Winter, and the Quiet Return to Myself

Winter always arrives quietly, almost shyly, and yet it rearranges everything.

The days shorten, the light shifts, and suddenly the body needs a new kind of preparation, something that begins in the cells before it ever reaches the surface.

I feel it in the light: not just sunlight, but the light inside.

The way my skin responds to the cold, the way my hair behaves on early mornings,

how my sleep changes,

how I choose what to wear,

what to drink,

what to eat.

Slowly, every system adjusts to these first waves of cold that seep into our days.

Winter asks for a different kind of attention: a softness, a gathering, a listening.

There is something essential about home in this season.

A return to the body that comes back to me every winter.

A return to the inner fire,

the ability to move,

to create warmth,

to understand what foods comfort,

what rituals soothe,

what gestures remind me who I am.

In these days when the contrast between light and darkness is so sharp, between warmth and cold, movement and stillness,

I find myself searching for the small anchors.

The tiny pockets of light.

The quiet moments of togetherness.

The simple rituals that hold me and help me cross the threshold of the season.

But winter always brings me back to one truth:

It all begins inside.

What kind of morning do I create for myself?

What layers do I choose to wrap around my body?

What scents do I offer in my home?

What warmth do I give my skin?

How gently can I move through these darker days?

How do I grow, even in a season that invites contraction?

Maybe this is winter’s secret:

that in the very moment everything pulls inward,

something inside us can expand.

Not loudly, not quickly, but slowly, quietly, layer by layer,

as we learn once again to return to ourselves.