Every Time, I Underestimate The Dark

I've survived twenty-four New England winters, but the next one still scares me.

Fall is such a seductress, with her pumpkin spice and fleece, her golden leaves and crispy air. Every time she comes, she’s all you’ve ever wanted: that cool, delicious breeze after a long, hot day in the sun—after months of long, hot days in the sun. She’s legwarmers and beanie hats and sweaters, but no need for a bulky jacket. She’s the crackle crunch of leaves under your boots and the smell of apple everything. She’s so glorious you forget what’s coming.

Last night, I shivered while washing dishes with steaming hot water. This was after I’d walked a mile on our little desk treadmill and went up and down the stairs several times—carrying piles of clean laundry up, bringing dirty dishes down—and still, I was freezing.

Our house is old, built in 1905, and the windows need to be replaced. It’s up on a hill and near the water, so when the wind whips like last night, the whole house rattles and whistles. You can feel tiny streams of freezing air seeping in when you walk by certain windows, and the radiators either emit the heat of ten suns or nothing at all, depending on whether the downstairs bathroom door is open or closed. We all use that bathroom constantly, and it’s hard to remember to keep the door open (if the house is cold) or shut it (if the house is melting) when you’re done in there, so the house, like me, is perimenopausal.

I realized I’d been cold all day. Alma and I left the house in a scramble in the morning, per usual, trying to get her to school on time, and neither of us had the right coats on—just yesterday, it was fall!—and the cold seeped into my bones and never left. So, at 9:20 at night, I turned the faucet all the way to “H” and filled the tub. As I lowered my body into the scalding water, I thought I underestimate it, every single time.

The cold.

The dark.

The winter.

I moved to Boston from Colorado in 1999, and people have always said, “Oh, so you must be used to the weather.” But no. Colorado is nothing at all like this, I tell them. The sun is always out in Colorado, and so bright. The snow burns off as quickly as it comes. Spring comes in February, not June.

There’s an amnesia that hits every summer in New England, and it washes away the brutality of what you just went through and replaces it with a sort of romantic pride, as if you’d just run your first 10K instead of been punched in the face for five straight months. The same part of the brain must process childbirth and writing books.

I’m being dramatic. Sort of.

There’s a hardiness you must have to live through the New England winter, and I don’t know if I have it anymore. By “live,” I mean to get through it without falling into depression, to maintain interest in things like one’s work and friends and children, to feel connected to and part of the world.

Lying in the bath, I realized it wasn’t just the cold that got under my skin; my thoughts were already turning dark, which doesn’t typically happen until January. I’ve been picking at my body, talking to myself like an asshole; I’ve been nursing old resentments, looking for fights that aren’t there; I want to crawl into bed at 5 pm and be left alone; most noticeably, I’ve felt insecure about my work, like a fraud and a failure.

I’ll start taking my stupid Vitamin D. Continue to move my body, but lower my expectations of it for this season, or try to. Resist my instinct to disconnect. Maybe open Katherine May’s Wintering again, though I can’t seem to submit the way she suggests. I've survived twenty-four New England winters, but the next one still scares me. If you’re scared too, I feel you.

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End-of-the-year plan for Love Story

I’ve decided to slow things down over the next few weeks as we close out the year, so I’ll send one more newsletter next Wednesday with a special 2023 Dig List—a roundup of my favorite books, podcasts, Substacks, shows, and moments of the year. After that, I’ll be offline until January 10.

I only started writing this newsletter last October, and I never expected it to become such a big part of my work and to enjoy it so much. I think about it all the time: topics to write about, ways to make it more valuable to you, improving the design (which you’ll see in next year's first newsletter!). I’ve started using Notes, which is way more fun than I expected (I was so bummed when it was announced because I’m old and crabby) and has led to discovering great writers like

Esmé Weijun Wang

, and

Jess Pan

, among others.

The support of paid subscribers has made this work viable for me, and I am so grateful. Thank you. I’m genuinely looking forward to being here in 2024.

As a thank you, from now through this Friday, December 15, I’m offering 30% off an annual subscription for one year. This means you’ll pay $35 ($2.91/month).

You could also give a gift subscription.

Paid subscribers get access to all my essays, the Behind The Scenes of Book Writing Series, the ability to comment on posts and quarterly Zoom hangouts.

In whatever capacity you’re here, thank you. I appreciate you.

Love,
Laura

P.S. Push Off From Here is only $1.59 on Kindle today, a one-day flash deal.

You are reading Love Story, a weekly newsletter about relationships, recovery, and writing from Laura McKowen. I’m also on Instagram, and have written two books. I love engaging with you in the comments, which are open to paid subscribers, and you can subscribe here or give a gift subscription here.