by Erika Matic, currently trapped indoors while the nation collectively forgets how winter works
I love snow.
Let me be clear about that, because winter people are very sensitive and will immediately accuse you of moral failure if you don’t preface criticism with affection.
I love snow in theory. I love snow as an aesthetic concept. As a vibe. As a screensaver. As something that exists exclusively on postcards, Pinterest boards, and behind the protective barrier of double-glazed windows.
Snow is magical when you are inside, warm, emotionally stable, and not responsible for dressing another human being who has the physical coordination of a drunk penguin and the patience of a caffeine-deprived squirrel.
From my living room, snow is enchanting.
From my front door, snow is a hostile environment.
Winter Preparation: A Ritual of Slow Psychological Breakdown
Going outside in winter is not “going outside.”
It is a logistical operation requiring planning, stamina, and the quiet acceptance that you will lose at least one glove forever.
The process begins long before any actual outdoor joy occurs.
First comes the announcement: “We’re going outside.” This is met with excitement, resistance, philosophical questions, and at least one meltdown over socks that suddenly feel “wrong.”
Then the layering begins.
Layer after layer after layer, until my child resembles a small, well-insulated loaf of bread with opinions.
- Snow pants that require Olympic-level strength to pull on.
- A hat that is itchy, offensive, and apparently designed by someone who hates children.
- Gloves that fit perfectly for approximately twelve seconds before becoming wet, useless, and emotionally devastating.
By the time we are fully dressed, I am already tired in a way that sleep cannot fix.
We have not yet seen snow.
The Myth of “Fresh Air”
We finally step outside.
The air is crisp. The snow is white. The moment is pure.
For about six minutes.
Then reality enters the scene, usually in the form of wet gloves, cold fingers, and a child who insists on eating snow, because why not?
She runs. She slips. She throws herself into snowbanks with the fearless commitment of someone who has never had to peel off frozen clothes afterward.
I stand there, watching, trying to enjoy the moment while silently calculating how long until everyone is cold, wet, or crying.
The neighbours’ kids are already outside.
They have been outside since dawn.
They will remain outside until darkness or hypothermia claims them.
They are playing happily, loudly, and for suspiciously long periods of time, like children from a parenting book written by someone who has never done laundry in winter.
I feel the pressure immediately. The unspoken comparison. The quiet question whispering in my head: Why aren’t you like them?
Twelve Minutes of Joy, Followed by Three Hours of Consequences
Eventually, the inevitable happens. My daughter is cold. Or wet. Or both.
We go home.
The return inside is where winter really shows its true personality.
Wet clothes are removed with the delicacy of bomb disposal. Snow melts into the floor, the hallway, my soul. Boots are heavy, gloves are soggy, and everything smells faintly of damp defeat.
There is laundry.
So much laundry.
Laundry that feels personal.
Laundry that judges you.
Laundry that you just finished yesterday.
I hang gloves on radiators like offerings to a god that clearly hates me. I wipe the floor. I change clothes. I restore order.
And then I look at the clock and realise: We spent more time preparing to go outside than actually being outside.
This feels like a metaphor for winter as a whole.
The Neighbourhood Guilt Olympics
And this is where the real exhaustion sets in – not in the body, but in the mind.
Because I see the other parents.
Every day.
Outside.
Happy.
Functioning.
With multiple children.
Playing in snow like it’s not a full-contact sport with moisture.
And I feel the guilt. The comparison. The internal interrogation: Should we be outside more? Is my child missing out on crucial snow-related developmental milestones? Will she one day lie on a therapist’s couch and say, “My mother didn’t take me out enough in winter”?
Am I weak?
Am I lazy?
Am I broken?
Or (wild thought) am I simply not designed for daily Arctic survival simulations?
The Radical Idea That Maybe Winter Is Just… A Lot
Here is a deeply unpopular opinion: Winter is exhausting.
Not tragic.
Not unbearable.
Just relentlessly demanding.
Short days. Long nights. Endless layers. Constant cleanup. Cold fingers. Wet socks. A never-ending cycle of preparation, endurance, and recovery.
It’s not that I don’t love my child.
It’s that loving my child does not magically turn me into a woman who enjoys peeling frozen pants off a screaming toddler while calculating radiator space for gloves.
Some days, staying inside is not avoidance.
It’s self-preservation.
Indoor Childhood Is Not a Crime
My daughter is safe. She is warm. She is loved.
She plays, laughs, learns, builds, imagines, destroys the living room, and asks “why” approximately 700 times a day.
She is not deprived because we didn’t freeze our faces off to meet a socially acceptable quota of outdoor minutes.
She will survive winter.
So will I.
And possibly with fewer respiratory infections.
The Performance of Good Parenting
I think what drains me most about winter isn’t the cold – it’s the performance.
The idea that good parenting must be visible. That effort must be seen. That suffering is proof of love.
That if you’re not outside, bundled up, smiling through chattering teeth, you are somehow failing the unspoken test of motherhood.
But here’s the truth I’m slowly learning: Parenting does not need to be theatrical. It doesn’t need constant proof. It doesn’t need witnesses.
Some days, the bravest thing you can do is choose warmth over appearances.
Choosing Softness Is Not Giving Up
Spring will come.
Summer will follow.
There will be days when leaving the house requires nothing but shoes and optimism.
Until then, I will admire snow from behind glass, drink something warm, listen to my daughter play inside, and let other families raise the next generation of winter warriors.
I will not measure my worth by how long we last in the cold.
I will not apologise for choosing ease when life already demands so much.
And if that makes me “less wintery” than my neighbours – so be it.
I was not built for snow heroics.
I was built for love, warmth, and knowing when enough is enough.
And honestly?
That feels like survival.
Erika Matic is a wannabe writer documenting motherhood, domestic chaos, sobriety, discipline, seasonal survival, and the quiet rebellion of choosing a calm life in a culture obsessed with endurance. She writes about routines, bodies, economics, winter resentment, and the emotional comedy of modern adulthood. She believes not every season needs to be conquered, not every moment needs to be productive, and that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stay warm, say no, and wait for spring.
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