I like who I am in the winter

A nod to solstice, a celebration of a new season

Good morning.

Happy holidays to you, and best of all, happy winter.

Winter solstice was last week, marking the beginning of one of my favorite seasons. As I write this, I have the front door cracked, letting the fresh, crispy air blow through the screen door, bringing the scents of pine, rain, and briny ocean into the house, and pushing any stale, heavy air out. The candlesticks are lit to offer some warmth against the dark morning, the Christmas tree is still projecting its colorful glow, and I’m wrapped in my heated blanket—feeling the contrasts of it all. And of course, there’s piping hot black coffee, and Ellie is laying at my feet.

While I grew up celebrating Christmas (and still do), I don’t identify with any organized religion these days, finding more meaning in the solstices and equinoxes. Aligning myself with the seasons over the years has been life changing. I feel much more in sync with myself and the world when I lean into the ebb and flow of seasonal shifts, which means I no longer resonate with complaints about winter, darkness, and cold (though I often find myself participating in those narratives so as not to be the asshole that says “I love this time of year!” after someone tells me about their crippling seasonal depression).

I sometimes feel like winter would benefit from a re-brand, but then again, loving winter feels like being in on a sacred secret, and I’m happy to lean into the solitude that comes from enjoying something other people don’t.

I guess my love of winter makes sense: I was born deep in the season—February 8 to be exact—making my entrance in the early morning, while sub-zero wind chills whipped across Chicago. I started this life cozily bundled up, safe and warm inside while winter raged on outside. And I often return to that posture every year as the darkness descends, going inside my own little cocoon. It’s comforting.

Winter caters to the deeply reflective side of myself—the one who’s thrilled to spend hours inside by the fireplace with a novel or tromping through a quiet, snowy forest hoping for a wildlife sighting. The one who treasures long, deep conversations with loved ones over a hot beverage, and cooking slow, luxurious meals because, well, the night is so long this time of year anyway. Winter brings out a side of me that’s less available, less urgent, and less high strung. I’m gentler, more intentional, and more thoughtful. I like who I am in the winter.

Naturally, I’ve been thinking about some of the things I want to make time for this season. Snowshoeing. Reading a literary classic I haven’t read before. Trying new recipes that I don’t have time for when there’s a plethora of daylight to be enjoyed. Eating lots of phở and ramen. Taking advantage of citrus season (and warding off illness) by making smoothies with orange, grapefruit, lemon, and ginger. Nighttime walks. Cozying up with a drink and a plate of fries at a neighborhood bar. Watching the sunrise. Reading at a coffee shop. Eating good bread. Writing. Insulating myself from certain elements, literally and metaphorically.

But I also want to make time for blobbing—that state of being where there’s no plans, no productivity, and no pressure. I’ll do something if I want, and I’ll say no when I don’t (and I probably don’t). The week leading up to New Years is peak blob weak, and I love it. It feels like the one time of year when everyone—even that one friend who thinks their life will combust if they’re not being “productive”—collectively agrees to cool it. We need that. My god, do we need that.

On that note, I’m disappearing for a few days to a cozy inn on an island outside of Seattle. I plan to read, eat some delicious food, and go on long walks with Aaron. I’ll bask in the novelty of the start of the season, more so than the start of the calendar year. And I’ll enter my own little winter hibernation, slowing down and inviting stillness so I can tune in to what’s beneath the surface.

I’m wishing you the loveliest, coziest start to your winter. If this time of year is hard for you, I see you and I’m sending you all the warmth and joy I can muster. Some of these things might help.

Until next time,

Elizabeth