The winters that made me

I sat in front of the crackling fire, watching Coco sprawl out on her fuzzy bed, soaking up the heat of the flame. Her purring calmed my unsettled nervous system. Outside, snow began to fall. As I watched the soft flakes fluttering down, they melted away some of my worry. It was a cozy December day, the cat calendar on the wall showing that 2016 was quickly coming to an end. I didn’t know it yet, but that winter marked the death of one version of me and the beginning of another.

Recently out of college, I had moved home with my parents to the small Midwestern suburb just outside of St. Paul where I grew up. My grandfather was in hospice, slowly fading away. As his life was coming to an end, mine was just beginning. I felt lost — unsure of who I was or where I belonged, stuck in a post-graduation limbo. I cherished those moments with him, knowing they were our last. But I could also feel myself outgrowing the place I’d always known. Everything began to feel heavy, like a slight strangulation — just enough air to survive, but not enough to thrive. Beneath my jovial Sagittarian façade lived a deeply emotional Scorpio, begging to dive into the depths of self-discovery.

To discover my true self, I needed to see the world.

It all started three winters earlier, in 2013. I sat alone in my dorm room, swimming in silence, bored and unstimulated by the place and people around me. I was sad — but craving inspiration. I pulled out a pad of paper and drew the version of myself I longed to become: a beautiful smiling blonde with wavy hair, a camera around her neck, and a knowing in her eyes. As I sketched, I felt a bright buzz inside, a quiet certainty that I could create any life I desired. I wrote a list of places I would go: live in Florida, live on an island, study in Europe, visit India. These dreams breathed air back into my lungs — far more intoxicating than the frat parties planned for Friday night. I needed more. I craved adventure, knowledge, and an understanding of the world around me. My life depended on it.

A few months later, I found myself in Florida for the Disney College Program — my first big adventure alone. I lived with girls from across the U.S., surrounded by international students from Italy to Thailand. I felt alive, shining, energized. Jade and I shared a room, and it felt so good to finally connect, to feel truly seen. At night we’d wash our faces side by side and talk about our dreams and futures. I’d found a place where I could be myself. I didn’t know it then, but Jade would become one of my closest friends twelve years later — or that Brittany, another flatmate, and I would one day backpack across Europe together.

The following winter of dreaming and planning led to a study abroad trip that made my world even bigger. I chose Florence, Italy for the spring semester. My father’s family is Italian, and though Grandpa was 100% Italian, no one in our family had ever been. I felt called to discover my lineage. Florence sits nestled among the rolling Tuscan hills along the Arno River. On my first morning, wandering the cobblestone streets, I stumbled upon the Duomo by accident. I froze. Time stopped. Brunelleschi’s 15th-century dome rose before me — larger than life. I felt something shift inside. I had never seen anything so enormous, so beautiful, so old.

In Italy, I found confidence, passion, and the joy of simple pleasures: slowly sipping wine, watching the world go by, wandering and getting lost. I discovered la dolce far niente. I knew I couldn’t return to Minnesota for the summer. I asked the Florence foreign police how to extend my visa, and they simply shrugged: “Just stay — nothing will happen.” I love Italians. I booked a flight to Sicily to cross another dream off my list: living on an island. I worked as an au pair in Marsala, taking sailboats to nearby islands, dancing in castles, eating creamy cannolo filled with fresh ricotta. Caterina quickly became like a sister to me, and her family is now my “Italian family.” I visit as often as possible. This year, I brought my parents, my partner, and his mother.

The following year, I found myself once again dreaming, plotting, and planning my next adventure. I sat in a candlelit room in my apartment with books about India spread out on my bed. My roommates said I was a witch. I spent my evenings devouring texts about history, food, and fashion. In January, I found myself walking the bustling, vibrant, and incredibly fragrant streets of Bangalore, India. I traveled the country with a small group of students; we visited spice farms, animal reserves, Indian courts, and I even found myself amidst the Nilgiri Tribal Dance Festival in the rolling tea hills of Ooty. We sat on the ground eating with our hands from banana leaves, and in that moment, my soul felt so alive. My world got even bigger, and I began to see things differently, realizing that we are more alike than we are different. Perhaps people in other places knew more about living well than Americans. I began to pick the things that resonated from each culture and make them my own, in order to craft a life that feels truly mine.

After Grandpa passed, it felt like a permission slip to go live my life. He had always supported my travels and dreams. I loved how his face lit up when he told a story — everyone gathered around him, listening. I often feel him with me when I speak in public or hold space for others. I’ve become a storyteller too, a part of him lives on.

In April of 2017, I packed a backpack and bought a one-way ticket to Europe. I had spent the winter dreaming of my next adventure — devouring every movie set in Europe, drawing maps of my favorite countries, planning a backpacking trip that would last until the end of summer. I found a TEFL certification program in Prague. I’d never been, but heard it was magical. I applied, and they called me five minutes later. I knew instantly: Prague was it. My whole body said yes. I spent a month in the city and immediately felt at home. From May to September I traveled, but nowhere felt as right. In October, I returned to Prague with a pending visa and a tiny shared apartment to call home.

Eight years later, I’m still here — immersed in Prague’s culture, with the love of my life and work that lights me up. I’ve become the woman I drew in my dorm room thirteen years ago. The younger me wouldn’t believe the life I’ve lived. Just yesterday, I guided a group of tourists through Strahov Monastery. I get paid to do what I love — exploring, learning, sharing stories. We thawed our frozen hands in the monastery brewery, which dates back to 1142. Huddled around a heavy wooden table with steaming coffee and craft beer, I told them that Prague Castle was built on a pagan ritual site. We spoke of those who came before us — what they understood, and what we’ve forgotten. They knew the land, the cycles, the timing of life. In our fast-paced world, we’ve lost so much of that wisdom. This time of year, especially, asks us to slow down and embrace the darker aspects of life.

I’m grateful now for those lonely winter nights — the sadness, discomfort, and sorrow. They taught me what I didn’t want, and pushed me toward who I was meant to become. The secret lies in embracing the seasons of life, especially winter, the season we most want to escape. We find our power when we accept our inner darkness — the parts of us that must die, decay, and return to the soil so new life can grow. When we listen to the rhythms of nature, we begin to master the art of living. It always begins with a dark, cold winter — the depths where seeds are planted for future growth. A version of us must die in order for a more aligned version to emerge.

This winter, as you watch the snow fall, I ask you to ponder what lies beneath it. What is nature letting die so it can rise stronger in the spring? And what parts of you are ready to return to the soil—old fears, old versions, old stories you’ve outgrown? Let them go. Let them decay. Trust that something new is waiting beneath the frost, gathering strength in the quiet. Your next beginning is already forming in the dark.