The Limbo Snow Day

Day 6 — November 29, 2025

This morning felt different the moment I opened my eyes. Not spiritually, not dramatically, but in that subtle, eerie way the world shifts right before snow. That particular hush. That suspended breath the air takes for reasons only the sky understands.

And sure enough, when I pulled back the curtain, tiny white flakes drifted past my window like the atmosphere was exhaling. Soft and heavy. Wild and steady. Chaotic and quiet.

My favorite contradictions all falling at once.

Snow is one of the only things in this world that knows how to make a scene while whispering. And I love it for that. There’s something nearly spiritual about it. Its peaceful, bright, and cleansing, but without any toxic positivity. Just truth in white form.

And honestly? Today needed that softness.

Limbo has its own metabolism. Its own gravity. Its own hunger.

Waiting this long with this much at stake feels like holding your breath while also doing cardio. My body is tired, my brain is buzzing, and my spirit keeps checking the clock even though time is clearly drunk and unreliable.

But the snow slowed everything.

Like the world finally matched my pace instead of dragging me by the ankles.

I made coffee and found myself standing by the window longer than planned. Watching flakes collect on the railing, the sidewalk, and Roger’s tiny, offended nose when I opened the door for him. There was something grounding about it, like the universe pressed a cool hand to my forehead and said,

“Breathe, babe. Just breathe.” And I did. Sort of.

My mind was restless. Not spiraling, just wandering in circles like a polite ghost. Will they call today? What happens next? Am I ready for whatever “next” is? Classic anxious karaoke.

I moved through my apartment like someone half here, half in a place built entirely out of worry.

Starting tasks I didn’t finish. Reorganizing things that weren’t disorganized. Opening the fridge like it owed me answers.

Trauma has its own weather, and today mine felt like fog. Lighter than earlier this week, but still fog.

The snow helped. It always does. Eventually I bundled myself like a stylish human marshmallow and stepped outside. The cold bit my cheeks in a way that felt almost clarifying, like the world slapped me gently and said, “Wake up love.”

The streets were quiet. Cars moved slowly. Even the dog walkers were softened by the stillness. People wrapped in scarves and breath and temporary gentleness.

That’s what snow does. It covers the world without erasing it. It makes everything look new without pretending the ground underneath hasn’t been through storms of its own. Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved it…

It tells the truth kindly.

Somewhere in that quiet walk. While the snow catching in my hair, melting on my lashes like tiny cold confessions something clicked. A realization, small but sharp.

I am in the middle of something hard, yes. But I am also in motion.

Even on a day where nothing happened. Even on a day where my biggest accomplishment was not crying in the produce aisle (again) because I didn’t leave the house. Waiting isn’t stillness. It’s its own kind of movement.

Tonight I lit a candle again. The warm glow flickering against the icy white outside my window.

A contrast that feels like me. A soft fire inside, quiet winter outside. A way of saying I’m here. I’m present.

And I’m trying.

Day 6 didn’t bring answers. It brought snow instead. And maybe that was its own kind of miracle:

A reminder that beauty still finds me, even on days built from fear and uncertainty.

Because somewhere between the wandering thoughts, the window watching, the cold air waking up my skin, and the candle glowing against the dark. I remembered something I keep forgetting:

I’m not frozen. I’m waiting. And waiting is movement too.

The kind that reshapes you quietly, without applause, without witnesses.

Maybe that’s what today was really about.

Not clarity. Not progress. Just presence. Just breath. Just the soft, stubborn choosing to stay in my life even when everything inside me wants to retreat.

Tomorrow will come.
And I’ll meet it. Not perfectly, not bravely, but honestly.

Chaos in one hand.
Grace in the other.
And me learning to trust the quiet between storms.