In loving memory of Virginia Woolf

I suffer in winters. The season doesn't invigorate me and it makes me unwell. But in the winter of 2022, I stumbled upon Virginia Woolf. She arrived like a friend whose footsteps you hear even before you see them and reading her works allowed me to step into a world where I could confide in.

I entered her world through 'A Haunted House'— a fiction devoted to a love so stubborn that it refuses to leave. In Woolf's world, time moves rather differently. The house itself feels alive, holding memories and whispers long after the demise of the people that lived there. 

The story is not about ghosts in the conventional sense, but about presence — what lingers, what endures, what refuses to dissipate. Woolf shows that love and memory do not disappear with time; they settle quietly into spaces, into the ordinary and overlooked corners of life. 

Reading it, I became aware of how small details carry weight. Ordinary moments, often unnoticed, hold their own kind of permanence. In this story, Woolf teaches that presence can survive absence, that life's smallest moments matter, and that attention itself is an act of care. Returning to it feels like walking through a room I have always known, aware that something reverent and intimate has never left.

When it comes to rooms, Woolf highlights how they transcend beyond the realm of four walls and furniture. They are spaces to contemplate, to observe and to simply exist without interruption.

'A Room of One's Own', arguably her magnum opus and almost radical for her time, dives into the importance of a room — both physical and mental. A quiet corner to myself in a chaotic world, for the first time, did not feel like isolation but an act of love and nurture for my emotions, my creativity and my sense of self.  Her attention to emotion, and her unique sense of space and memory prove that her writing applauds vulnerability. 

On the other hand, 'Mrs Dalloway' and 'To the Lighthouse' dwell on the nuances of human connection. In Mrs Dalloway, I was struck by how Clarissa's thoughts of Sally and Peter could carry a lifetime of feeling in a single memory: a shared laugh, a slight misunderstanding, the weight of absence years later. The city revolves around her, but her attention is always on these small emotional waves and the quiet impact people have on one another. 

Remembering her is not an act of looking back, but of stepping into a space she has already made ready; quiet, attentive, and full of life. In loving memory of Virginia Woolf, we carry her with us, in the small gestures, the silent observations, and the moments of feeling that make life feel whole.

To the Lighthouse brought to the fore the way Lily Briscoe watches the Ramsays; how she sees both their strengths and their flaws, and how moments of care appear in gestures that seem ordinary. A mere glance across a table or a hand resting briefly on another holds more weight than what the naked eye can grasp. 

For me, these books were a mode of reflection for my own life — on friendships, family, and the little lingering moment. Woolf's writing is a testament to these fragments of connection that endure, shaping memory and feeling. Her novels taught me to notice, to inhabit the spaces between people, and to appreciate the quiet, persistent ways we affect each other.

Virginia Woolf arrived quietly into my perplexing winters and has had a hushed presence ever since. Through her rooms, her characters, and the small, ordinary details she preserves, she continues to walk alongside me, just like a friend. 

Remembering her is not an act of looking back, but of stepping into a space she has already made ready; quiet, attentive, and full of life. In loving memory of Virginia Woolf, I carry her with me, in the small gestures, the silent observations, and the moments of feeling that make life feel whole.