Crossing the Rubicon of Old Age…
For most of my life, I made fun of old people who moved to Florida.
You know the routine. Snowbird jokes. Golf carts. Early-bird dinners. I swore that would never be me. I was built for winter. I liked winter. Snowstorms, driving in the snow, running in the cold, fireplaces, the whole Nordic-adjacent aesthetic. Summer in Chicago? Too hot. Too humid. Give me February any day.
Well.
I get it now.
I’m not packing a U-Haul or shopping for a condo with a palm-tree logo on the sign, but something has shifted. Maybe this is what people mean when they say you “cross a Rubicon.” You don’t announce it. You don’t even notice it at first. You wake up one day and realize you understand the thing you used to mock.
It’s not mainly the cold, though; let’s be honest, some of it is. I used to be cold in a usual way. Jacket cold. Hat cold. Now it’s a deeper, bone-level cold. The kind that doesn’t care how technical your layers are. That’s maybe 10% of it.
The other 90%? The sun. Or rather, the complete and utter absence of it.
I honestly can’t remember the last sunny day over this winter break. Every day has been gray. Not dramatic storm-gray. Not picturesque snow-globe gray. Just endless, low-ceiling, light-sucking gray. The kind that flattens time and makes noon feel like dusk.
And it turns out—shockingly—that I need the sun.
Not in a mystical, crystals-on-the-windowsill way. In a very dull, very real way: mental health, physical health, circadian rhythm, energy, mood. All of it. I don’t need blazing, relentless sunshine. I don’t need to move to San Diego and wear flip-flops year-round. But once a month isn’t cutting it.
That’s the part I didn’t anticipate. I thought winter was about temperature. It’s not. It’s about light.
And once you notice that, you can’t un-notice it.
Places start to sound different. Florida suddenly seems… rational. Not for me, but rational. And then there are places like Utah—sunny, or at least sunnier. Cold, yes, but with blue skies. Snow that reflects light instead of swallowing it. Winter that feels alive instead of dim.
I used to define myself as someone who preferred winter to summer. That may still be true. But I’m realizing I don’t prefer dark to light. I don’t prefer gray to blue. And I definitely don’t prefer wondering whether the sun still exists.
So no, this isn’t a moving announcement. It’s not even a plan. It’s just an acknowledgment that I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know was there.
I finally understand why people chase the sun.
Last spring, I accidentally proved this to myself.
I got into the habit of having my morning coffee and reading the paper out on the back deck. Not scrolling. Not rushing. Just coffee, paper, sun. It wasn’t some grand mindfulness practice – it just felt right. The day started calmer. My head was clearer. I felt awake in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine.
And that’s the thing: you can’t do that in winter here. Or you can, technically, but it’s dark, which completely defeats the point. Sitting outside in the cold, drinking coffee in the pitch black, isn’t restorative – it’s a cry for help.
That’s where I want to be. Somewhere I can start my day sitting in the sun. I want to feel it on my face first thing in the morning. Not through a windshield. Not filtered through clouds. Actual sunlight, early enough that it sets the tone for the day instead of being something I might catch by accident later.
When I picture the life I want – at least the quieter parts of it -it starts there. Coffee. Paper. Sun. And apparently, once that becomes important to you, you’ve crossed another invisible line you didn’t know was waiting for you and you start looking at Boca Del Vista, Phase III.