A Winters Morning

Winter mornings in Colorado have a way of loosening time, of softening the edges of days until they feel almost weightless, and as our holiday here begins to draw to a close, I find myself wanting to hold these mornings longer, to press them carefully into memory, knowing that this season has given us more than rest, it has given us a glimpse of something lasting.

We are deeply grateful for our time here, for days that felt full without feeling crowded, for cold air that sharpened our senses and snow that asked us to slow down, and for the quiet luxury of being together in a place that holds so much of my own history, and now, so much of theirs.

Clover skied for the first time, small and serious and determined, bundled tight against the cold, his face focused in that particular way children wear when they are doing something new and important, and he ice-skated for the first time too, unsure at first and then brave, laughing when he fell, rising again without hesitation. He made snow angels, arms and legs carving joy into fresh powder, and a snowman with a carrot for a nose. It was like an offering to winter, a memory made tangible, something that will stay with him long after the snow has melted.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Murphy began saying Mama. Softly at first, almost experimentally, and then more and more, the word finding its way into his mouth as if it had always lived there and it filled me with a happiness so bright it bordered on grief, because nothing makes you more aware of how quickly time is moving than watching a child step into something new. He also learned to hold my hand as we walked around town, a small thing, almost unnoticeable to anyone else, but now he reaches for me instinctively, his fingers curling into mine, and that simple weight, that quiet trust, feels like everything.

Our mornings were slow, as winter mornings should be. Hot cocoa warming small hands, strong coffee grounding the adults, pancakes stacked high and shared without hurry. Outside, the snow sparkled as sunlight stretched across the ranch, the sky turning soft and violet, that unmistakable mountain light settling gently over everything it touched.

We wandered.
We played.
We bundled and unbundled and bundled again.

We spent time with family, watching relationships deepen quietly, noticing the way familiarity brings ease, how shared history creates its own language, and I loved witnessing those connections strengthen, knowing how deeply they will matter as my boys grow into themselves.

Being here this year, in this way, felt especially meaningful, not just as a visit, but as a vision. A quiet confirmation of how I want to raise my children, with winters spent on skis and ice, learning resilience and joy in the cold, and summers on horses at the ranch, learning rhythm, responsibility, and respect for the land beneath their feet.

Colorado is special.
It always has been.

It is where I grew up, where my sense of place was formed, where the landscape taught me strength and humility in equal measure, and now my boys are sixth generation here, their roots reaching deep into this soil even as their lives stretch outward into something new. That continuity feels grounding, like an inheritance that cannot be replicated.

I look forward to a life that moves between places, time split between here and Texas, and wherever else this life may carry us. But Colorado will always be a constant, a touchstone we return to for perspective, memory, and belonging.

As these winter mornings come to an end for now, I am leaving with full hands and a full heart, grateful not only for what we did, but for how it felt to be here, present, connected, and quietly certain that this is a life I want to keep building, season by season.