(photo of my first snow day when I moved to NY at 21 ^)
Winter showed up late this year, fashionably, flirtatiously late.
In Boulder, she made us wait, leaving us wondering if she’d ditched us for another lover. We broke records for how little snow fell. It wasn’t until Thanksgiving weekend that the first flakes finally drifted down, tentative, delicate (only about an inch’s worth), as if winter were slipping back into the room whispering, “Did you miss me?”
And now? She’s here. Quiet as breath. Clear as truth.
This morning, I peeked out the bedroom window and felt that unmistakable shift. With the leaves gone, I can see the lake behind the house for the first time; silver, honest, unobstructed. Winter is weird like that: she takes things away and somehow leaves us with more.
She reveals what fullness hides.
She offers the clarity of contrast, the bones beneath the bloom.
The branches outside twist like thought-lines, curve like question marks, stretch like invitations. They tap the chimney next door, flirt with the jungle gym, and stand there fully unclothed, entirely themselves, without performance or polish. Just the calm, unapologetic presence of “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Pay attention.”
When I lived in New York, I tried to outrun her, escaping south as soon as temperatures dipped below 40ºF. But here in Colorado, she’s become a mentor, a slow, grounded one who doesn’t waste words.
Winter is a season of inventory.
A moment to ask:
What is finishing its cycle?
What can be allowed to rest?
What have I learned?
Who am I now?
And this year, against all odds, what rises most strongly in me is appreciation for the way the year unfolded, even the rough parts. Especially the rough parts.
Which is wild considering how I spent a majority of the year playing both Atlas and Sisyphus, carrying everything, pushing boulders I had no business pushing, insisting I could muscle my way to the summit of a mountain I didn’t even know I was climbing.
A teacher once shared the image of someone clawing at the walls of a well, scraping fingernails, desperate to stay near the surface, terrified of dropping. And honestly? Yeah. That tracks.
Trying to control life is exhausting and, in the strangest way, addictive. When the world feels unsteady, grip becomes reflex.
But as the days shortened, something softened.
This winter, I’m learning to let the waves lift me.
To stop digging my heels into the sand each time life changes its rhythm.
Because resisting the tide?
It’s a surprisingly efficient way to drown.
And somewhere in this slowing down, I’m remembering what David Abram writes so beautifully in The Spell of the Sensuous: how winter hushes the world just enough that our senses finally begin to listen again. How snow thickens silence into something alive, an intimate, breathing quiet that blurs the border between our bodies and the land itself. How the world, covered in white, becomes less visual noise and more invitation. More presence. More reciprocity.
And when the snow finally does arrive, late, shy, half-committed, it leaves behind these gorgeous little mysteries as it melts. The patterns feel almost Rorschach-like, as if the ground were holding up inkblots for us to interpret.
What do you see here?
A doorway?
An animal?
A truth surfacing?
Winter loves to make the world a mirror, offering back the parts of ourselves we forget to notice.
And then there are the leaves that refuse to fall, the stubborn little survivors clinging to branches long after their siblings have surrendered to the season. I find myself wondering about them. Are they the stories we insist on holding as tightly as possible, even when they’re ready to release us?
The old identities we keep trying to drag into a new chapter?
The narratives we’re scared to let the wind take?
Winter thins the veil between inner and outer.
She lets us feel the world feeling us.
And maybe that’s where trust begins, not in certainty, not in grit, but in deep listening.
In hearing the faint whispers:
Slow down.
Stay here.
It’s okay.
What’s coming might surprise you in the best way.
So thank you, winter…
for showing up late but arriving fully.
For revealing what I couldn’t see through all the leaves.
For reminding me not to rush, not to armor, not to pretend.
If you’re reading this, consider it your invitation:
Take stock. Notice what’s ending. Honor what needs rest.
And listen for the faint seeds of what wants to begin.
Speaking of seeds…
On January 31st, I’ll be joining three women I adore for a FREE collective visioning experience, an early planting for the world we want to walk into in 2026.
And in January, I’m guiding a 4-week series on The Practice of Giving & Receiving Pleasure in Denver, a deep dive into desire, boundaries, communication, and the sensual intelligence of the body.
Here’s to late winters, early awakenings, and the kind of quiet that brings us back to ourselves.
L❄️VE you breathtaking words! You make winter feel warm 🤍