There’s a moment every year, somewhere between the last iced coffee and the first fuzzy socks, when I feel the light start to shift. The air cools, the sky deepens, and the days begin their slow retreat into earlier evenings. I tell myself I love the coziness of it all—candles, soups, sweaters—but the truth is, part of me mourns the light.
I’ve always been one of those people who thrives on sunshine. Long days of natural light feel like permission. I can write more, dream bigger, breathe easier. But when the world starts dimming, so do I.
For years, I fought it. I tried to out-hustle the winter blues with busyness and bright lights. But lately, I’ve been trying something different. I’m learning to listen to the invitation hidden in the darker months.
Maybe the shorter days aren’t a punishment. Maybe they’re a reminder.
A reminder that it’s okay to rest.
That not everything blooms year-round.
That sometimes the most important growing happens underground, in the quiet.
Nature doesn’t apologize for slowing down. The trees don’t panic when their leaves let go. They just trust the process: What looks like loss is really preparation for renewal.
So this year, I’m not making a war plan against winter. I’m lighting candles earlier, pulling the blankets higher, and letting the darkness be what it is—softer, slower, and maybe even sacred.
Because the truth is, the light never really leaves. It just learns a new way to shine. And so must I.
With My Love,
Connie
