Seconds after hitting “publish” on my last post, I realized why I’m not dreading winter despite multiple warnings that I should. I’ve got it. And I won’t let it go.

Since my days as a ballet student from age 10 to 18, I’ve believed this: You’re not allowed to truly appreciate something if you haven’t put in the work to enjoy it. It’s similar to the idea of paying your dues. You gotta get through X to genuinely appreciate Y.

Which, each November through March, Chicago most certainly does.

The only time I really like summer is when the sun is going down. For most people, summer is this glorious thing to behold. Pool parties with wet footprints adorning the cement, backyard barbecues, and festivals outdoors with the smell of fried chicken and beer. I feel like a vampire when I say I hate the sun, and can I really hate the sun when we’d all be dust without it?

I guess I don’t hate it. But I don’t like the way it instantly turns my left arm red when I’m driving, lasering in without mercy through the driver’s side window. I don’t like the way it beats on my hair and my head, whether I’m wearing a hat or not. I don’t like the way the sun feels on my face. (I think I’m in the minority on that one.) I seek shade wherever I go. This all means summer and I are usually at odds.

I like summer evenings, though. The promise of another day. This one’s over, it’s saluting to us as the sun nestles down into the horizon. It’ll be back, some form of reincarnation, with different things tomorrow. They might even be better.

People ask if I miss San Francisco. In weaker moments, I do. I miss the buzz, the energy, the stepping outside your door and knowing that you really are somewhere indeed. But I spent my days there waiting for something to happen, some cataclysmic change. For anything to catapult me into the next phase of life. I waited for years and felt a centimeter of movement. So I created the shift for myself.

I now see it likely wouldn’t have happened otherwise. Maybe that’s the only way I know I made the right choice. Because this feels cataclysmic. I’m relieved it does.

Beware, beware, beware of winter, these people say. Almost every single person I’ve encountered. I hear it probably once every two days, even in the dead of July. “It’s long and it’s cold.” “You won’t want to be anywhere but home.” “Well, you get used to it. You’ll survive.” It’s like a badge of honor. It’s something you earn to be able to ask: Have you been through a winter here?

That question is the equivalent of the kid I saw tonight riding his bike alone. He was probably 7 or 8. He kept looking back to make sure I was watching as he attempted humble aerial tricks. He must’ve felt he’d gained the right to show off after years of being tethered to his parents on family bike rides, his sister still with training wheels. Finally, he could say: I belong here, and I’m going to show you that I do.

The series of ominous threats regarding winter has me slightly cautious, to be sure. But it also has me curious. For a girl who lives for the comforts of home, for warm lights indoors, for fireplaces and chunky wool throws, for keeping to herself and not really minding the outside world, for tempered solitude, for getting from here to there and then staying put, for bundling up and looking for the sun and then being fine without it, I’ll preliminarily say: I think I’ll be OK.

I’ve owned the same four pairs of gym shorts for about five years. If that sounds gross, it’s because it is. I wash them frequently and they’re in fine condition. But I’ve known for awhile that I could stand to buy more.

It’s not that I’m cheap necessarily. I just don’t like much of what’s out there. I’ve roamed the aisles of Sports Authority, I’ve combed the internet late at night. Everything looked too long, too short, too tight, not tight enough. Classic Goldilocks. Somewhere along the way, I gave up.

Enter the heroic Target, always ready to save a girl who probably smells. A couple of weeks ago I stumbled upon a perfect pair that can double as my weekend uniform during a hot Chicago summer. A few of the six color options were a little too ’80s, but the other three are mine at $15 a pop. I’ve been living in them ever since.

At the gym, I often find myself mindlessly checking my phone as I’m resting between sets. I’ll check Twitter, which I don’t actually care about but it can be a nice distraction. I’ll check texts. I’ll check email. I’ll check Twitter again for any updates since 12 seconds ago. And so on and so on until I’ve wasted anywhere from two to five minutes, completely thrown them in the trash.

This morning at the gym, I caught myself doing it again and I thought, “What did you come here to do?” The answer, of course, had nothing to do with my phone. I decided I’m going to apply that question/philosophical filter to more areas of my life.

When I’m driving, for instance. Did I get in the car to (again) check my phone, even if I’m at a stoplight? Did I get in my car to text? No. I got in my car to drive. So drive. And only drive.

Did I go to work to wait until 5:30 p.m. when I can leave? Some days, that one’s up for debate, but primarily: No. I came to work and to do a good job.

The list goes on. It’s another way to phrase the idea of living mindfully. Do what you came to do.

A coworker mentioned in passing the other day that her kids were in vacation Bible school this month. At first, I cringed. Then I remembered the fond memories I have of vacation Bible school, or VBS as we called it.

Going to VBS for a couple of weeks during the summer is one of my very first memories. I must’ve been 4 or 5. Still very quiet and not yet so appraising of people and experiences that came and went.

VBS was held in the basement of the church my grandparents belonged to. They were active members, my grandpa in charge of the sound system for each Sunday sermon, my grandma in charge of the baking for each post-sermon social assembly (usually a thinly veiled gossip session).

