Confucius

A cold gust of wind blew her over. Marcy stayed laying in the snow, wanting to give up. The blizzard was instantly trying to cover her up with snow. Thoughts of her children in the cabin, waiting for her return ran through her mind. Marcy cringed and wiped snow off her face. She slowly got to her feet and continued. Every step was bogged down by the foot and a half of snow.

Her car had gotten stuck in the snow a few miles back. The roads were empty, as far as she could see, through the thick blizzard. She imagined that without the blizzard, it would look like a winter wonderland. It also meant there was no one around to help her. There were no people, cars, stores or houses, only snow and trees, and what she assumed was the road.

Every part of her was going numb and she was barely moving. It was in harsh, lonely moments like these that she would try to think of something to motivate her. Her favourite philosopher Confucius would say that it didn't matter how slowly she went, as long as she didn't stop. All she could do was keep going, and she knew that.

She didn't know how long she had been walking through the blizzard, but after seeing a light in the distance, she started moving faster. She had made it. The cabin door burst open and her son ran up to her. He put his arm around her and helped her get inside.

"I made it," she gasped.

"Yeah ma, you made it. Here, I'll help you," her son threw a blanket around her.