When I was a kid, my mom had a weird habit of sleeping with the window wide open in the winter. I even teased her about it, wrapping myself in blankets and joking that she must have been part polar bear. She would just smile softly and say, “Fresh air keeps the soul alive.” I never really understood what she meant.

She passed away recently, and my heart felt like it had been split in two. As I was cleaning out her room, memories clung to every corner. I found her old journals neatly stacked in the nightstand drawer.

Curiosity took over, and I began reading. In one entry, written years before I was born, she shared how, during a particularly difficult time in her life, she felt trapped and suffocated by her struggles. Opening the window, even in the biting cold, became her way of reminding herself that the world was bigger than her pain that there was always hope, always a way to breathe again.

Tears blurred my vision as I realized she had been doing it not just for herself, but for me too. Every cold breeze that drifted through that open window carried her silent strength, a message that no matter how hard life got, there was always fresh air to breathe and a new day waiting. That night, I opened my own bedroom window wide.

As the icy air filled the room, I felt her presence, her quiet courage surrounding me. And for the first time since she passed, I didn’t feel so alone.