What’s your favorite month of the year? Why?

I do not like cold weather. There—I said it. Colorado in December makes my car behave like an opinionated ice skate and the roads conspire to turn every errand into an audition for a low-budget survival show. My cheeks go numb, my hair stages a revolt, and I develop an instinctive distrust of parking lots. Practical, wintry grievances aside, December still manages to be my favorite month. Not in spite of the frost, but because of what the frost frames.

There’s something comforting about the way the world slows down in December. It’s as if the year takes a long, tired breath and decides the only reasonable response to everything that happened is to gather everyone you love around a table and pass something warm in their direction. My family shows up for those slow exhale moments—no magic required. (Which is a relief, because last Christmas one of the toddlers levitated the cranberry sauce, and “it floated away” is now part of the family lore.)

I don’t love December for the presents. The wrapping paper is cute and the novelty socks are appreciated, but the real treasure is just being together. It’s seeing my husband—nerdy, slightly frazzled, and the kind of man who can troubleshoot a router while gently redirecting a child’s sparks away from the curtains—sit across from me at the table with something warm in his hands. It’s watching the kids trail little harmless bursts of magic behind them like glittery breadcrumbs. It’s Clark the cat familiar curling himself into a judgmental comma somewhere in the room.

And then there’s the food. December food has a kind of… gravitational pull. Pies are impressive and dramatic, but cookies? Cookies are my undoing. Something about the butter and sugar and spices makes the whole house smell like a hug that someone baked. Cookies have this incredible power to make everyone a little nicer, a little softer, a little more willing to forgive whoever accidentally singed the edges of the table runner. (It wasn’t me. For once.)

The movies are another essential ritual. There’s comfort in knowing the plot will tie itself neatly by the end, the way life almost never does. I adore a good predictable happy ending. My husband watches me cry at the exact same moment every year with the resigned fondness of a character from The Office who knows there’s no fighting fate. Meanwhile, I quote lines with the unnecessary enthusiasm of someone who was raised by television and paperback fantasy novels.

And the music—my glorious once-a-year playlist. I hoard those songs like they’re limited-edition collectibles, then unleash them in December with the gusto of someone marathoning Star Wars on a snow day. They turn the house into something warm and bright, even when my toes are cold and the kids are vibrating with sugar.

Mostly, December gives me permission to notice people again. The small things: a neighbor’s shoveled sidewalk, a plate of slightly misshapen cookies dropped off “just because,” the way a child hands you half a cookie like they’re sharing precious contraband. The roads stay icy, my car remains dramatic, and my hair continues to fight for its independence—but the month shines a little light on the better parts of being human.

So yes—I’ll complain about the cold and mutter at the roads and dramatically sigh at my reflection. And then I’ll find myself in the kitchen with a cookie in one hand and the people I love within arm’s reach and think: worth it.