Winter and I already have a complicated relationship. I accept the cold. I tolerate the gray. I even make peace with the way the sun clocks out at 4:17 p.m. like it’s unionized. What I cannot accept, what I refuse to normalize, is static cling.

I like to sew. I like to embroider. I like working with fabric, thread, and the quiet illusion that I am in control of something. Winter static exists solely to shatter that illusion.

The moment the temperature drops, everything I touch becomes emotionally attached to me. Fabric doesn’t just cling, it commits. The thread leaps from the table like it’s been summoned. Scraps stick to my sleeves, my arms, my soul. I spend half my time shaking my arm like a professional Polaroid photographer working a wedding. Flick. Shake. Pause. Flick again. Repeat until dignity is lost.

And my hair? My hair is no longer hair. My hair is a statement.

On particularly dry days, I resemble Don King on fight night: fully charged, aggressively airborne, and completely unbothered by gravity. For those younger than Gen X, picture Cornel West mid-lecture, hair reaching toward the heavens like it’s trying to make a point of its own. My reflection suggests I have just been struck by lightning and opinions.

It has also deeply confused my husband. Every time we kiss in winter, there’s a spark. Not metaphorical. Not romantic. Just dry Midwestern air and two people who own sweaters.

He insists there are “sparks flying.” I insist it’s static. He remains unconvinced, possibly because he missed most of sixth grade, and what he doesn’t know or understand has been cataloged, bookmarked, and will be referenced later. Often.

I’m not saying our love lacks electricity. I am saying the carpet deserves partial credit.

Clothes are no better. Sweaters cling to skirts. Skirts cling to tights. Tights cling to absolutely everything, including thoughts I haven’t had yet. I peel garments off myself like I’m removing a curse. Every time I stand up, there’s a visible snap, a sound effect that says, “You thought you were done here?”

Static is chaos in miniature. It’s invisible, unpredictable, and deeply personal. It doesn’t bother everyone equally, which somehow makes it worse. One person walks across carpet unscathed; the next gets zapped like they touched a cursed doorknob in a haunted house. Static does not discriminate, but it does remember.

Case in point: I leaned down to boop my dog’s nose, an act of pure love, and instead we both got electrocuted like I’d strapped my backside to an electric chair. The shock traveled through me. Time slowed. Regret bloomed. My dog looked at me like I’d betrayed the treaty between species. Static does not care about intent.

And that’s where the life lesson sneaks in, uninvited, like static itself.

Static cling is what happens when the environment is dry, disconnected, and tense. When there’s not enough balance, things stop flowing. Energy builds up with nowhere to go until the smallest contact turns into a shock. Sound familiar?

We do this too. We let ourselves become unbalanced, emotionally, creatively, and sometimes socially. We stop resting. We stop laughing. We stop softening the edges. Then someone bumps into us with an innocent comment, a minor inconvenience, a badly timed email, and zap. Overreaction. Snapping. Clinging to something that should have passed right through.

Static teaches us that friction isn’t always about force. Sometimes it’s about lack. Lack of balance. Lack of softness. Lack of space to discharge what we’re carrying.

The solution to static, annoyingly, is balance. Humidity. Grounding. Dryer sheets: tiny perfumed peace treaties. The solution to life isn’t much different. Drink water. Touch grass, yes, literally. Laugh more. Take breaks. Let things pass through you instead of sticking to every surface of your day.

Still, I will continue to flail my arms like a malfunctioning windmill. I will continue to peel fabric off myself like it’s alive. I will continue to look in the mirror some mornings and think, This is not the hairstyle I chose, but it is the hairstyle winter gave me.

Static cling may be inevitable, but if you find yourself shocking your dog, confusing your spouse, and apologizing to both, it might be time to add moisture, lower expectations, and stop kissing near the carpet. It’s just a season that leaves everything and everyone highly charged.