My mother always slept with the window open, even in the coldest winters. I used to joke that she must have been part polar bear. She would simply smile and say, “Fresh air keeps the soul alive.”
After she passed away, the house felt empty. While going through her belongings, I found her old journals and began reading them, hoping to feel close to her again.
In one entry, she wrote about a time when she felt trapped and overwhelmed by life. Opening the window in the cold wasn’t just a habit—it was her way of reminding herself that life was still bigger than her pain, a small act of hope and resistance.
Reading this, I finally understood her. That night, I opened my own window. The cold air filled the room, and for the first time since losing her, I felt not only grief—but also her strength, and a quiet reminder that there is always air to breathe and hope to hold on to.