The First Snow also on My Birthday Weekend

The first snow arrived quietly—right on my birthday weekend—and it changed the view outside the window into something softer, almost hushed. The city turns pale and powdery, and for a moment it feels like everything has been asked to slow down.

Inside, the room stays warm and familiar. A small tree glows in the corner, lights blinking against the gray afternoon. A “Happy Holidays” banner hangs across the windows like a small attempt to name the season before it fully settles in. Balloons linger at the edges of the room, a gentle reminder that celebration doesn’t always need noise.

I like this kind of contrast: winter pressing its cold face to the glass while the inside stays lit, lived-in, and steady. Snow has a way of making even ordinary corners feel more intentional—plants lined up on a sill, a lamp left on, the quiet shape of furniture waiting for the next cup of coffee.

There’s a particular feeling that comes with the year’s first snowfall: not exactly joy, not exactly nostalgia, but something in between. A small mystery in the mundane. If the weekend is a marker, then the snow is too—another sign that time is moving, and that it’s okay to pause and watch it fall.