I've been watching the sky since yesterday, hoping. The weather app says it might snow, and I've checked it maybe forty times? Is it childish to care this much about snow on Christmas morning? 🌨️

There's something about waking up on that specific day and seeing the world transformed—everything soft and white and quiet. It feels like the world is saying yes to Christmas, like even nature is participating in something sacred. Without snow, it just feels like an ordinary day with decorations. With snow, it feels like magic. 💫

When I was very small, my mother would take me outside on Christmas morning before anyone else was awake, and we'd walk through the fresh snow. Just the two of us. Our footprints were the first ones in the whole street. I felt like we were discovering something no one else had seen yet. I felt safe in that quiet, in that early light filtering through the clouds. 🕯️

Now I'm older and I live alone, and I still do this—I wake up early on Christmas and look out the window, searching. The snow doesn't always come. Some years the ground is bare and gray, and I feel a tiny disappointment that I try not to feel because it seems silly. But it's not really about the snow, is it? 💙

It's about wanting the external world to match something inside me. It's about wanting confirmation that beauty is real, that magic exists, that things can be transformed by something as simple and pure as snow. Maybe I need to learn to find that feeling without needing the weather to cooperate? But doesn't everyone want to believe in magic on Christmas morning? 🌟

This year I'm deciding something: whether it snows or not, I'm going to step outside early and stand in the quiet. I'm going to pretend it's snowing. I'm going to let myself feel small and safe and young again, just for those few minutes. Maybe that's the real magic—not what the sky gives us, but what we choose to receive. ⛄