Looking for the Sun

sitting by an open window in the middle of winter

Written February 6th, 2026

I shove open the dusty window just to breathe some fresh air. It’s cold, not as cold as it has been, but it wakes me up, stirs the cobwebs that have been gathering in my sill and in my brain. The sun doesn’t come through this window, but about midnight on clear nights, the moon will shine so bright I wonder if the neighbor has their floodlights on.

It’s been harder to wake up in the mornings, the soft pull of my comforter more enticing than getting up in the dark by myself when I am so used to taking care of my sweet senior dog. But it’s just me now. And I have to get up for her.

I tried plugging in my light therapy lamp the other morning - the one I bought for cheap on the internet. But it broke during the move a year ago, and now it just flashes once. Very bright. Only once. And then darkness.

That’s what it feels sometimes when I’m walking through winter: it all feels mostly dark, then suddenly a very bright light leaves a burnt imprint on the inside of my eyelids.

The long hug a friend gave me as she checked in on how I was doing.

The two foxes I saw chasing each other through the neighborhood at 3am.

The unexpected compliment that had nothing to do with how I looked but who I am.

The soft body of a stuffed dog I hadn’t slept with for years giving me comfort again.

The joy of learning a new skill in a favorite craft that quiets my restless mind.

The fifteen minutes I spent stargazing in the cold with my little brother.

These small flashes of sunshine to my soul have kept the winter feeling less hostile, a friendliness of light that interrupts the darker days, breaks them into softer pieces.

I still search the house for a patch of sunlight, turn my face up at the frosted skylight on the 3rd floor of The Store, or pause at a door just to feel the warmth of the sun on my cold skin. I am still awaiting spring’s return and with it, breath that comes more easily and a mind that doesn’t not feel so heavy. But I am learning that this season is strong enough to carry that heaviness if I’m willing to slow down. My God did not ask me to rush ahead and strive through my winter. He did not ask me to carry all this heaviness alone.

So I crack open the window even without the promise of the sun, because here’s what I know: the stars still shone bright last night even in the thick darkness. And here’s what gives me hope: somewhere out there, another planet is seeing their Sun shine brightly.

xoxo,

K.J. Haakenson