The following reflection was inspired by some old journal entries.

I moved to Portland two years ago in December, in the middle of winter. I’ve lived in many places, but I’ve spent most of my life in Florida and the San Francisco Bay Area, two places with mild, temperate climates. Other places I lived either didn’t have much of a winter, or I was able to leave before it truly began.

I was excited to move to the Pacific Northwest but I dreaded winter. I’ve never been a fan of the cold. I have mild Raynaud’s Phenomenon, so the cold makes my hands ache. I dislike layering my clothes because I can only bundle up so much before I can’t bend my arms anymore, and somehow, I’m still cold. I think snow is the most beautiful in pictures. I assumed winter would be a difficult season for me.

I experienced my first snow storm a couple of months later. Portland isn’t equipped to handle a lot of snow so it’s common for the entire city to shut down until it finally melts. For this storm, I was snowed in for five days. Fortunately, I never lost power and had plenty of food, I just couldn’t leave my house unless it was by foot.

Each day I gazed out of my window at trees that stood bare, their branches stark against the gray sky. Spending long periods of time indoors can bring up difficult emotions, the ones we try to busy ourselves to avoid the most. For me, it stirred a deep grief, and I let the tears come. I tried to resist the temptation to distract myself and be fully present to my hurt as I watched the softness of the snow. I remembered when a teacher of mine described winter as a womb, something I always thought sounded beautiful but I didn’t fully understand.

This was the first time I experienced the hush of a first snowfall. I could no longer hear the familiar sound of cars driving by, the buzz of lawn mowers, or birds singing – they were replaced with silence. Being farther from the equator meant shorter days and more darkness. And while I still went for walks, it wasn’t long before I was ready to return to the warmth of my blankets. The sound barrier, the darkness, the warmth – I realized were all womb-like qualities, like I was being held within it. While my tears were persistent, I continued to give myself over to that mother-like love, imagining her hands caressing her belly as she cradled it in her arms. The image brought comfort and I nestled in.

I don’t feel resolved of my grief, but I feel more of an acceptance of it. Grief is part of the human experience that sheds light on how much we’ve loved, and the beauty of loving. We are meant for love, but with love comes the incredible ache of loss. Yet a womb can stretch and hold the baby no matter how she turns, or kicks, or grows. Winter cradles us in the silence of her embrace, offering a unique invitation each year to pause, to come as we are, to simply be. I realized how much my body needed this kind of rest.

If you ask a Portland local what they think about the long winters, they’ll often say, “We don’t love it, but we know we need it. The more rain we get, the more beautiful spring will be.” It’s a reminder I hold close each time I brace against the chill, and each time that grief returns for a visit.

It’s been three winters in Portland and my grief is still very much present, not only in winter, but all year round. It’s been present for many, many years. Some days it feels heavier than others, as if it exists in a spiritual womb within myself that I need to tend to – I do that through tears, or writing, or dance, or just being present.

When the snow melts and the days grow longer, I imagine the womb of winter doesn’t leave, but transforms into something new to remind us of that same unconditional love.

Perhaps in spring, it’s the soil that holds the seeds, waiting for the right time to push through. In summer, it could be the shade of a tree, offering rest from the heat of the sun. In autumn, maybe it’s the ground, that receives what falls and prepares for what’s to come. Each season provides a different kind of embrace, reminding me that God’s love truly never lets us go.