The Middle Ground
Just when you think winter is finally packing its bags and heading out the door, the universe decides to change the locks.
We were all coasting along, waiting for the calendar to tick over to the first of September, expecting those first warm hints of spring. Instead, the weather page turned and said: Not yet. We woke up to freezing temperatures, relentless rain, hail, and snow falling in parts of the country where snow feels like a myth.
I found myself doing what everyone else does when the temperature drops—scrolling through Facebook for updates. The comment sections were full of people venting, complaining that even in 2026, we still can’t accurately predict the weather. I had to smile. It doesn’t usually snow in these parts, but if people want to use their energy to complain about a sudden winter wonderland, I suppose that’s their choice.
Meanwhile, I was busy trying to find the energy to leave the warmth of the house.
Cold or no cold, my mom’s dogs still needed to be fed. While I was bundling up just to walk to the car, my parents were sitting six hours north in the Kruger National Park, soaking up the warm sunshine. If you drove six hours in the opposite direction, down south, you’d hit a magical mountain covered from bottom to top in thick snow.
And somehow, we are stuck right in the middle. Not close enough to catch the northern heat, and not close enough to enjoy the southern snow. Just perfectly positioned to inherit the freezing temperatures.
It’s easy to get caught up in the local grumbling when your coffee goes cold too fast, but perspective has a way of quietening the noise.
While half of South Africa is complaining about a sudden cold snap, other parts of the world are dealing with realities that run much deeper than a ruined weekend plan. Wildfires are tearing through landscapes. Droughts have left communities with little to no water, facing extreme, punishing heat.
Weather isn’t a customer service department we can call to lodge a complaint. Nature takes its own route. It takes care of itself, operating on a scale that doesn’t care about our weekend plans.
Of course, there are reasons behind the shift—global warming, fossil fuels, the structural footprint we leave behind. But I’m not diving into the heavy science today.
Because the real realization sitting on my chest this morning wasn’t about the atmosphere. It was about control. Or rather, how little of it we actually have.
The weather is just the loudest thing on the list.
If you look past the rain on the window, there’s a whole queue of variables waiting to spike our blood pressure. The shifting petrol prices. The creeping cost of living. The price of food at the supermarket that seems to change every time you look at the shelf. And, as always, the unpredictable state of the electricity grid.
They are heavy, exhausting realities. But they share one common trait: I cannot fix them. I cannot change the price of fuel at the pump, and I cannot force the clouds to clear.
So my goal for the week ahead is a quiet line in the sand: I will not stress over the things I cannot control.
Instead, I’m shrinking my radius. I am focusing entirely on the small, immediate ecosystem within my own four walls. The things I can actually shape with my own hands.
Cooking a warm dinner. Cleaning the corners of the house. Making sure I get enough sleep instead of lying awake staring at the ceiling. Ensuring my family is happy, and taking a moment to check that I am happy, too.
The dogs—both mine and my mom’s—are fed and cared for. The school homework for the week will get done, page by page.
I might even try to find a way to negotiate the volume levels between the television and my son’s endless energy, but I promise myself I won’t lose my peace over it if the house stays loud.
We spend so much of our lives trying to hold up the sky, forgetting that it manages to stay up all by itself.
I will control what I can, where I can, and I will deliberately leave the rest behind. The stress levels can pass on by, like the storm front moving across the highveld. The troubles of the wider world will still be there tomorrow, but for tonight, they don’t get a seat at my table.
Maybe that’s the point.
The kitchen is warm, the family is safe, and the winter coats are out. The rest is just weather.
