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.