The basement was nothing special. Beige-brown berber carpet. Walls in a poorly chosen paint color (dark tan). Some folding chairs set up for the VBS kids.

It was the teachers who I remember. There were three, two women and a man. I wonder how old they were at the time. They were likely close to my age now, 33. It’s weird to think they’re out there somewhere, maybe, well into their 60s.

They were kind, they were warm, they did puppet shows. They told us tales from the Bible with a storyteller’s voice, not a judging condemnation. They made the stories easy to understand and maybe even funny, when they deemed it appropriate. We’d have graham crackers and apple juice while coloring pictures of Jesus and the disciples to take home to show our parents.

It was one of the few positive experiences with religion that I had as a child. And experiences, I had many.

Why do smokers get as many 15-minute breaks a day as they want? I’m going to catalyze the next wave of political correctness in the workplace. Everyone must be allowed as many 15-minute breaks as they want. How dare you discriminate against me, a nonsmoker?! Heh, heh, heh.

I’m Dutch, through and through. My parents are Dutch. Their parents are Dutch. Their parents came to America from the Netherlands via Ellis Island. I’m sure I’m made up of other bits and pieces too, but for the most part: I am Dutch.

This means I am pale. For several years – from about age 17 to 26 – I did not want to be pale. I wanted to be tan. TAN. So I’d lay out in the sun with neither sunscreen nor a second thought about skin cancer. (Nor premature aging, for that matter.)

I’ve since wizened up. Now, for the most part, I stay out of the sun as much as I can. Moving to Chicago/The Land of Real Summer has meant more time spent at the pool. But I’m the crazy woman in a wide-brimmed hat with enormous paparazzi-esque sunglasses and a thick layer of 100+ SPF smeared across my face. I wear a long-sleeved rash guard with UV protection to every pool excursion. I do as much as I can to shield myself. I’m slightly more tan than when I arrived, but I’m still pretty pale (and proud).

Then, late this afternoon at the pool, I saw this guy. He was reclining on a lounge chair. His hands were clasped behind his head, and the sun shone orange and pink and bright on his face. And he let it. Eyes closed, deeply and with purpose. It was like he was meditating under the rays of this god. He looked so peaceful and free. I felt very weirdo in my standard pool garb. And maybe even a little jealous.

It made me think of my friend Rebecca, who after being laid off from her day job in 2008 packed up her shit and moved to Sayulita, Mexico. There, for three years, she lived on unemployment checks, daily surfing at dawn, and too many good memories to even try to count. There, she worshipped the sun. It guided her heart every day, and I’m not sure she even wore sunscreen.

It took a cross-country move to get me to quit my daily Starbucks habit.

I’ve loved Starbucks since I was a senior in high school. Every Friday, I’d stand in line at the Starbucks in Denver’s Tamarac Mall (which has since been remodeled to house a giant Whole Foods) to treat myself and my friend Karen to grande white chocolate mochas. It was a comforting ritual that signaled the end of the week. Since I hated every minute of high school, Fridays were welcome, and Starbucks made them even sweeter.

In college, appropriately, I branched out from corporate coffee. It became a weekly tradition to research and sample various local coffeehouses. I found cute little shops that served strong lattes in oversized mugs on concrete tables. I found dimly lit dens by the Platte River inhabited by grungy college kids who smoked and usually looked mad. I found Peet’s. I found Peet’s! I’d spend hours at each coffeehouse studying, people-watching and taking it all in.

When I entered the workforce full time, my relaxed approach to coffee connoisseurship was sharply relegated to a five-minute stop at Sue’s Coffee on Fifth Street in Gilroy, California each morning. But Sue’s had a mean dark espresso (regrettably served in styrofoam cups).

Since my Gilroy days, I’ve visited Starbucks, Peet’s, or a lovely independent San Francisco establishment or another every day. Every single day. Sunday through Saturday.

“Do you have any idea how much money you’ve wasted?” my dad would ask. It’s a valid question. I don’t order a small black coffee for $1.50 a pop. I order a medium mocha or a medium vanilla latte, depending on that day’s preference. These cost anywhere from $3.50 to $5 each. I’ve done the math. It’s a fucking lot.

“But I’m paying for the warmth and comfort of tradition,” I’d reason in my head. It’s something I thoroughly enjoy, and I deemed it worth the price. I justified the cost with the fact that I never travel or go on vacation. The expense of a good vacation was likely the equivalent or more of my measly $3 a day drink annually.

However, the time has come. I just can’t justify anymore. I moved from San Francisco to Chicago, to a house, and living in a house means a whole new category of bills. Landscaping the yard. Getting the lawn mowed. Having a home security system just to be extra safe. This, that and the other and you know what, it’s time to be an adult who pretends to budget.

The first day of my new, overpriced-coffee-less life, I got a headache around 3 p.m. that I couldn’t shake. (Surprise. A decade of daily caffeine will do that.) So I bought a new blender, threw in some spinach, bananas and almond milk, added a tablespoon of espresso powder, and boom. My new morning habit happens to be a hell of a lot healthier, too.

