Winter is a season of stillness, of turning inward, of quiet transformation. The world slows down, the trees stand bare, and beneath the frozen ground, seeds germinate—preparing for a spring yet to come.
Lately, I’ve realized I’m in my own kind of winter. Not just the season outside, but a season of life. This inner winter has been a wonderful season of growth and reflection, but it comes with its challenges and discomfort, too. I’m learning to love it all.
From Wild to Within
My twenties—and even the first half of my thirties—were defined by movement, people, and wild abandon—parties, festivals, late nights, and closing down bars. I was always out, always seen, always immersed in the energy of others. That era was beautiful, nourishing, and so vividly alive.
But as I enter my forties, I find myself drawing inward for things I used to seek from the outside world. The aliveness, the wildness, the constant hum of connection—I’ve integrated it. Now, I reflect on what I loved, what I learned, and what I want to carry with me moving forward.
I won’t lie—I was reckless in my twenties. There were times I wondered how I made it out alive. The absolute excess of alcohol and drugs was fun, oh my god, it was fun. But it was so incredibly self-destructive, and my nervous system is likely still paying the tax.
Many people start to ease out of that kind of life in their thirties, but I was a little slow to let it go. Nostalgia is my favorite drug, after all. And shedding an identity—especially one that created many of my core memories—is hard.
But if you don’t change, something is wrong. If you never change, how do you grow?
The Comfort (and Discomfort) of Stillness
In this inner winter of my life, I’ve become deeply comfortable with solitude. Sitting with myself, appreciating who I am becoming. There’s a kind of unease in the comfort, though—a whisper of restlessness in the stillness.
My husband and stepdaughter love to tease me, saying I never leave the house. And sure, I don’t go out like I used to. But it’s not because I’m bored or boring. I’m just becoming satisfied with simplicity, craving simplicity. I’m not running from anything. If anything, I’m sinking in.
(And I do leave the house. Just not for cocktails—I’d rather be in the woods or at the beach, romping around with my dogs, checking out the fungi of the PNW.)
The Departure from Risk
This season of transformation is as frustrating as it is necessary. I won’t pretend I don’t miss the ease of being 25—the optimism, the simplicity of wanting nothing but experience itself. The firsts. The thrill of risk. The reckless abandon.
But these days, my tolerance for risk is low. Life gets more complicated with time. We start thinking about the things we own (or don’t), our aging parents, our futures. Will my mother come live with me? Will I need to go home for long stretches someday?
Mortality stops being an abstract concept. We start asking: How do I want to spend the second half of my life? There’s planning in this, and planning is not exactly super sexy. But without it—and sometimes delayed gratification for a future desire—you get stuck in this cyclical behavior and thought loops.
To have the future I envision for myself—the freedom and comfort, the travel, the ability to generously give to my loved ones—I have to plan for the future. What do I want it to be like?
I know I want to be strong. I want to be clear-minded. I want to keep evolving, shedding layers, becoming—but also learning to be in that becoming, rather than constantly doing.
Rest as Rebellion
That’s the other lesson of my inner winter: my worth is not tied to my productivity. The world praises hustle, glorifies the grind. But maybe the real rebellion is stepping off that wheel.
Maybe we really do have to delete the apps. Maybe we need mornings with sunshine on our faces, space to take our dogs to the vet on a random Tuesday, the freedom to lift weights at 10 a.m. on a Friday and spend the afternoon curled up in blankets, writing.
And I can. And I do. And I’m grateful.
Because all of it—the wild years, the reflections, the slow stacking of new habits—has brought me here, to this flow that I adore.
Outside, it’s winter in every sense. Snow falls in Seattle, thick crystalline flakes swirling past my window as I sit on the couch, wrapped in blankets, dog by my side, keys tapping against my laptop.
Winter asks us to slow down, to listen, to surrender to the quiet work happening beneath the surface. It reminds us that stillness is not stagnation—it’s preparation. It’s the necessary pause before the next bloom.
And so, I’m letting myself be here. Not rushing to the next version of myself, not filling the space with noise or movement, but trusting that this season of rest has its own kind of momentum.
Because spring will come. It always does. And when it does, I’ll be ready.
