There is a particular kind of quiet that exists at the edge of winter.
Not the deep stillness of January.
Not the urgency of spring.
Something in between.
The ground is still frozen, but the light begins to change. The days stretch just a little longer. The air softens. You start to sense that something is shifting, even if nothing has fully changed yet. It’s a shift toward the light.
This is the space I have found myself in.
When I think about this past winter, four words come to mind. Depression. Surrender. Grief. And surprisingly, trust.
It was not an easy season. In many ways, it felt like life was asking me to sit with things exactly as they were, not as I wished they would be. Expectations I had quietly been holding began to fall away. Plans shifted. Opportunities that I thought were certain dissolved. There was a crashing between what I thought should happen and what actually did.
And yet, something different occurred in me.
There were moments of breakdown, yes. Moments of fear and uncertainty. But there were also moments where I noticed myself choosing power instead of slipping into victim mode. Not perfectly, and not all at once, but in small ways. Continuing to take action. Continuing to show up. Continuing to believe in what I am being called to create, even when there was no guarantee it would work.
Then came the grief.
We had been expecting a litter of puppies around Christmas. A few days before, we learned our dog had lost them. It was an unexpected loss that quietly settled into the background of the season. Shortly after, we discovered that our other dog, who had been with our family for eleven years, had diabetes and would go fully blind soon. So as a family, we made the incredibly difficult decision to put her down.
Losing her felt, at first, like losing a limb. Not in a dramatic sense, but in the way something so integrated into your daily life suddenly isn’t there anymore. You reach for it without thinking. You notice the absence in the quiet moments. The house feels different. The rhythm of your days shifts.
She had been part of our family through so many chapters. She was there when we brought each of our children home. She walked with me through some of the darkest parts of my own healing journey. She was present in the background of both ordinary and extraordinary moments. Her presence had become woven into the fabric of our lives.
Grief arrives in waves. Sometimes gentle, sometimes overwhelming. There were moments where I found myself crying unexpectedly. Other moments where I simply sat with the quiet and felt the absence.
What surprised me was that alongside the grief, there was also gratitude. Missing her connected me to how deeply I had loved. It reminded me of how much joy she had brought into our lives. It became an experience of holding both light and darkness at the same time. Love and loss existing together.
The day after we said goodbye to her, I learned that a friend had taken his own life. Someone I met during my experience with psychosis. Someone who had been a calm presence when everything felt chaotic. He never tried to fix me. He simply sat with me, allowed me to talk, and made space for me to exist as I was.
His death opened another layer of reflection. About impact. About how we often believe contribution must look a certain way to matter. He wanted to help people. In my experience, he did. He helped me in ways that cannot be measured or easily categorized.
It also strengthened my desire to create spaces where people can simply be. Spaces where they are not judged, diagnosed, or fixed. Spaces where presence itself becomes healing. This experience has been a large part of what is inspiring me to begin creating a men’s group. A place where honesty, community, and shared humanity are welcomed.
Winter became a season of questioning.
Not only grief, but justice, accountability, and responsibility. I found myself reflecting deeply on what true accountability looks like. Not punishment for the sake of punishment, but acknowledgment of impact. Ownership. Growth. Change.
These reflections led me to examine my own life. Where had I caused harm? Where was I still holding onto old identities? Where was I defining myself by past versions of who I had been? I reached out to someone from my past and took responsibility for my actions without explanation or justification.
I expected rejection. Instead, I experienced forgiveness.
Something shifted in that moment. I realized how much of my identity had been shaped by stories I continued to carry long after they had expired. Letting go of those stories felt like releasing weight I did not realize I was still holding.
Throughout this winter, there were also moments of numbness. Times where feeling nothing seemed easier than feeling everything. Days where I rested more than usual. Days spent doing simple activities that kept me grounded in the present. Journaling. Woodworking. Painting. Drumming. Quiet, creative practices that allowed me to process without forcing clarity.
Stillness did not mean doing nothing. It meant doing less. It meant allowing space.
Slowly, clarity began to emerge.
I recognized the need for stronger boundaries. I noticed the difference between pressure and purpose. I saw more clearly that accountability is not about blame, but about freedom. The more willing I am to take responsibility for my life, the more space there is for possibility.
I also realized that growth does not require perfection. It requires movement. Small, consistent steps forward.
This is where the equinox feels significant.
Equal parts day and night. A reminder that both light and darkness are necessary. A natural pause point. A moment to reflect on what the darkness offered before stepping toward the light.
The darkness has a purpose. Seeds do not grow in constant sunlight. They require time in the soil. They transform quietly beneath the surface and we are not meant to remain buried forever.
At some point, there is a turning.
Turning toward the light does not mean everything is resolved. It means recognizing that something is shifting. It means allowing hope to exist alongside uncertainty. It means planting seeds even before the ground feels fully ready.
Right now, I sense many people standing in this same space. Feeling stuck. Numb. Exhausted. Craving change but unsure where to begin. The invitation of this season is not to rush, but to notice. To ask what the winter revealed. To carry those lessons forward.
You are not behind. You are not late. You are in the transition.
The edge of winter is quiet, but powerful. It is the moment where possibility begins to return.
And sometimes, that is enough.
Reflection
As we move through this seasonal shift, consider what this past winter asked of you. Not what you accomplished, but what you learned. Not what changed externally, but what shifted internally.
Growth often begins in places that do not look like growth at all.
Journal Prompts
- What did this past season ask me to face that I may have avoided before
- Where did I experience grief, and what did it reveal about what I value
- What am I ready to release as I move toward the light
- What small shift feels available to me right now
- Where in my life am I being invited to trust
- What seeds do I want to plant for the season ahead
If this reflection resonates with you, I invite you to stay connected.
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