights, sledding, building snow forts. Our cheeks were red, our gloves soaked through, and still we didn't want to come inside. The cold was just part of the fun. It didn't ache in our bones or catch in our lungs. It was something to run through, laugh in, and forget about.

Now, the cold feels different.

As I've gotten older, my bones ache more, my health has changed, and the bitter Michigan winters feel heavier than they once did. Twenty-five below is hard on my asthmatic lungs, and some days I dread even stepping outside long enough to take the dog out. The cold no longer feels like an invitation. It feels like something to endure.

But today, as I sat looking out the window, watching the snow fall, I was pulled back into my childhood.

I thought about the year my grandma brought her friend to our home because she had never seen snow before. I remembered the snowball fights with my brothers. The forts we built and defended like they were entire worlds of our own. I remembered how the snow held not just cold, but laughter, connection, and wonder.

Those memories live deep inside me.

I talk about this in my first book. Even though Annie might not have a Christmas tree or a menorah, she still has the opportunity to make memories. Back then, I understood that idea in theory. Now, I understand it in my bones.

As we grow older, comfort and tradition can change. Our bodies change. Our limits change. But memories, those moments we didn't realize were important at the time, stay warm inside us long after the cold has settled in.

So even on the days when the winter feels too harsh and I don't want to step outside, I try to remember that once upon a time, the cold didn't bother me. Not because it wasn't cold, but because I was too busy living inside the moment.

And maybe that is the real gift of winter after all. Not the snow itself, but the memories it leaves behind.