Seasons

Last January, I found myself trudging through slush-filled streets, my fingers numb despite gloves, mentally calculating how many more weeks until spring. A bitter wind whipped between Manhattan’s buildings, creating urban wind tunnels that cut straight through my layers. I don’t love winter. It’s certainly my least favourite season. While I grew up in a relatively cold place with an unpleasant winter, I wouldn’t say I’m better adapted to it than anyone else. I do, however, have an appreciation for the seasons and I try to (begrudgingly) enjoy winter just as much as summer.

New York City doesn’t have a particularly harsh winter; it’s relatively short, and since NYC is subtropical, below freezing temperatures are rare. This is especially true recently, with climate change making winters warmer and shorter—NYC has seen winter temperatures rise about 2.4°F since 1970 according to NOAA data.

Each season in the city announces itself distinctly. Spring brings the sweet scent of cherry blossoms in Central Park and the happy chatter of people emerging from hibernation. Summer fills the air with the song of ice cream trucks and the distant roar of Coney Island’s crowds. Fall rustles with crisp leaves underfoot and the aroma of pumpkin spice wafting from every café. Winter has its own symphony—the hushed silence after fresh snow, the steam rising from street vents, and the jingle of holiday markets.

Despite my winter aversion, I’ve found small rituals that make it bearable—even enjoyable. I’ve learned to appreciate the quiet solitude of early morning walks when fresh snow muffles the city’s usual clamor. There’s something magical about watching the steam rise from my coffee cup against the backdrop of frost-covered windows. And I’ve discovered that winter offers the perfect excuse to explore the city’s countless museums and cozy bookstores I tend to bypass during warmer months.

If we think of the seasons as part of an annual cycle that resembles a sine wave, oscillating between cool and warm, then winter is the trough and summer is the peak. By March, the first mild day feels almost absurdly good in a way it never would in September.

Some places are better at leaning into this than others. Nordic countries have “hygge,” all candles and wool and making a dark winter night feel intentional. Japanese culture marks the seasons more explicitly too, through festivals, foods, and aesthetics; I like that winter gets its own attention instead of being treated as dead time between autumn and spring.

I know this can sound like a neat metaphor for life, but mostly I notice it in my own moods and habits. After a long winter, I go outside more, cook differently, stay out later, pay attention.

Consider food: if you only ever ate at the finest restaurants and never had a mediocre meal, you’d quickly become desensitized to culinary excellence. By contrast, when you regularly eat simple, whole foods and occasionally encounter a disappointing dish, those exceptional dining experiences become truly special. It’s part of why a summer tomato still feels like an event, even though I can technically buy tomatoes all year. You don’t need extravagance to feel satisfaction, and when you do indulge in a Michelin-starred meal, your appreciation deepens tremendously.

When I end up in one of those stretches that feels like winter, this is the part I try to remember. Winter doesn’t last forever, even when days feel impossibly long, cold, and dark. Once you pass the winter solstice, you’re already beginning the gradual journey toward brighter days. As for me, I’ll be found this February with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, watching the lengthening days from my window, and quietly plotting my first springtime picnic in Prospect Park—mostly because I know that first warm afternoon will hit harder after all this.