Juliette Robinson (SFS’28) is a second-year student in the School of Foreign Service. She plans to major in international politics and pursue a certificate in international business diplomacy. She conducts research as a Mortara Undergraduate Research Fellow and consults at Georgetown Global Consulting. For fun, she captains the Georgetown Women’s Rugby team and enjoys exploring D.C. (especially the different food options) with friends.
I like to think of myself as someone who can handle the cold. After all, I’ve skied. I’ve stood on windswept mountain peaks, felt snowflakes sting my face and even broken my collarbone on the slopes! So when winter rolled around last year, I figured I knew what I was doing. Then reality hit, and I remembered something important: skiing is not real life. Skiing is curated cold. Having winter every day, especially when you grow up in Hong Kong and Arkansas, is something else entirely. 
People from cold places never warn you about the sneaky ways winter gets you. They’ll casually say things like “it’s not bad,” or “don’t worry, it’s not going to snow,” and for some reason, you believe them. Maybe it’s optimism. Maybe it’s delusion. Maybe it’s the Hong Konger in me, where “cold” means 12°C (53°F) and everyone immediately reaches for their puffer like they’re trekking across Antarctica.
Arkansas didn’t prepare me either. Sure, we had winter. But winter in Little Rock is moody, inconsistent and often melts by noon. And crucially, you drive everywhere. Winter is something you mostly experience from the cocoon of a car heater. The cold becomes an inconvenience you bypass by sprinting the three seconds from your front door to your vehicle. It’s the kind of cold that lets you pretend you’re resilient because you scraped ice off your windshield once in January. You think you’ve earned winter credibility. You have not.
Which brings me to last year — my first real, extended encounter with genuine, unfiltered cold. And to make it all worse, I entered the season actively misinformed. My dad, who lived in DC four decades ago, reassured me, “It gets chilly, but it doesn’t really snow.” The confidence in his voice! The ease with which he said it! I trusted him. I packed accordingly. I was expecting crisp air and maybe a poetic chill. Instead, I was greeted with… snow. Actual snow. Cascading from the sky like some cosmic joke aimed directly at me.
To be fair, it was beautiful. There’s something magical about watching a place turn white, even when your eyelashes are freezing together in the process. But once the awe wore off, a more practical concern took over: I had no idea how to function in these temperatures. Skiing had not trained me for this. On the slopes, you’re essentially wrapped in waterproof armor. In everyday life, you have to wear everyday clothes. You have to walk to class. You have to maintain dexterity, visibility and emotional stability. These are not small things.
So I started learning.
I learned that gloves are not optional. That hats and scarves are not accessories. That you should splurge on waterproof shoes and thick socks. That the difference between a tolerable day and complete misery is often one thermal layer.
I learned the betrayal of wind. From Hong Kong’s sea breezes, I thought I understood wind. I did not. Real winter wind is a sentient force with an agenda.
I learned that once it snows, it snows again. And again. And then it refreezes. Then people tell you to be careful of “black ice,” which is both invisible and deadly: two qualities no one wants in a surface you’re expected to walk on at 8 a.m.
These days, I move with the cautious optimism of someone slowly acquiring winter instincts. I check the weather the night before. I layer without shame. I keep extra gloves in my backpack because the day you forget them is the day the temperature decides to plummet out of spite.
I’ve also learned to appreciate the small joys of winter. The quiet crunch of fresh snow under your shoes. The excuse to drink hot chocolate at any hour with zero guilt. The excuse to buy warm food at holiday markets to escape the cold. Even the camaraderie of collectively complaining about the wind chill has its charm. Winter, in its own dramatic way, brings people together.
Coming from Hong Kong and Arkansas means winter will always feel foreign to me. Maybe that unfamiliarity is what keeps the season exciting, humbling and occasionally hilarious. And even though I was fully betrayed by promises that “it won’t snow,” I like to think the shock built character. Or at the very least, justified buying nicer coats!
After one year of real winter, I can’t claim to be an expert. But I can say this: winter didn’t defeat me.
