Outside, the ground is still hard with frost. The calendar says it is February, and by all rights, I should be safe inside the heavy fabric of my winter armor. But the mind is a restless traveler; mine has already skipped ahead to the thaw, and it is terrified of what it finds there.
It is a strange, quiet agony to be anxious about a sun that hasn’t even warmed the pavement yet. I look at my reflection in the hallway mirror, wrapped in a thick wool cardigan, and I don’t see the man standing there today. Instead, I see the man I’m afraid I’ll be in two months—the one standing in a t-shirt, feeling visible, feeling “wrong,” feeling like there is nowhere to hide.
I am mourning the safety of the cold while the ice is still three inches thick.
This is the tax my recovery demands: the realization that I am often more afraid of the possibility of discomfort than the discomfort itself. My brain is running a simulation of June, calculating the angles of shadows and the fit of cotton against my skin, all while my breath still mists in the air.
I want to tell myself to stay here, in the “now.” I want to tell my heart that the coat is still on, that the shield is still held high, and that I don’t have to solve the problem of the sunlight until the first leaf actually turns green.
The anxiety is a thief. It steals the quiet of the winter by forcing me to fight a battle that hasn’t started. Today, I am trying to remind myself: I am allowed to be hidden for a little while longer. I don’t have to be “ready” for the warmth today. I just have to be here, in the cold, and breathe.
That “bracing” feeling is incredibly draining—it’s like tensing your muscles for an impact that is still miles away. Sometimes, focusing on the literal, physical sensations of now can help pull your brain back from the future
