I hate summer. I really do. It’s the most exhausting time of the year — endlessly bright, unbearably hot, and impossible to feel comfortable in. When I was a kid though summer meant freedom. It meant holidays, family trips, visiting relatives, and long train rides. Back then summer at least carried excitement. Now as an adult, summer feels like something I have to survive. The heat feels harsher; the days feel heavier.

I feel like time slows down in summer. The sun takes its own sweet time, draining everyone’s energy little by little. The days are longer and the nights are shorter. Even something as simple as travelling to work or stepping outside starts to feel like a chore. There’s no enthusiasm in the air whatsoever. Every morning while squeezing the sunscreen into my palms, my only prayer is every morning are mostly, “I hope it’s not too hot today.” Unfortunately, those prayers go unanswered. I hide behind sunglasses, keep the air conditioner running whenever I can, and still summer manages to make me feel unbearably exhausted.

Trust me, I’m not resenting summer just because I am a December-born. It’s simply hard to enjoy a season that brings so much discomfort. There’s barely any appetite during this season, only an endless urge to drink gallons of water and somehow survive the heat. Honestly, what’s so special about summer anyway? Maybe a few good movies get released, maybe there are songs that sound better during long drives, but apart from that I struggle to find anything loveable about it. Alright, now it does feel like I am harboring some resentment toward the weather. So let me balance it a little.

The evenings are prettier in summer. It’s the time when the sun slowly bids goodbye, almost as if its whispering “see you tomorrow.” Even when I’m not so excited to meet it again in all its blazing glory, I still enjoy the moment. The sky turns into a painting — soft oranges, pinks and gold melting into each other — and somehow it feels like a reward after surviving a long day. The streets come alive with children’s laughter and endless chatter. And whenever I catch the fragments of their conversation, I’m taken back to conversations of my own childhood. Days when the sun never bothered me. Days spent running around with kids my age. Back then I wasn’t worried about tomorrow or burdened by responsibilities. When I think of those summers now, I don’t remember discomfort. I only remember the freedom. So, maybe summer isn’t always that bad. It is when cities feel more alive.

People rush to beaches and spend evenings swimming. Summer is loud and busy, but there’s something about that kind of noise. It feels real. Under the sun, people seem to glow differently. Skin shines warmer, softer — almost golden when the sunlight touches it. I especially love the way my brown skin glistens in light, how beautifully it catches the sun in photographs. In moments like that summer feels less like an enemy. So yes, I’ll admit — summer has its charms too.

Everyone has their own preferences. I know friends who love summer more than any other season, though I’ve always assumed they’ve never had to walk under the scorching Chennai sun. Still, I understand that weather can feel personal for reasons beyond comfort. The leaves on the trees shine like diamonds under the sunlight. Heat shimmers across the roads making the distance look almost blurry, almost dreamlike — like a fading memory. The birds chirp louder in the morning with more enthusiasm.

The sunlight slipping through my window, somehow feels comforting and cruel at the same time — a bittersweet kind of warmth. Summer has a strange way of exposing everything — cracked roads, tired eyes, forgotten corners of cities — nothing hides under the harsh sunlight. A sudden summer rain feels like a miracle. Cold water sliding inside your throat feels like life-saving nectar.  Finding shade under a tree after a long walk feels like winning something important. Summer teaches gratitude in the simplest way. Maybe summer was never meant to be easy to love. Maybe that’s the point of it. But once you start noticing the quiet beauty hidden between all the discomfort, it becomes surprisingly hard to ignore.