When I first moved to Sydney, I used to hide a giggle when natives would talk about the winter here. “Are you ready for it?” they’d ask, and I’d think, “Sixty-degree days? Sweater weather? Boots? SIGN ME UP!”

Now, things are different. It’s fifteen degrees celsius and the word is jumper. Besides that, though, there is the egg on my face that comes with adjusting to these mild temperatures and non-brutal winters: I’m cold, y’all. And excuses about “Sydney houses not being built for cold weather” aside (THEY AREN’T), I think the biggest thing is…I’ve just gotten used to it here.

Which is why I roll up to school pick-up in my down vest, shivering along with everyone else. “WE NEED TO LEARN TO WORK THE FIREPLACE!” I yell across the house to the husband, meaning he needs to learn to work it, as I fight off expectations of Christmas being around the corner.

And though this past summer, with its pool parties and new friendships and growing “old” ones and general revelry was one of my favourites so far…there is something about winter.

I’m writing this from our couch while battling a stomach virus that had me running to the bathroom every few minutes starting at 3 am this morning, so, granted, I’m looking for a silver lining. I don’t have to look far, though.

The rain that this winter brought with it led to no fewer than four rainbows last week. I gazed at them from the window, calling the boys over. They seem to pop up everywhere, colours piercing the grey, and how can you not feel taken care of, noticed, when that kind of magic happens?

There are the winter sunsets that a friend teased for me the other day, saying our view was perfect for catching them, and we have, the sun’s light seeming to burn extra brightly in the cold, marking its descent in the most show-offy way possible, a palette signature to this place.

There was my book party the other night, people rushing in from the “cold” and placing their coats down to gather in one of my favourite restaurants, the circle formed toward the end and the toasts given, the declarations of friendship throughout. (The hangover the next day.)

Today I watch the clouds from behind a window, blanket over my legs and sickness in my gut, but yesterday I stood on the beach before I went to collect the boys. The waves seem to pound harder in winter. But when the sun is out, I could swear they’re bluer, foaming up with their endless repetition, and I thought about it: how anxiety doggedly pursues me, even across the world, how it laps at me constantly, but now? Here? So do the waves.

And I wondered, standing there in the spray of them as the waves kept coming back, forming and reforming and always returning, what life might look like if I just operated out of a deep and abiding sense that everything will be okay, love and grace like the waves, wrapping around me and never leaving?