December has a way of slowing the world down, even when life seems to be rushing faster than ever. The days grow shorter, the nights feel longer, and somewhere between glowing shop windows and quiet streets, we begin to hear our own thoughts more clearly. This December, mine led me into a small antique shop on a cold afternoon when my heart was heavier than my scarf and my smile felt borrowed.
I walked in only to escape the wind, not knowing that I was about to find something far more gentle.
On the highest shelf, nearly hidden behind larger and shinier objects, sat a small snow globe. It was neither bright nor grand. It did not call out for attention. Yet something about it whispered instead of shouted, and somehow that drew me closer. Inside it stood a tiny cottage glowing with warm yellow light, surrounded by quiet pine trees draped in snow. A narrow path curved towards its door like a secret waiting to be discovered.
I picked it up without thinking. The glass was cool against my tired palms. When I shook it, the snow did not fall in a hurry. It floated slowly, thoughtfully, as though time itself had softened. In that gentle movement, something inside me loosened. I realised how long it had been since anything had made me pause without demanding something in return.
I do not know how long I stood there watching the snow settle, but when I finally looked up, the antique shop was gone.
I was standing outside the very same cottage.
There was no fear, only a strange and calming familiarity. Snow crunched quietly beneath my feet as I walked towards the door. The air smelled of firewood and something sweet, like comfort remembered rather than recognised. I pushed the door open and stepped into warmth.
A fire murmured in the hearth. Somewhere, something simmered. A woman stood by the flame, turning slowly as though she had been expecting me. Her eyes softened the moment she saw me.
“You’re late,” she said kindly.
My throat tightened. “I don’t know you,” I whispered.
She stepped closer and placed her warm hand on my shoulder. “You used to come here often. Before you forgot how to rest. Before, you believed happiness had to be earned. Before the world told you that slowing down meant falling behind.”
I did not argue. Her words felt too true to deny.
I wanted to stay. To sit by the fire and be still without guilt. To be quiet without explanation. To breathe without looking at a clock.
Then came a faint tapping sound, like glass being touched from far away.
The room shimmered, and the warmth began to fade.
“I don’t want to go back,” I said, not to her, but to the life waiting beyond the door.
She placed something gently into my hands. “Then take this with you.”
It was the snow globe.
Only this time, it was warm.
I closed my fingers around it, and suddenly I was standing in the antique shop again, the little bell above the door ringing as another customer walked in.
The shopkeeper looked at me as though he understood everything without a word being said.
“Some things are not meant to be bought,” he said quietly. “They are meant to be carried.”
I paid for the snow globe without asking the price.
Some things have a value that does not fit inside numbers.
That evening, I placed it beside my bed. Before sleeping, I gave it a gentle shake and watched the snow fall through that tiny world. Slowly, my thoughts followed its rhythm. My breathing softened. My heart stopped racing.
And for the first time in a very long while, I slept without carrying the day into my dreams.
By morning, I knew what that little world had given me.
Not escape.
Permission.
Permission to rest without guilt.
Permission to slow without shame.
Permission to exist without constantly proving my worth.
Life is not meant to be survived in a hurry.
We are not here to exhaust ourselves just to feel valuable. We are here to live quietly when we need to, bravely when we must, and gently whenever we can.
December often reminds us of what the year took from us. But sometimes, it also returns something we forgot we lost.
Ourselves.
This season does not need perfection. It needs presence. It does not ask for more effort, only more honesty. About our tiredness. About our hopes. About our need for stillness.
Some of us do not need resolutions.
We need remembering.
That we are allowed to pause.
That we are allowed to feel.
That we are allowed to choose peace over performance.
The snow globe was never about glass and glitter.
It was about finding a small, quiet world within a noisy one and learning how to return there whenever the outside becomes too loud.
So this December, before the year ends and another begins demanding everything from you, find your snow globe.
It may be a prayer.
A book.
A song.
A long walk.
A moment of silence.
Hold it gently.
Let it settle you.
Because you are not behind.
You are human.
And that, always, is enough.
Author’s Note
This is not just a story about a snow globe – it is a reminder that life does not always need fixing. Sometimes, it simply needs feeling. As another year draws to a close, I hope this piece encourages you to slow down, breathe deeply, and choose kindness towards yourself. You are doing better than you think.
The Momma Clan 
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