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In January, winter has a way of sorting things out — including what really matters and what only looks like it does.
I remember trying to wear my unlined Levi jacket to school in Grand Junction, Colorado, because it looked cool. And at that age, looking cool felt important, maybe even essential. The jacket fit just right. The denim was stiff enough to hold its shape. Somewhere in my mind, it said independence, toughness, confidence. It said I knew who I was, or at least who I wanted people to think I was.
January, however, had other plans.
The walk to school cured me of most illusions. The cold came down off the mesas clean and sharp, cutting through denim like it wasn’t even there. Snow crunched under my boots, and the air felt so dry it almost burned when you breathed it in. My hands disappeared into my sleeves. My shoulders crept up toward my ears. I pretended not to notice, because pretending was part of the deal.
By the time I reached the school doors, my fingers were numb and my bravado had gone quiet. I learned — again — that looking cool and being warm are two very different things. Style has its limits, and winter is very good at pointing them out.
Still, there was something good about that cold. January mornings in Grand Junction were bright and bracing. The sky was impossibly blue. The sun showed up early and meant business, bouncing off the snow and reminding you that winter could be harsh without being hopeless. Even on the coldest days, there was light. And light, it turns out, goes a long way.
Winter there didn’t linger. It arrived, made its point, and moved on. You shoveled. You layered up the next day. You learned quickly.
Years later, January in Centralia taught me a different lesson entirely.
An unlined Levi jacket here wouldn’t betray you all at once. You might even make it out the door feeling fine. But the damp has patience. It settles in slowly, quietly. By mid-morning, the chill has crept into your bones and decided to stay awhile. No dramatic moment. No crunch of snow. Just the steady realization that warmth requires planning — and maybe a little humility.
Centralia’s January doesn’t demand toughness. It encourages thoughtfulness. You learn to layer, to keep gloves handy, to respect the weather without challenging it. The rain deepens the green. Evergreens stand steady. Moss softens edges everywhere. The world feels quieter, almost introspective, as if winter here is less about survival and more about listening.
Both winters have their gifts.
Grand Junction January teaches clarity. The lesson is immediate and unforgettable: preparation matters. Appearances won’t keep you warm, but common sense will. The cold is honest, the sun reliable, and the reward is knowing where you stand.
Centralia January teaches endurance. Not everything needs to be dramatic to be meaningful. Some challenges are subtle, ongoing, and solved by patience rather than force. Comfort becomes something you create, not something you assume.
That Levi jacket eventually stayed home on the coldest days in Colorado. Not because it stopped looking good, but because January had done its work. It taught me that wisdom often arrives disguised as practicality — and that growing up usually means choosing warmth over image.
January is like that.
It doesn’t care how cool you think you look. It cares whether you’re ready. And whether under Colorado sunshine or Washington rain, it quietly teaches you something useful — if you’re willing to pay attention.
Those lessons, it turns out, last a lot longer than any jacket ever did.
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Richard Stride is the current CEO of Cascade Community Healthcare.
