I once read a novel about a woman who lived in a northern country, a place shaped by snow and ice, and who possessed what the author called a sense of snow. She had a rare gift: she could tread on snow as if it were solid ground, sensing instinctively where the snow-covered ice could support her weight—even if that ice floated precariously on open water. I was captivated by this: her ability to feel not only the surface under her feet but the hidden dangers lying just beneath. It was a kind of finely tuned intuition, an inner compass that allowed her to walk forward with unwavering confidence, no matter how uncertain the terrain.
From the hundreds of books I’ve read and quickly forgotten, she lingers, surfacing unexpectedly when my own footing feels unsteady. It’s strange how she appears, this figure from a half-buried memory, just when the ground beneath me seems to shift. In those moments, when my own stability falters, I find myself drawn to her—this woman with her steady stride over treacherous landscapes, embodying a resilience I’ve long admired yet have found so elusive.
Unlike her, I’m a tentative walker, the kind who tests each step, uneasy on unsteady ground. I instinctively reach for handrails when I’m unsure, scanning slopes with caution, feeling a physical unease over the unevenness beneath me. With age, that hesitation has only grown. I feel blocked, not just by the possibility of literal stumbles but by the weight of questions—about myself, about the world, about the very act of questioning itself. This reflex to check and recheck, to search constantly for solid footing, often leaves me stalled, eyes down instead of fixed ahead.
It’s in those moments I call on her—Smilla*, this woman with her unshakable sense of snow. How I long to borrow just a fragment of her quiet assurance, her calm certainty that lets her glide over life’s frozen surfaces without a flicker of doubt. She knows her way, each step anchored in something invisible yet deeply known. She doesn’t falter, doesn’t look to the side to match her pace with others. It’s as though her compass lies somewhere deep within, guiding her with a clarity I sometimes ache to find.
Maybe that clarity springs from a belief that holds steady, unmoved by the unknown hazards around her. Or perhaps it’s the strength of her convictions, an unwavering sense of self that shields her from the sway of others’ paths. All my life, I have aspired to walk like her—carving a path of my own, one that calls to me from within, reminding me that even on the most uncertain terrain, a steady way forward is possible.
*Smilla's Sense of Snow by Peter Høeg