It was March 2014 in San Francisco. My mom, dad and sister were flying from Denver in a month so my dad and sister could compete in the annual Rock ’N’ Roll Half Marathon. 13.1 miles of touring San Francisco by foot, fast, and with several live bands stationed along the way.

About two weeks before the race, my sister texted. “I’m injured. It’s my ankle. I can’t run the race.”

I asked if she’d want to walk it instead. She felt it was better to rest and recover than to risk aggravating the injury. She then asked if I wanted to take her bib number and run in her place.

I’m not a runner. I’m a worker-outer, but I’m not a runner. I’m in decent shape – not great, not horrible – and I’ve never run a race, at least not as an adult. But something about the challenge appealed to me. Just to be able to say I did it, that I tried. I said OK. I was in!

With only two weeks to go, the notion of embarking on a training regimen seemed silly. So I maintained my usual workouts and hoped it was enough to carry me through.

The night before the race, a Saturday night, I ate a giant bowl of pasta from Aperto in Potrero Hill and limited myself to one glass of wine. I went to bed early. My alarm was set for 4:15 a.m., and getting out of bed was likely the worst part of the entire experience.

At 4:15 a.m, the world is dark. In San Francisco in early April, it’s cold. Adrenaline carried me as I drove to the race site and sat in a long line of cars of fellow racers also trying to park. (Weird to be in a traffic jam at 4:30 a.m.)

The bus to take us to the starting line was near Civic Center Plaza. I joined the throngs of people walking through the Tenderloin and down Market Street. The homeless people looked surprised and mildly entertained. I saw a few revelers worse for the wear after a long night of partying. I felt good. Excited! I was about to run a race.

I shuttled over to the start at Ocean Beach, where I met up with my dad. He was stretching. I gave him a hug. I started stretching. We watched the crowd grow and the sun begin to rise over the Pacific. I had no clue how the next few hours would unfold, and that sensation was breathtaking.

The first five miles were fine. Not easy, but I felt strong, like I could do this. Around mile six, the course meandered up a long, shallow grade that felt like one giant hill. This is so San Francisco, I thought, slightly annoyed at this point.

Annoyed at the hill. Annoyed at the prospect of remaining tethered to a large group of people for the next few hours. Incredibly annoyed at several of the racers who were taking selfies along the course. I hadn’t brought a thing with me other than my car key. I was here to run, to finish. Not to take a fucking selfie.

The culmination of the hill, though, was the sun reigning supreme over the Golden Gate Bridge. This part of the course was situated on a hill above it all. A stunning ball of fire in this giant blue sky, just blue and blue and blue and blue. That moment is how I’d come to remember the race.

Crash back down into reality and there we were, shuffling across the bridge. The race organizers had blocked off only two lanes of traffic, which meant the runners were sandwiched together and forced to accommodate stray elbows and feet. Annoyed.

The next few miles – probably mile 10, by now – were hard. Flat, across Crissy Field, but hard. This was the first time in the race that I surrendered to walking. I grabbed every cup of water I could. I realized that the energy chews I’d stuffed into my cleavage at 4 a.m. that morning had melted, creating a red, sugary, syrupy mess in my running bra. My Achilles’ tendons hurt. My feet hurt. My calves hurt. Everything. I was OK, but I wanted this to be over.

The final stretch was through the Tenderloin, with the finish line in Civic Center Park. The Tenderloin never looked more beautiful. I can’t say the last two miles were easy, but adrenaline made them achievable. The only thing I needed the moment I saw the finish line was to see the finish line. I sprinted the last mile. I felt so proud crossing that line. Proud that I’d done it, that I’d fought through despite the lack of training and just a tiny prayer.

“You did great!” my parents said. “You were awesome!” my sister said. “Are you going to run another one?” they asked.

“That was so awesome, you guys!” I called out, still breathless, still riding the high. “Yes! Totally!” I think that night, I even looked up upcoming races in San Francisco.

I was the sorest I’ve ever been for the next 48 hours. A hot bath helped that night, followed by a few drinks and an early bedtime. I could barely walk the next day, hobbling across the street to get to work. My body ached, my joints were screaming.

By the time I felt ready to get back into the gym, I realized that I’d never do another marathon. Even a half marathon. I realized that I’m perfectly fine doing what I do, working out in the gym every couple days, pushing myself when I want to but taking it easy when I don’t. I realized I don’t want to train. I realized I’ve already got a good thing.

The marathon was a beautiful experience, it was magnificently overwhelming. I was – I am – grateful for it, that I did it without a second thought.

And I never want to do it again.

I really didn’t want to go to the gym last night. It was pouring rain, a beautiful, warm rain that seems to be typical of Midwest summers. But still. I had no umbrella. Also, my car was almost out of gas, which represented another psychological hurdle. I’d forgotten my gym shorts in my pre-packed gym bag and all I had was black capri leggings, which seemed too hot and clingy and suffocating. And I just didn’t feel like working out.

But I did. It wasn’t the best ever, but it was something. It sucked to try, but I still tried. I cut it short by five minutes. And when I walked out of the gym and drove home on an empty tank, I was able to say “I did it.”