When It Gets Cold

Winter hits different when you’re not sure where you’re sleeping. I notice it inside—the way the air gets dry, the light changes, everything feels more settled. But there’s another winter happening outside, and it’s not the same one.

I’ve never been homeless, so I’m not pretending to understand what that’s actually like. But I know enough to know that small things matter: a real jacket, socks without holes, a blanket. Things I have without thinking. Things that just exist in my life.

There’s something about seeing someone on the street in winter that lands different than other seasons. Not in a way that feels good to notice. Just the plainness of needing to stay warm and not having the setup for it. I don’t know what solves it. But I know small donations actually turn into clothes and blankets and heat. It’s not complicated. It’s just the difference between a worse winter and one that might actually break you.