New Moon Coaching for Expat Women

Colorado winters are long. The first snow typically falls in October, and the last in May—sometimes even at the beginning of June.

Having grown up on the eastern Ligurian coast, snow was synonymous with day trips and ski holidays—a foreign, ethereal element. Except for 1985, when it snowed on the beach, I spent years whispering to the clouds to recreate that enchantment. In Colorado, snow storms have taken on a different meaning. It is a blanket that hides imperfections and hits the “pause” button on life. I can’t help but reflecting that to me, this snow mirrors now the quiet reset of the expatriate experience: a temporary suspension where the old world is muffled, and the new one hasn’t quite revealed its path.

The Duty of the Shovel

But this suspension is temporary. As soon as the snowplows clear the roads, intrepid runners venture onto icy trails and children drag sleds to the hills. The day after a storm, the sky is often a brilliant cornflower blue, and the “civic duty” begins.

In Colorado, the transition from seeing snow as a magical wonder to a mandatory chore is swift. The stretch of sidewalk in front of your house must be cleared within 48 hours, or the city might issue a fine.

Relocating the Inner Landscape

Near my house, there is a small artificial lake. Often during the winter, its surface frozens, and flocks of Canadian geese—now naturalized Coloradans—rest in the middle of it. Every time, I am reminded of the story where a lake, frozen overnight, is lifted into the air by the flight of hundreds of trapped ducks.

If our imagination makes it possible for a lake to be relocated, there are no limits to the transformations in our inner landscapes. Elements we believed to be fixed can be moved; tunnels can be opened through mountains that seemed impossible to climb; rushing rivers can be diverted to irrigate desert lands.

What elements of your own inner landscape once felt fixed, but are now beginning to shift in your new climate? Share it in the comments.