Living in the mountains of New Hampshire, November always carries a certain kind of magic. This is the time of year when the chill settles in, and we prepare for the long, snowy months ahead. We stack wood, fill our sand/salt buckets, get our snow shovels ready, and enjoy our first cup of coffee snuggled up under a down comforter with furry friends for an extra bit of warmth. The first dusting of snow blankets the valley, and we can look up to see the snowcapped peaks of the White Mountains glistening in the sunlight. Ski areas are buzzing with anticipation, as avid skiers and snowboarders unpack their gear and scrape off summer wax, eager to carve the first tracks of the season. I was one of those winter enthusiasts, embracing the cold with excitement and a sense of adventure.
But this year, my "wintering" looks very different. I am in Florida, far from the familiar snow-covered landscapes, the frosty mornings, and the cozy evenings by the fireplace. This year, my winter isn’t marked by the usual rituals of pulling out ski gear and getting snow shovels ready. Instead, I’m experiencing a different kind of winter—a season of deep rest, reflection, and hibernation of the soul.
In the past month, I’ve navigated immense change. I sold my beloved retreat property, closed one of my businesses, and sorted through a lifetime of belongings—storing, selling, donating, and letting go. It was an intense whirlwind of decisions and emotions, made even more challenging by the unexpected waves of anxiety and sadness stirred up by the recent election results. My heart aches with a deep sense of concern for our collective future, and my spirit feels unsettled as I watch the post-election chaos unfold. It’s as if I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, and now I find myself with little wax left in the middle.
So, for now, I’m wintering—a term that has taken on a whole new meaning in this season of my life. I’ve traded the crisp New England air for the humid warmth of Florida, where I’m staying with my 88-year-old dad. It’s a different kind of nesting.
I’m nesting, taking time to create a comforting, nurturing environment here in my dad’s home..
I’m resting, leaning into the power of retreat and recovery.
I'm reading. Two book are my companions: The Art of Doing Nothing: Simple Ways to Make Time for Yourself and Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. They are gentle reminders that this season of hibernation is necessary—that it’s okay to step back, to pause, and to allow myself the time and space to simply be.
I’m writing more than I have in a long time. I’ve started a new blog series called A Journey Back to Hope, where I’m sharing raw, unfiltered reflections about what it feels like to navigate the aftermath of the election and the deep-seated fears that so many of us are experiencing. I’m also working on a new book, What I’ve Learned from Other People’s Kids That Parents Need to Know, a teaching memoir that draws from my years in adolescent development and sex education.
I’m still coaching my clients and staying open to new opportunities, but I’m allowing myself the grace to explore slowly, without the pressure of making big moves or decisions right now.
This season is about taking it one day at a time, listening to my heart, and soothing my soul as I move through this deeply personal transition, while also witnessing the global shift we’re all a part of. It’s a time of deep uncertainty and yet, strangely, a time of possibility. As I lean into this sort of wintering, I’m reminded that even in the darkest, coldest seasons, there is a quiet, potent magic at work—a space where transformation happens, unseen but profound.
I invite you to join me in this space of hibernation and exploration. Let’s honor this time of quiet, rest, and reflection together and finding moments of peace, comfort, and perhaps, a little bit of magic.
May your own "wintering," however it looks, bring you the rest and renewal your heart needs. And may you find the courage to embrace this season, not with fear, but with a gentle curiosity about what lies ahead.
Reflection Questions:
To read more in the A Journey Back to Hope series, click here.
But this year, my "wintering" looks very different. I am in Florida, far from the familiar snow-covered landscapes, the frosty mornings, and the cozy evenings by the fireplace. This year, my winter isn’t marked by the usual rituals of pulling out ski gear and getting snow shovels ready. Instead, I’m experiencing a different kind of winter—a season of deep rest, reflection, and hibernation of the soul.
In the past month, I’ve navigated immense change. I sold my beloved retreat property, closed one of my businesses, and sorted through a lifetime of belongings—storing, selling, donating, and letting go. It was an intense whirlwind of decisions and emotions, made even more challenging by the unexpected waves of anxiety and sadness stirred up by the recent election results. My heart aches with a deep sense of concern for our collective future, and my spirit feels unsettled as I watch the post-election chaos unfold. It’s as if I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, and now I find myself with little wax left in the middle.
So, for now, I’m wintering—a term that has taken on a whole new meaning in this season of my life. I’ve traded the crisp New England air for the humid warmth of Florida, where I’m staying with my 88-year-old dad. It’s a different kind of nesting.
I’m nesting, taking time to create a comforting, nurturing environment here in my dad’s home..
I’m resting, leaning into the power of retreat and recovery.
I'm reading. Two book are my companions: The Art of Doing Nothing: Simple Ways to Make Time for Yourself and Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. They are gentle reminders that this season of hibernation is necessary—that it’s okay to step back, to pause, and to allow myself the time and space to simply be.
I’m writing more than I have in a long time. I’ve started a new blog series called A Journey Back to Hope, where I’m sharing raw, unfiltered reflections about what it feels like to navigate the aftermath of the election and the deep-seated fears that so many of us are experiencing. I’m also working on a new book, What I’ve Learned from Other People’s Kids That Parents Need to Know, a teaching memoir that draws from my years in adolescent development and sex education.
I’m still coaching my clients and staying open to new opportunities, but I’m allowing myself the grace to explore slowly, without the pressure of making big moves or decisions right now.
This season is about taking it one day at a time, listening to my heart, and soothing my soul as I move through this deeply personal transition, while also witnessing the global shift we’re all a part of. It’s a time of deep uncertainty and yet, strangely, a time of possibility. As I lean into this sort of wintering, I’m reminded that even in the darkest, coldest seasons, there is a quiet, potent magic at work—a space where transformation happens, unseen but profound.
I invite you to join me in this space of hibernation and exploration. Let’s honor this time of quiet, rest, and reflection together and finding moments of peace, comfort, and perhaps, a little bit of magic.
May your own "wintering," however it looks, bring you the rest and renewal your heart needs. And may you find the courage to embrace this season, not with fear, but with a gentle curiosity about what lies ahead.
Reflection Questions:
- As you look back on your own week, what moments of transition or change did you experience? How did you navigate them, and what emotions surfaced for you?
- How might you create your own version of "wintering"—a space for rest, reflection, or simply slowing down—even if your current season feels busy or uncertain?
- What small steps can you take this week to nurture your heart and soul, allowing yourself the grace of rest or retreat, even for just a few moments each day?
To read more in the A Journey Back to Hope series, click here.
