I’m standing at the window, watching the snow come down—white, fluffy, quiet like it’s trying to behave. It looks like a postcard. Like peace. Like childhood laughter and cocoa commercials and lies.

And I hate it.

Snow is beautiful in the way a coffin is polished. Clean. Cold. Final.

People talk about winter like it’s cozy, like it’s rest. For me, it’s a slow freezing. The days shrink. The light clocks out early. The sky hangs low and gray like it’s pressing its thumb into my chest. Seasonal depression doesn’t knock politely—it seeps in through the cracks, settles in my bones, and turns my inner weather into permafrost.

Winter makes my soul go quiet in the worst way. Not peaceful. Numb. Frozen solid, like joy got mislaid somewhere between November and February and nobody bothered to file a missing person report.

I move slower. Think heavier. Everything takes more effort—breathing, hoping, believing this won’t last forever even though it always feels like it might. The world says, Isn’t it pretty?

And I’m over here thinking, Pretty things can still hurt.

Snow is honest that way. Soft on the outside. Brutal if you stay in it too long.

So yes, it’s beautiful. I can admit that. I just don’t want to live inside it.