When I was a child, my mother had a habit that never made sense to me—she insisted on sleeping with the window wide open, even during the coldest winter nights. I would joke about it, wrapping myself tightly in blankets and teasing that she must have been part polar bear. She would only smile and say softly, “Fresh air keeps the soul alive.” Back then, it seemed like nothing more than a strange little habit I would never understand.
After she died, the house felt empty in a way I couldn’t describe, as if something vital had been taken from it. While going through her things, I discovered a stack of journals carefully stored in her nightstand. Hoping to feel closer to her, I began reading them, searching for pieces of her life I had never known.
In one entry written long before I was born, she described a time when she felt overwhelmed and trapped by her circumstances. She wrote about how opening the window—even in freezing weather—became her way of reminding herself that the world was still larger than her pain. It was her quiet form of resistance, a way to breathe, to hold on to hope, and to believe that change was still possible.
As I read her words, tears filled my eyes. I realized her habit wasn’t just a quirk—it was something deeper, a private ritual of survival and strength she had carried for years and unknowingly passed on to me. That night, I opened my own window and let the cold air flood in.
For the first time since losing her, I didn’t feel only grief. I felt her presence in a different way—her resilience, her hope, and the gentle reminder that no matter how heavy life becomes, there is always air to breathe and something to hold onto.
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