Technically, we are still in fall. Technically. The calendar insists on it. The winter solstice isn’t until this coming weekend. And yet, there is snow on the ground, ice clinging to sidewalks, the temperature is hovering below 30 degrees, and the world feels like it has quietly leaned into chaos without consulting the seasonal memo.

This feels like the beginning of a long winter. Not the cozy kind. Not the Hallmark kind with twinkle lights and emotional resolutions by minute 87. This feels like the kind of winter where you brace yourself without quite knowing what you’re bracing for. My heart rate is up. My shoulders are somewhere near my ears. I am mentally stockpiling emotional sweaters.

What’s strange is that the anxiety feels preemptive. I’m not reacting to a single thing. I’m reacting to everything that might happen. The “come what may” soundtrack is playing softly in the background of my nervous system. And before anyone asks, no, I’ve had no Red Bull today. This is a clean, organic, homegrown anxiety. Locally sourced.

Winter has a way of doing that. It compresses time. It shrinks daylight. It makes the world feel heavier, louder, more brittle. Even the news seems colder. And when the external world feels unstable, the internal world starts scanning for threats like it’s auditioning for a role it did not apply for.

Here’s the thing I keep reminding myself. We are still standing in the in-between. Fall pretending to be winter. Anticipation pretending to be certainty. Fear pretending to be foresight. My body is reacting as if the worst has already arrived, when in reality, I’m just uncomfortable with not knowing how long this season will last.

And that’s human.

There is no prize for predicting catastrophe. There is no merit badge for holding your breath until spring. The nervous system doesn’t need a five-year plan; it needs reassurance that right now is survivable.

So I pause.
I breathe.
I drop my shoulders a fraction of an inch.

The ground may be frozen, but I am not. The world may feel chaotic, but I am still here, still warm, still capable of finding steadiness in small, deliberate moments. This winter, however long it turns out to be, does not have to be lived all at once.

One breath.
One day.
One moment of noticing that it is, in fact, still fall.