I’m always a little bit surprised to find December appear on my doorstep. Without fail, there is a hesitation in the fading hours of November. Winter is a complicated matter. A story continually unraveling, over and over again. The snow falls and I think of that quote by Sarah Kay: “It is December and nobody asked if I was ready.”

I’m never ready. I like to think that I am, but I’m not.

I never get used to the cold. Sometimes I refuse to accept it. I wear my converses despite knowing I must trudge through inches of wet snow. I believe that just because the sun is out, I don’t need to wear a hat (and I am usually wrong). In a way, winter drags me kicking and screaming into spring—which never arrives soon enough.

December is the month that aches. My bones rattle in the chill of regret and ill timing. Maybe it’s that Sagittarius is my moon sign, fuck if I know anything about that. But it’s as good a reason as any.

The holidays accentuate the issue. It doesn’t FEEL like Christmas anymore. I’m not sure if that’s because I’m an adult now and the magic has faded, or if I’m just a tiny bit jaded. The idea of putting up the tree is exhausting.

All I know is that December has arrived and I’m not ready for the longest nights. I’m not ready for how hollow seasons greetings feel tumbling out of my mouth. I’m not ready for the bitter cold whipping in from the north. And how the tenth and eleventh days are still so sacred. A precarious reverence grown from sorrow. I’m not ready for the drag of a week before break. I’m not ready for the silence that rumbles in on the 26th and settles in til the 31st. Nothing gets done then, no matter how much I try.

Mostly I’m just itching to get out of my skin. Start fresh. That’s what January’s for right?

I’m not ready for any of it. But it arrived all the same.