At thirty-something, I moved from Florida to rural New Hampshire. The relocation was meant to be a happy, thrilling period: I was in love and had headed north to create a future with my husband. Yet it was also taxing. Losing my friends and community affected me more deeply than I’d anticipated.

Adding to these upheavals was the disappearance of warmth and daylight. I was completely unprepared for a New Hampshire winter. Toward the end of that first fall, after apple picking and watching foliage turn deep red, I became swamped by winter realities I had never contemplated.

The ice caught me off guard. On mornings before work, my Volvo would be completely coated, its door frozen solid. Things left inside for just a few hours would change dramatically—like the shampoo in my gym bag turning into a frozen brick.

Other times, snow would block the front door entirely. I hadn’t realized how layers of snow could render roads impassable. I’d never encountered the foreboding phrase “black ice” until I told colleagues how my fiancé and I had spun around like a top on Route 120 during our drive home.

I didn’t anticipate how many extra minutes every task would require—from defrosting and scraping my car to layering up before leaving the house. I also discovered my clothing was insufficient. The frigid air made my fingers and toes throb and my lungs sting. As the winter solstice neared, daylight vanished well before 5 p.m. The short days, coupled with the darkness and my gloomy moods, were probably the toughest part. I’d get weepy over minor frustrations, such as finding my packed salad frozen solid.

A deeper hopelessness also set in. Despite being content in my relationship, I sometimes deeply regretted leaving Florida. Issues that were solvable, like my unhappiness at my desk job, felt overwhelming. Old wounds from my past resurfaced—childhood bullying, family alcoholism—haunting my thoughts like unwanted visitors from October through April.

This pattern of emotional gloom would lift with spring’s arrival and longer days. I identified the cycle and sought help for seasonal affective disorder. I tried light therapy and cognitive behavioral therapy, yet year after year, my mood still shifted with the changing clocks.

Now, seventeen years later, as snow swirls outside my window and collects on the pine trees, I contemplate why winter no longer feels so difficult. The transformation happened so slowly I barely noticed it.

My life situation definitely changed during those years. Over time, I parted from the person I’d moved north to join. I built more satisfying friendships and relationships than that partnership had offered, and I discovered a calling rather than just employment. My spirit became warmer.

I developed strategies. I wrapped string lights around my curtain rods well before the holiday season and kept them up until St. Patrick’s Day. I took noon walks to make the most of the sunshine and to feel my feet on the frozen earth. I reframed snow shoveling as a cardio-strength workout. I mastered the art of layering and discovered micro spikes.

Above all, however, I learned to embrace winter rather than fight against it. This acceptance enabled me to transform. Today, I welcome the constraints that force me to decelerate from the hectic pace of summer. I value the chance to rest.

I absorb whatever light is available and revel in the warmth—and indeed the beauty—that I discover. A snowstorm can bring tranquility; it blankets the world in a clean slate. A Vermont sunrise of blue and soft pink, I’ve witnessed, can match a Florida sunset.

Following my divorce, I might have gone back to Florida, but I’ve grown used to living through all four seasons. Winter reminds me that absence makes the heart grow fonder. And winter offers its own gift: it instills resilience.

Today, I know I can handle discomfort and endure this severe season. I can have faith that longer, brighter days will surely come back. I can manage transformation.

I can even transform myself.