January in the Upper Midwest is cold. It is the month we disappear into our homes, venturing out only when necessary. And when we do, the routine is efficient and brief: get in the car, lift the garage door, close the garage door, run the errand, return home, lift the garage door, close the garage door. There is no lingering, no visiting neighbors. There isn’t even a hello if someone happens to be standing outside, something no one really understands, since no one should be standing outside in January.
In Minnesota, winter’s cold often brings clear, bright blue skies. The snow crunches underfoot during days upon days of zero-degree or colder temperatures. And then there’s the wind chill, which makes the cold worse. Oddly, it is something Minnesotans manage to brag about.
We moved to Illinois in October of 2019, where winter tends to be gray, damp, and largely void of snow. The temperatures are milder, but January still feels long. This winter, our seventh here, feels heavier than the rest. We’ve had unusually cold weather, many days below zero, and since returning from Bonaire on November 22, 2025, more snow than we’ve had in all the years we’ve lived here combined. Accumulation totals are somewhere around 30 inches so far this season. Still, I don’t think it’s the weather that has caused the heaviness.
For the first sixty years of my life, I called Minnesota home. A beautiful state known for its lakes, green spaces, summer recreation, and vibrant fall color. A place long recognized for excellence in education and health care. “Minnesota Nice” meant people welcomed friends, family, and visitors warmly and without much hesitation. For a long time, I missed all of that. But it has changed.
Since we moved, Minneapolis has experienced several very distinct and deeply difficult events, each making national and international news. During those times, I became absorbed in following the coverage, both traditional and nontraditional sources, firsthand accounts, and ongoing discussion, often to the detriment of my health. As an unapologetic conservative, I won’t express my viewpoints here. I will say this: my grief over the changes occurring in the state I love has made Minneapolis no longer an option for us as a retirement home.
My mother passed from this earth on January 30, 2018. There are still moments when something happens and I think, I need to call Mom, she would love this. Or one of the grandchildren does something that would have delighted her, and I smile. I don’t know if you ever stop missing your mother. I haven’t. And because of that, January now feels a little longer, a little darker, a little colder.
One of my greatest worldly regrets is that my mother and I struggled in our relationship. Our views often differed. Family matters caused friction. Decisions about her safety and proximity to family were sometimes seen as wrongs and placed solely on me. Those years were hard, filled with difficult conversations that didn’t always land gently. But in the end, we found peace. The hard conversations softened, replacing earlier, harsher ones.
During those difficult years, my opinions mattered more to me than listening to hers. Too much time was spent trying to be right; not enough was spent appreciating her graciousness and kindness or accepting that she was entitled to her own views. I will always be grateful that healing came, and that we found a softer, gentler place before she passed.
That is also why I am quieter now about the noise and unrest surrounding Minnesota this January. Choosing to leave some conversations unsaid, or unjoined, feels wiser at this moment. I can speak to legislators and decision makers while safeguarding my relationships with family and friends. If I am asked, I will respond with respect and a desire to move understanding forward, hopefully without using words that divide.
As January closes, I’m reminded that seasons pass whether we’re ready or not. Light returns slowly, almost unnoticed at first. Grief softens, not because it disappears, but because we are carried through it. I trust that God meets us even in the quiet months, steady and faithful, doing His work long before we see the change.
Until Next Time,
Catherine
