I love this time of year.
Slow mornings.
Pensive thoughts.
And this year—also this.
Snow.
There’s something about winter that still stops me in my tracks. The way the sky seems to weep softly, heaven’s tears falling in quiet descent. A frozen hush that changes the sound of the world. Everything slows. Even the loudest places feel muted, as if creation itself is holding its breath.
For a long time, winter carried a different meaning for me.
It was associated with grief, loss, and seasons I had no choice but to endure. Years where the cold felt internal as much as external. Where survival, not delight, was the goal.
And yet—something has shifted.
This year marks a quiet but profound milestone in my own healing. For the first time in my life, in spite of everything that once happened during this season, I find myself able to say this without irony or resistance:
I love winter.
Not because it is easy.
But because it is honest.
Winter doesn’t pretend to be fruitful. It doesn’t rush growth. It doesn’t apologise for stillness. It teaches me that rest is not failure, that dormancy is not death, and that healing does not always look like progress—it often looks like permission.
Permission to slow down.
Permission to feel.
Permission to sit with what is.
In many ways, this rhythm mirrors the work I’ve been quietly tending to behind the scenes. I’ve been deeply moved by the number of you who’ve reached out asking for my reflection guide which I’m so happy to share here.
Some things need space.
Some things need silence.
Some things need a warm coffee, a shared table, and long conversations—especially the section we’re working through together for couples.
Winter has reminded me of this:
That not everything meaningful needs to be hurried.
That love can grow even in the cold.
That healing often arrives quietly—like snow.
And this year, for the first time, I’m learning to receive it.
💛
