Every year, without fail, the moment December hits, my brain decides it is no longer a brain at all. It is now a seasonal archetype. A trope. A walking winter mood board. I inhale cold air and suddenly I am a woodland academic with a brooding backstory. I light one candle and believe I am the protagonist of a gothic novel. My entire identity shifts from “burned-out goblin with a planner” to “mysterious bitch in wool socks who journals by lamplight.”
And honestly, I am not mad about it.
Winter awakens a part of me that feels both ancient and deeply unserious. I drink coffee like it is a sacred rite. I pull out blankets like I am lining a nest for hibernation. I open my Traveler’s Notebook and convince myself I will become a more reflective person simply because the world outside looks like a grayscale photograph. Snow falls and I immediately start imagining I own a cottage on the edge of an enchanted forest. Meanwhile the reality is me, in Minnesota, with an overworked space heater and a ferret trying to eat my pen.
There is something about winter that feels like an aesthetic permission slip. Summer expects you to perform. Fall expects you to be charming and buy gourds. Winter just whispers, “Slow down. Wear soft things. Pretend you are mysterious now.” And I do. I lean all the way in.
My desk becomes a shrine to cozy productivity. Soft lighting. Moody shadows. Keycaps that look like ice crystals. Planner spreads filled with deep blues, silver foil, microscopic snowflakes, and my Canon Ivy stickers that should honestly be classified as emotional support décor. I tuck myself into my giant sloth plushes like a creature in a cave and tell myself this is who I am now: a winter scholar who thrives on cold air and introspective silence.
Never mind that I am still the same hot mess trying to remember where I put the good pen. Never mind that I still have a downloads folder shaped like a horror story. Never mind that the “stillness” I crave usually lasts for about ninety seconds before my brain tells me to rearrange my entire desk or reorganize my Dropbox folders. Winter Genna believes in the illusion of calm, and I will absolutely take the illusion.
And there is something healing about it. Something grounding. Something that makes the world feel smaller and safer. Winter gives me permission to be both soft and withdrawn, thoughtful and chaotic. It lets me cocoon myself without apology. It lets me nest. It lets me hide in plain sight.
I used to fight that. I used to feel guilty for wanting to retreat. Guilty for leaning into the coziness and the quiet and the moody playlists that make my house feel like a snow-dusted library. But now? I let myself have it. If winter wants to be a personality, I will hand it the keys.
Because winter Genna writes more. Plans more. Thinks more. She finds peace in rituals. She sits with her feelings without sprinting away from them. She treats hot drinks like therapy. She lets herself slow down without calling it laziness. She lets the cold sharpen her edges and soften her center.
So yes, my brain absolutely thinks winter is a personality. And this year, I’m embracing it. The layers. The lamps. The quiet. The rituals. The moody planner spreads. The ferret curled in my lap like a tiny, judgmental space heater.
