January, 2025 -

There’s a quiet revolution stirring beneath the surface of our endlessly scrolling feeds. It doesn’t shout, and it isn’t loud enough to trend—but perhaps that’s the point. It’s a movement that begins with a sigh, a pause, a simple question: What if I don’t need this?

This is the rebellion of deinfluencing.

At first glance, it might sound like resistance—an anti-something, a refusal. But lean in a little closer, and you’ll see it’s more tender than that. Deinfluencing is not a hard stop; it’s a gentle redirection. A reawakening. It doesn’t say, Don’t buy anything, but instead asks, What fills me?

The Age of Influence

We live in a world where influence has become currency. Where a single post can nudge us to buy what we didn’t know we wanted, to add to cart, to keep chasing the next thing. It’s a world that whispers, You’re almost there.

But “there” is always somewhere else.

And so we pile up—clothes, gadgets, trends—all in pursuit of some elusive idea of enoughness. But when does it stop? The moment we catch up, the tide shifts, and we’re left wanting again.

What Deinfluencing Asks of Us

Deinfluencing doesn’t demand a drastic unravelling of our habits. It doesn’t shame or scold. Instead, it asks us to gently reconsider. To look at what we’ve already gathered, to let gratitude swell in the spaces we once filled with longing.

It’s the choice to buy less, but love more. To resist the fleeting thrill of the new and rediscover the beauty of the old. Deinfluencing asks us to slow down and listen to the murmur of enoughness.

The worn book on the shelf, with its dog-eared corners, waiting for another read.

The jacket passed down from a loved one, frayed but rich with stories.

The beauty of a quiet walk, without the need to document it.

These things don’t shout for our attention. They simply are.

Not Anti-Joy, But Pro-Gratitude

Deinfluencing doesn’t reject beauty, joy, or celebration—it just redefines it. Joy is not a new candle in the perfect scent; it’s lighting the one you already have. Beauty is not in the pristine; it’s in the way the chipped mug fits perfectly in your hands.

This quiet rebellion is about stepping off the endless conveyor belt of desire and finding stillness. It’s about nourishing what we already have and, more importantly, who we already are.

Joining the Rebellion

You don’t need a manifesto to join. Simply pause. When you feel the pull to consume, ask yourself:

Why do I want this?

What will it add to my life?

What do I already have that could meet this need?

In the stillness, you might find the answer is already with you.

Deinfluencing isn’t a movement that trends or shouts—it grows quietly in the hearts of those who choose enoughness.

And perhaps that’s the most radical thing of all.

A Question for the Quiet Rebels

What’s one thing you already own, one part of your life, that you could cherish more deeply today?

Let’s hold onto that, together.

Wintering comes for me like a heavy blanket I didn’t ask for, settling around my shoulders and demanding that I slow down, stop pretending, and pay attention. It arrives uninvited, often when I least expect it, and asks for patience I don’t think I have. I used to resist it, trying desperately to keep moving, to push through, to pretend that the rhythm of my life didn’t have to change. But I’m starting to learn that wintering isn’t something to be fought. It’s something to be surrendered to.

When the cold sets in and the days become shorter, I feel it in my bones, in my spirit. Life seems to contract, drawing me inward. It’s a season of retreat, one that feels stark and sometimes achingly quiet. There are moments when I look around and see how barren everything is, how the trees have stripped themselves down to their bare branches, how the world seems to hold its breath. I realize that I, too, am being called to simplify, to shed what no longer serves me and wait.

Wintering has a way of forcing me to admit the truth: that I’m tired, that I’m carrying grief or uncertainty, that I need a break from the constant rush to be everything for everyone. It’s humbling to admit I’m not as strong as I want to be, that I need rest. But I’m learning that there is wisdom in this season, a wisdom that tells me it’s okay to pause, to go dormant for a while, to let myself feel whatever I need to feel.

There’s a quiet beauty to it, too, even if it doesn’t come easily. I notice the details I might otherwise miss: the way frost crystals form delicate patterns on the windowpane, the muffled sound of snow falling, the way the morning light turns soft and blue. It’s a different kind of beauty, one that asks for a slower gaze, a more intentional presence. I find solace in small rituals—wrapping myself in a thick blanket, lighting a candle, sitting with a book in the fading light of the afternoon. These acts feel like small victories, tiny anchors of comfort in a season that can feel unrelentingly cold.

But wintering isn’t just about physical stillness. It’s a reckoning. I’m forced to look inward, to sit with what’s uncomfortable, to make peace with the parts of myself I’d rather ignore. It’s not always pleasant. There are days when I feel stuck, lost in a fog, longing for the warmth and ease of another season. Yet I’m beginning to understand that this struggle, this discomfort, is part of the process. It’s the work that happens beneath the surface, the kind that doesn’t show its results right away but transforms quietly, like seeds deep in frozen soil.

I remind myself that nature knows what it’s doing, that even the trees know when to let go and rest. Why should I be any different? Wintering is my time to let things be unfinished, unresolved, imperfect. It’s my time to gather strength in the stillness, to accept that healing and renewal take time. There’s no rushing through it, no skipping ahead to the good parts.

And so, I try to settle in, to wrap myself in whatever warmth I can find and trust the rhythm of this season. I wait and rest, knowing that beneath the surface, beneath even the hardest layers of ice, something is quietly beginning to stir. Spring will come, as it always does. But for now, I let myself winter, and that, I am learning, is more than enough.

Month: January 2025

The Quiet Rebellion of Deinfluencing

My Kind Of Wintering