The Cold That Felt Warm.

Winters during my childhood felt like a different lifetime, almost as if the season itself has changed since then. The cold arrived quietly, without announcements or weather apps warning us days in advance. One morning you simply woke up and knew—winter was here. The air felt sharper, mornings darker, and getting out of bed required a kind of bravery that only children seemed capable of summoning half-asleep. Blankets felt heavier, warmer, more protective, and leaving them felt like betrayal. The floor was ice-cold, and every step reminded you that comfort had to be earned.

Mornings began slowly. Bathing was an act of courage, often negotiated with parents, delayed until the sun rose just a little higher. Warm water felt like luxury. School uniforms were layered—vests under shirts, socks pulled up higher than usual, sweaters that always felt slightly oversized. Those sweaters carried a familiar smell: cupboards, old paper, mothballs, and home. Some were hand-knitted, slightly itchy, but worn proudly because they were made with care. Gloves never matched, caps slipped over ears, and breath turned visible for the first time, making us feel oddly powerful, like tiny dragons.

The sun in winter was different—soft, pale, almost shy. It didn’t scorch or glare; it warmed gently, the kind of warmth that invited you to sit still. Afternoons were spent chasing patches of sunlight across terraces, verandas, or school playgrounds. Elders sat basking in the sun, talking slowly, sipping tea, while we played nearby, pretending we weren’t cold anymore. Time moved differently then. No one was rushing. Winter allowed pauses.

Food tasted better in the cold. Hot breakfasts felt more comforting, steam rising from plates, hands warming around cups. Evenings meant something special—hot milk, soups, roasted snacks, the smell of something warm filling the house. Kitchens felt like the heart of winter, always alive, always warm. Families gathered closer, not just physically but emotionally. Conversations lingered longer. Stories were told again and again, and somehow never got boring.

Nights were my favourite. The sky felt closer, quieter. We slept wrapped in layers, sometimes sharing beds, sometimes sneaking closer to siblings just for warmth. There was a deep sense of safety in those nights—the kind you don’t realise is precious until it’s gone. Outside, the world felt still, almost hushed, while inside everything felt held together.

What I miss most about childhood winters is how uncomplicated they were. The cold didn’t feel like an inconvenience; it felt like a shared experience. There was no urgency to escape it, no constant attempt to control it. We adapted, adjusted, and lived within it. Winter taught us patience—how to wait for warmth, how to appreciate it when it arrived, how to slow down without feeling guilty.

Now, winters come and go quickly. We warm rooms instantly, layer efficiently, complain endlessly. But back then, winter felt like a season you lived through, not just endured. It shaped days, routines, relationships. It made homes warmer, conversations softer, and memories stronger.

Those winters still live somewhere inside me—in the smell of old sweaters, in the comfort of hot drinks, in the quiet joy of sitting in the sun. They remind me of a time when life was slower, warmth came from people more than appliances, and happiness was found in the simplest rituals of the season.

Now, winters feel shorter, faster, almost impatient. Rooms warm at the press of a button. Life doesn’t pause anymore. But a part of me still longs for those childhood winters—for the durries on cold floors, the glow of firewood, the smell of woollen sweaters, and the quiet joy of sitting together with nothing to do. I miss childhood winters deeply, not just for the season itself, but for the life they held—a time when warmth came from people, days moved slowly, and happiness lived in the simplest moments.