I realize this feeling comes from a place of privilege—the privilege of waking up in a warm home, with a loving family still asleep under the same roof. The privilege of a full fridge and pantry, of stability, of safety. I know not everyone has that. I carry that awareness with me.
And still, I can’t help but feel a deep, almost childlike joy when I wake up to a snow-filled world.
Since moving from Boulder to Oklahoma City about six years ago, real snow has been rare. This weekend, it finally arrived. A few inches already blanket the ground, and at 4 a.m. the city feels completely transformed. No cars on the road. No movement. Just stillness. The streetlights glow as their light bounces off the snow, making everything brighter than usual, but softer too—like the world has been gently wrapped.
What I love most about snow isn’t just how it looks, but how it sounds—or rather, how it doesn’t. Snow absorbs the noise of the world. The sharp edges disappear. The constant hum fades. The city exhales.
In a few hours, the house will come alive. Our daughter will wake up to her first real snow day. We’ll make snow ice cream together, build her first snowman, and later the three of us will cook potato soup while the cold lingers outside and warmth fills the kitchen. Simple things. Ordinary things. The kind that quietly become memories before you realize they matter.
Right now, though, I’m sitting on the cusp of it all—this brief pause before the day unfolds. And in this stillness, I’m struck by how much I love my life. Despite how chaotic and unhinged the world can feel at times, I am surrounded by love. Real love. Steady love.
Well—love and snow.