The Final Weeks

Making space for what comes next.

It snuck up on me. One minute, I was convincing myself that six months was plenty of time, that I had ages before I had to start thinking about the future. And now, with only four weeks left, the future is tapping me on the shoulder, clearing its throat, and politely asking what my plan is.

The thing about ski season is that it exists in a sort of alternate reality. Time moves differently here. Days are dictated by snow reports, meal services, and how long an altitude hangover lasts. The outside world feels distant - London, job applications, the prospect of an office chair that doesn’t double as a drying rack for thermals. It all felt like something I’d deal with later.

Well, later is now.

It’s not that I’m not excited. I chose this. I wanted London. I wanted to get serious about my career again, to write, to build something. And yet, as I stare down the last few weeks, I can’t help but feel a twinge of panic. Because for all its exhaustion, for all the impossible guests and questionable living conditions, this season has been freeing. No real responsibilities, no long-term commitments, just mountains and chaos and the best group of friends I never saw coming.

But the snow is melting, the guests are thinning out, and the real world is waiting. So I’ve started applying for jobs, polishing my portfolio, and reminding myself just how much I have missed writing. I’m getting ready to trade ski boots for proper shoes, chalet meals for Pret sandwiches, and powder days for office meetings.

And yet, a part of me knows this season will follow me. The friendships, the lessons, the fact that I feel like I know myself a little better - I’ll carry it with me into whatever comes next.