Every day it’s become clearer to me that there’s no ignoring how brutally cruel this winter has been across the country. It’s battered and bruised us with unprecedented snow and subzero temperatures across the Midwest, the South and the Northeast.
It’s only natural that when we are forced to stay indoors, we sink a bit deeper into our couches. Don’t worry – you’re not the only one with the perpetual imprint on their used Ikea couch. My brother’s Criterion Channel subscription hasn’t had a moment’s rest since the beginning of winter – I’ve watched nearly the entirety of the streamer’s Nicole Kidman collection. Despite Kidman’s soaring performance, I hated “Eyes Wide Shut” – mostly because of Tom Cruise – no offense, Stanley Kubrick.
This season brings a distinct feeling that pulls me away from the wild, relentless energy of New York City. My alarm blares its generic Apple chime, and I keep hitting snooze—only to wake up groggy, drained, and unmotivated to make the most of the dwindling daylight. Some call it seasonal affective disorder. I call it winter in New York City.
Even my daily step count has significantly decreased as I fear voyaging into the crisp, windy air that feels exactly like the “Spongebob” episode where Squidward and Spongebob have to deliver a last-minute pizza order in a chaotic sandstorm. My default seems to be crawling into myself and hibernating with warm, soft-baked Pillsbury chocolate chip cookies with a glass of oat milk. My roommate says this is one of my most childlike qualities and of course, I object.
While I enjoy my time alone, a lingering sense of emptiness remains—a craving for connection rather than sinking into comfort and complacency. This winter feels like the coldest of my adult life, but I refuse to let it slip away in a haze of seasonal depression and excessive screentime.
Breaking out of my seasonal rut feels even harder when my social media feeds are flooded with fresh executive orders from our new president—many of them harming the most vulnerable. The outrage that follows is just as exhausting.
Rather than dwell in that misery, I remind myself that the solution is in my hands. I didn’t set New Year’s resolutions, but I’ve committed to being more spontaneous, easing the anxiety that thrives on rigid planning. Your 20s are unpredictable, so I’m learning to embrace the chaos.
As a lifelong East Coaster battling seasonal depression each winter, I craved ways to find joy and spontaneity in the cold, all while building community—even when exploring solo. And if I managed to yank myself out of hibernation and force myself to find what I was missing, anyone could.
Several months ago, I impulsively bought a ticket to one of my favorite indie artists, Dhruv. It was only $35 — which is almost unheard of with Ticketmaster price gouging. When the day finally swung around, I began to question if it was the right move to go alone and if I was really ready to brave the cold. But I pushed through the doubt and made my way on the train to my first-ever solo concert in the East Village at Irving Plaza.
Dhruv took about an hour to appear on stage, but when the 25-year-old queer British artist finally did, the crowd was ready for the stormy journey of his album, "Private Blizzard." Surrounded by thousands of young, diverse fans, we united in singing hits like “Double Take” and “Moonlight.” I had a few brief exchanges with concertgoers about our favorite songs, but I appreciated the quiet solitude in the shared experience—alone, yet part of something larger.
After the Dhruv concert, I headed to a TimeLeft dinner in the Lower East Side after seeing an Instagram ad promising I’d “meet five new people over dinner.” Skeptical at first—like I always am about these New York City trends—I took a personality test that matched me with others who shared similar interests. To my surprise, it was a great experience.
Sitting at an Italian restaurant, I struck up a conversation with two solo travelers: a woman from Colombia and a man from South Korea who’d just gone through a breakup. The others were newcomers to the city or locals eager to expand their circle. We quickly bonded over movies, shows and music, checking if we all passed each other’s vibe check.
It turns out we all passed the vibe check, so we moved on to a cocktail bar nearby. On the way, we debated the differences between South Korean and American politics, though we mostly laughed at the absurdity of yet another Trump presidency. By the time we reached the bar, I felt surprisingly comfortable with these strangers—something I rarely feel after just a few hours of meeting new people.
Maybe it’s because I was being accepted for the rawest version of myself: loud, artistic, sometimes judgmental, but always warm and open to new people and experiences. Who knew that dining with strangers could be so rewarding?
Next, I’m off on a solo trip to Mexico City, meeting my older brother and some of his friends. I feel both liberated and terrified. During the day, I’ll roam neighborhoods like Condesa, Roma, and Centro—who knows, maybe I’ll earn the title of "Nardos in Mexico City." But one thing’s for sure: I’ll be soaking up the warmth of the Mexican sun, trading the frigid NYC winter for the desert heat.
