Just a summer baby learning to survive winter
In 2003, I was born amidst a burning hot July. My mother recalls eating pounds of fresh British Columbia blueberries, sitting on the cold leather sofa with a fan blowing in her face as she awaited my arrival. When I was finally born, albeit a week late, summer was in full swing. Dandelions and fresh-cut grass. Sand in between toes and watermelon dripping down faces. Sidewalk chalk and the taste of salt water. These were the things I would grow to love about the season I was born into. But what no newborn could ever understand, and what my adult self still fails to accept, is that no season lasts forever. Dandelions disappear into the early autumn air, watermelon goes out of season, and the sidewalk chalk gets washed away by late-August thunderstorms.
It was only fitting that I’d grow to loathe the cold. Now, in my twenties, winter tends to slow-dance her way to my door each year, knocking ever so quietly. Soft enough that you’d only hear it if you were already listening, anticipating, and waiting on her arrival (regardless of whether you were happy about it or not). But unlike the summer of 2003 when my mom was counting down the days to meet her new daughter, winter for me is the uninvited guest to the baby shower—bearing a gift of darkness tied in a deceiving red bow.
This past winter hit me harder than winters before. Instead of a slow waltz, she came in blazing with a quickstep. I was, undoubtedly, unprepared. My boots still hid in the closet. My sweaters were still folded in the bottom of my dresser. And, most notably, my longing for a hot July was stronger than ever before. I could still taste the salt of the sea on my tongue, feel the grass tickle my toes, and, if I squinted hard enough, I could see my hand reaching out for the sun, clinging to that first image of childhood that was oh-so-familiar. But then I’d remember that the grass was dead, the trees were bare, and I couldn’t recall the last time I saw the sun.
Despite my distaste for summer’s looming dark sister, I was determined to find winter’s silver lining. Thus, I spent countless afternoons staring at the frozen Port Credit River. Ducks followed the rushing water and found their home along the bank. Geese flew overhead, prompting me to wonder why they hadn’t migrated south for the winter. Maybe the geese, like myself, have a hard time walking away from things that feel comfortable. Maybe they also don’t like change. Maybe they too were hoping that warmer weather was just around the corner. Or maybe they were just geese.
On another afternoon, I stared at the ground in front of the river, where my feet stood as I watched the stream travel towards Lake Ontario. I noticed how the ground was hard as a rock on the surface but there was still soft soil to be found underneath. I just need to break through to find it, I thought to myself. My breath became a puff of cloudy white.
And so, there I stood, waiting. Waiting for the thaw, for the moment when the layers of cold would give way to something softer, something warmer. In that stillness, something shifted within me, a quiet understanding blossoming like the first buds of spring. I realized that winter’s chill was not a finality but a part of a cycle—a season that, like all others, had its place. It was a time for rest, for reflection, and for rooting down in ways that weren’t immediately visible. Beneath the hardened ground, life was still working its quiet magic.
The geese, despite their hesitation, would eventually find their way south. The river, though frozen at the surface, would continue its journey toward the lake, carving paths through the ice. And me? I would survive this winter, too. I would press on, even when the days felt short and the darkness seemed endless, because somewhere beneath the frost, hope was still stirring. The promise of the sun’s return, the scent of fresh-cut grass, the weight of warm sand beneath my feet—all of it would come again. Seasons change, as they always do. And though it’s hard to accept the passage of time, the cycles that turn endlessly around us are the very things that sustain us, reminding us that even after the coldest winter, summer’s warmth will always be around the corner.
Arts & Entertainment Editor (Volume 51); Staff Writer (Volume 50) — Keira is going into her fourth year at UTM pursuing a double major in Communications, Culture, Information, and Technology (CCIT) and Professional Writing and Communications (PWC). When she’s not working or studying, you can find her nose deep in a good literary fiction novel, writing movie reviews on Letterboxd, or even training for the marathon that never seems to actually happen! You can connect with Keira on Instagram or LinkedIn.