Especially when it arrives not with cozy blankets and hot tea, but with minus twenty-five degrees outside, silent electrical outlets, and cold radiators. At such moments, you're left alone in the apartment and suddenly realize you can only rely on yourself. No one will help you!

The first thing that comes is fear. It's quiet, sticky. Not panic, but fear. You catch yourself listening to the silence too intently. There's no familiar hum of the city, no light, no warmth. Just you, the cold, and time, which suddenly begins to move very slowly.

I've learned not to fight this fear, but to embrace it. It signals that you're alive. That it's important for you to preserve yourself.
I put on everything I have. Layers of clothing become my armor. Thermal underwear, a sweater, another sweater, wool socks, and thick socks on top. Wearing a hat in the apartment stops seeming so strange. At some point, you stop thinking about how you look and start thinking only about how you'll survive.

I choose one room. The smallest one. I close the doors, cover the cracks with blankets, throws, anything that will retain heat. I pitch a small tent against the warmest wall. No, this isn't camping in the apartment, this is survival!
The space shrinks, but with it comes a sense of control. A small island I can protect.

I move. Even when I don't feel like it. I squat, rub my arms, walk in circles. My body is my main heater. It works if I don't give up. I mentally thank it for every breath, for every movement.

Hot water becomes a treasure. If there's gas or the ability to heat it on a camp stove, I hold the mug in my hands for a long time, as if it were a living being. Warmth spreads not only to the body, but also to the soul. In moments like these, you realize how little you really need to be happy.

The food is simple. Not about taste, but about energy. Something warm, filling, slow. You eat slowly, as if making a pact with yourself: I'll take care of you, and you hold on.

The hardest part is the night. The darkness intensifies the cold. I wrap myself up as if I'm preparing to hibernate, like a bear. Blankets, jackets, everything. I lie down and begin to talk to myself quietly, internally. I soothe myself. I remind myself that this isn't forever. That morning will come. That I can handle it.

And you know what's most unexpected? In such conditions, a strange, almost tender closeness to yourself suddenly appears. You begin to hear your thoughts, your breathing, your true needs. Without electricity, without heating, without the noise of the world!

You realize that you're stronger than you thought. That warmth can be stored not only in radiators, but also inside. That loneliness isn't always an enemy; sometimes it's the space where you truly meet yourself.

And when the light finally returns for a few hours a day, and the radiators begin to quietly revive, you're no longer the same. You're the girl who survived the winter. Who knows that even at minus twenty-five degrees, she can persevere. Because she has what matters most: herself.