How do you feel about cold weather?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

—a survivor’s guide to atmospheric betrayal

How do I feel about cold weather?
First of all, what a ridiculous question. Clearly asked by someone who’s never had to warm their jeans in front of the oven before putting them on. Someone who thinks “cold” means putting on a hoodie for their latte run, with almond milk, as if that’s the real crisis.

Let’s get this straight: cold weather is not an aesthetic. It’s not “cozy.” It’s not “romantic.” It is a full-blown seasonal assault. It’s waking up and negotiating with your thermostat like you’re defusing a bomb. It’s stepping outside and getting physically bullied by the air. It slaps your face, steals your breath, and laughs as your will to live slips on black ice.

Have you ever felt the cold in your teeth? Not because you’re chewing ice—just because you exist? The cold doesn’t nudge you; it invades. Your fingers become meat popsicles. Your nose a leaky faucet. Your spine? An icicle with regrets.

And yes, someone will always chirp, “But snow is so magical!”

Sure. So is glitter—until it’s in your carpet, your soul, and your coffee. Snow is only magical until you’re scraping your windshield with a frozen pizza box because your scraper snapped in half like your sanity.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t always feel this way.

There was a time when winter meant war, and we were ready for it.

We were glued to the radio each morning, listening for school closures like it was the stock market. We lived for the moment they’d say our school’s name. Nothing else mattered. Snow day? Victory. Snow day? Absolute chaos.

And when we got the call—we deployed.
Our mothers didn’t mess around with stylish gear. None of that fitted Columbia-brand nonsense grandkids wear today. No, we were wrapped in layers so thick we couldn’t bend at the elbows. Giant snowsuits in violent colors, scarves wrapped until we couldn’t breathe, hats that made us look like sentient laundry piles.

We didn’t look cool. We looked insulated. And we were proud of it. Because we had work to do. Trash can lids became sleds. Snow ramps got built with zero structural integrity. There were snow forts to construct, munitions to stockpile, and alliances to betray. If you didn’t come back soaked, bruised, and slightly frostbitten—you didn’t commit.

And the cold? It didn’t touch us.
We stayed outside for hours. No complaints. No thermals. Just soaked socks and adrenaline. We siphoned warmth directly from the sun—or maybe from the bodies of our enemies in those brutal snowball battles. We made snow angels like we were summoning ice demons. We didn’t feel pain. We felt alive.

But somewhere along the line, that magic froze over.

You start to see snow not as a playground, but as debt—a cruel joke you’ll be shoveling off your car at 6 a.m. with a spoon because your scraper snapped (again). The world no longer stops for snow. It just gets harder.

And then something inside you changes. You stop complaining. You stop reacting. You just nod when the forecast says “ice pellets” like some frostbitten monk who’s accepted their fate. You become that person who shovels in a T-shirt—not because it’s brave, but because your soul gave up years ago.

So how do I feel about cold weather?

Like a war veteran feels about the war: I’ve been through it, I have the scars, and if you say “but snow is magical!” one more time, I will personally make you lick a metal pole in January.

Any more questions?