I had known cold before — the kind that comes after heartbreak, after hiding, after silence. But this was different. This cold had a temperature. It wrapped around my fingers, crept into my sleeves, and settled into my bones.
My first winter in Hamburg was like walking into another planet.
The sky was grey for weeks. The trees stood like skeletons. People moved quickly, quietly, with scarves around their faces and eyes that didn’t linger. I watched them from the bus window, wondering if they could see I was new — not just to the city, but to this life.
Back in Myanmar, cold was soft — a cool breeze, a shawl at night. But here, it was sharp. It bit. My fingers cracked, my nose stung, and every breath outside felt like it scraped my throat. I didn’t know how to dress for it. The clothes I brought were made for another kind of life.
But it wasn’t just the weather. The cold was everywhere. In the language I couldn’t understand. In the silence of the flat where I lived alone. In the absence of my children’s laughter — their voices were only on the phone, echoing from another world.
Sometimes I stood by the window at night, watching flakes of snow fall under the streetlight. It was beautiful. But it wasn’t mine. It didn’t feel like home. Home was barefoot mornings, rice cooking, and singing Myanmar songs while was taking shower.
Here, the city hummed differently. Clean. Efficient. Distant.
I remember the first time it snowed. I touched it like it might burn. I took photos to send to my children — to show them Mama was okay. I smiled for the camera. But after the photo, I cried. Not because I was weak, but because even beauty felt like a stranger.
And yet… I kept walking. Wrapped in a coat that didn’t quite fit, with boots which not warmed enough, I walked. Through frozen parks, past Christmas lights, into classrooms where I didn’t understand anything, and out again into the quiet.
That winter didn’t break me. It simply reminded me that growth doesn’t always feel warm. Sometimes, it begins in the cold
.