Marie Monde, Mange et Mode

by Marie Monde

Winter doesn’t always arrive the way we expect it to.

This year in Colorado, the mountains were quieter than usual—less snow than tradition promises, warmer air drifting through places that typically demand layers and patience. And yet, the absence of snowfall didn’t diminish the season. It clarified it.

Because winter, I’m learning, isn’t about weather.
It’s about atmosphere.

I rang in the new year at the Gaylord surrounded by timbered beams, glowing lights, and that unmistakable lodge-like warmth that doesn’t depend on what’s happening outside. Fires flickered. Conversations overlapped. Laughter echoed in hallways that felt both grand and familiar. The setting was festive without being frantic—rustic, elevated, and restorative in the way only certain places know how to be.

There’s a word I learned during my years in the Netherlands that always returns to me around the holidays: gezellig.
It doesn’t translate neatly into English. It’s a feeling—coziness, warmth, belonging, ease. It’s created by people, by intention, by presence. Not by perfection.

Gezellig isn’t about where you are.
It’s about how you’re held.

That’s what this New Year felt like.

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A Season That Settles, Not Rushes

Colorado has been alive with motion lately—athletes training at altitude, winter sports energy pulsing through places like Copper Mountain and Aspen, where global competitions and traditions converge each season. There’s momentum here, yes. But there’s also balance.

What struck me most wasn’t the spectacle—it was the pause between it.

Even without deep snow, the mountains asked for stillness. The lodge asked for lingering. The people—staff and guests alike—offered a kindness that felt unforced, an attentiveness that made the experience feel shared rather than staged.

Luxury, at its best, isn’t about excess.
It’s about being considered.

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The Quiet Math of a New Year

We mark the turning of the year with fireworks and countdowns, as if time itself needs ceremony to keep moving. But a year is, in truth, just 365 days. Finite. Manageable. Human.

Standing there, I found myself reflecting not on resolutions, but on rhythm.

What settled over the past 365 days?
What no longer needs carrying forward?
What can be allowed to end—not dramatically, but gently?

Because while January invites beginnings, it also grants permission to release. It is never too late to begin again. And it is never too early to let go of what no longer serves.

Winter understands this instinctively. It doesn’t bloom. It rests.

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Anywhere Can Be Gezellig

One of the quiet truths I carry with me is this: you can feel at home almost anywhere—with the right people, or even the right state of mind. Sometimes the sentiment of a place alone is enough. A well-set table. Warm light. A shared moment of calm.

Even solo, you can create that feeling.
Especially solo.

That’s the kind of luxury I value most now—the ability to settle into myself, wherever I am, and trust that comfort doesn’t require spectacle.

As this new year unfolds, that’s what I’m choosing to pursue: places and people that soften me, not sharpen me. Experiences that settle rather than stimulate.

Winter isn’t asking us to do more.
It’s asking us to listen.

The year turned without spectacle, and that felt right too. A year is only 365 days—marked by calendars, but never confined to them. We’re always allowed to begin again, and just as allowed to let go of what no longer serves us. In that calm, surrounded by warmth, kindness, and quiet joy, I let the year meet me where I was—unrushed, imperfect, and already underway.

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