Whiteouts and Wake-Up Calls: My Winter of Reckoning

“You can’t just quit every time things get hard, Emily!” Mom’s voice crackles through my phone, sharper than the wind that slices across my face as I trudge down Sycamore Avenue. My boots crunch through a sludgy mess of sleet and snow, and the cold seeps through my thickest socks. I pull my puffy coat tighter, the zipper digging into my chin. I’m already late for my first day back at the office, and the bus is, of course, nowhere in sight.

“I didn’t quit because it was hard, Mom,” I snap back, huffing as I pick up my pace. “I quit because I wanted to—”

“—’follow your heart.’ Yeah, honey, I know,” she interrupts, her sigh trailing off. “I just hope your heart can help you pay rent this month.”

I hang up before I say something I’ll regret. The sky is a bruised gray, the sun smothered by clouds. I can barely see through the whirling flurries. My gloves are soaked, fingers numb. I think about last summer, how bright and endless everything felt with Chris—my Chris, with his easy laugh and wild plans. I remember the night on Lake Michigan’s shore, his hands tracing promises along my spine, the city lights flickering like new beginnings. We’d been so sure we could build a life out of dreams and guts.

Now, reality is a frozen puddle I keep slipping on. Chris is working double shifts at the auto shop, his texts shorter, his hugs distracted. The savings we scraped together are almost gone. My old job at the marketing firm only took me back because they needed someone to handle the Christmas rush. I told them I was “refreshed,” but really, I’m scared. Scared to be back. Scared to admit I failed.

As I finally board the bus, I catch my reflection in the fogged glass: cheeks blotchy, mascara smudged. I look tired. I look old—at 27, that feels like an accusation. My seatmate is a woman in scrubs, head bowed over her phone. I wonder if she’s as tired as I am.

At the office, the fluorescent lights flicker. The fake cheer of tinsel and plastic snowflakes does nothing to warm the air. I pass Kelly at reception—she raises her eyebrows, smirks. “Back so soon, Em? Thought you were off to Paris or something.”

I force a smile. “Guess Paris will have to wait.”

My desk is exactly as I left it, except for the pile of files marked URGENT and a sticky note: “Emily, please meet me in my office. —Dale.” Dale is my boss—middle-aged, perpetually annoyed, and always smelling faintly of peppermint schnapps.

“Emily, sit,” he says, not looking up from his screen. “Glad you could join us in the trenches again.”

I try to keep my voice steady. “Thank you for giving me another chance.”

He shrugs. “Don’t make me regret it. We need you sharp. Personal stuff stays at the door. Understood?”

I nod, throat tight. I want to explain, to tell him that sometimes you have to try for something wild because the alternative is stagnation. But I just say, “Understood.”

The day crawls. I field calls from frantic clients, draft emails with frozen fingers, and try not to let my mind drift to Chris, to Mom, to the avalanche of bills waiting at home. At lunch, I sit in the breakroom, stabbing at a wilted salad. Kelly breezes in, phone pressed to her ear. “Yeah, Mom, Emily’s back. The prodigal daughter returns!” She laughs. I stare at my plastic fork, cheeks burning.

After work, the storm is worse. I miss the bus and walk the mile home, snow pelting my face. Our apartment is dark—the landlord keeps the heat low to save on bills. Chris is slumped at the kitchen table, grease-stained and exhausted.

“Hey,” I say softly, dropping my bag. “How was your day?”

He shrugs. “Same. Car after car. Tommy called in sick, so I had to close.”

I want to tell him everything—about Mom, about Dale, about how scared I am—but I just sit beside him, our knees touching. He reaches for my hand. His is warm, callused.

“We’ll get through this,” he says, voice rough. “We just have to tough it out.”

But I see the doubt in his eyes. I hear it in the way he sighs, in the silence that settles between us. I wonder if love is enough when the world keeps throwing storms your way.

Later, as I lie awake listening to the radiator clank, I think about all the people like us—balancing dreams and duty, hope and disappointment, in small apartments and snowbound towns all over the country. I wonder if anyone really figures it out, or if adulthood is just stringing together moments of bravery between breakdowns.

I close my eyes, imagining a summer day, the lake breeze, laughter echoing. For now, I have to keep moving, keep hoping. Maybe tomorrow will be easier. Maybe I’ll find the courage to try again.

But tell me—have you ever felt like the world was testing you, just waiting to see if you’ll break? And if you did, what kept you going?