As a Chicago native and temporary Bostonian, I am well acquainted with cold, windy winters where my hands turn white, my cheeks turn red, and my nighttime tea becomes ritual. I often remark that you never get fully used to the cold, but you learn to accept it. Still, I love living in cold weather climates. Not because I love the cold (my friends will tell you I hate it), but because I love the defrost that comes afterward.
Easter Sunday was one of those random 50-degree Boston days when the sun was out, but the air was still brisk—the kind of weather warranting a switch from puffer jackets to shorts and a sweatshirt. Unlike the numbing winter cold, the slight chill on my bare legs woke me up. This kind of unexpected spring day always yanks me from the monotony of gray winter days and never-ending homework assignments. As the city thaws, people remember what it’s like to be outside, active, and happy.
Maybe that’s why Harvard students are so eager to capitalize on uncharacteristic warmth. On these days, students fill courtyards with di games, spike ball, volleyball, and outdoor work sessions. Acquaintances stop to chat, and friends greet each other from across the grass. The world lights up, and people go outside regardless of their work, knowing the warmth won’t last.
Spring reminds me of the cold that has persisted and of the warmth to come. This weather makes me calmer and more optimistic than any perfect summer day. When sunshine and heat are the norm, even slight breezes chill my whole body, and I curse the “cold.” Meanwhile, I relish the ability to wear only a light jacket on Boston’s few proper spring days.
The forecast changes daily, so each bright day is sacred. I am more grateful for the sun-induced serotonin when it’s not guaranteed. Spring is uncertain. The only given is its cyclicality. Warm days, cold days, and all the hope of summer around the corner.
A few days after Easter, rain pellets and wind gusts pierced me on my walk back to Eliot from the SEC. As I finally arrived in the empty courtyard, I thanked my thick jeans for protecting my legs.
On days like that, my friends and I claim that we wish we went to school in California, Tennessee, or Arizona, with endless warm winters and no seasonal depression. We picture playing pickleball after school, hitting the beach, and getting the perfect tan. Yet, when I really stop and think about it, I’m not sure we mean it.
It’s comforting to think something as simple as the weather could be a blanket bandaid for all of college’s woes. But, warm weather would not rewire my type-A brain or create the idealized college experience that I imagine it would. Most Harvard students prioritize their schoolwork, extracurriculars, or varsity sports schedules over everything else. Even if Boston had California’s weather, assignments would still stress me out, and competing commitments would run me ragged.
I pause my priorities when the perfect spring day hits because I don’t know when the next one will come. I want to bask in the warm weather and seize spontaneity while I can. After college, I won’t be able to pause my work on a sunny weekday to play tennis with friends. Even now, the weather gods and homework gods only align so often. These idyllic days are so comforting because they stray so far from winter’s baseline. As the seasons change, the novelty of spring strikes me anew each year.
Growing up, I knew spring started when I awoke to the sound of birds chirping. I lived in the middle of urban Chicago with a bedroom window overlooking an alleyway, so I’m not certain where the birds came from. But I welcomed their morning greetings nonetheless. Back then, spring meant the school soccer season, outdoor recess, and forgoing bus rides home for long walks through the park.
On spring days at Harvard, the morning songbirds still serenade me on my walk to class. They make me nostalgic for old hobbies and simpler times. I feel fifteen again, wondering whether my coach will start me in the big game or whether my homeroom teacher will force us into a wellness activity. Spring makes me hope, reflect, and relish in the good times as they come because, much like the perfect spring day, the highs are often temporary.
Spring is a microcosm for the volatility of four season climates: winter, summer, and spring all merged into one (sorry, autumn). Last Thursday’s snowfall was one of only a few in this mild winter and was likely our last of the year. I try to appreciate our April snowfall as much as I appreciate the high 50 and 60-degree days. Even when I cannot escape the demands of everyday life to soak up the warmth, I find comfort in knowing more perfect spring days will arrive soon. I am ready for the thaw, but only because I know the freeze too well.
Hannah Davis ’25 (hannahdavis@college.harvard.edu) eagerly awaits the first slightly too-cold but still perfect spring picnic along the Charles.