Reclaiming Winter By Katherine Emery General

Spiritually, winter is often described as a sacred pause, a time for deep inner reflection, rest, and renewal. It is the season that invites us to slow down, shed what no longer serves us, and quietly build inner strength beneath the surface. But for many of us, winter has never felt like an invitation. It has felt like an obligation.

I grew up in Wyoming, where winter stretches on for eight months of the year. There was no gentle easing into stillness; only long, cold days that demanded resilience. When winter is constant, it ceases to be symbolic. You don’t rest when winter is your default; you celebrate it. You keep moving because stopping isn’t an option, there are too many trails to ski.

Later, as a family running a restaurant, winter carried a different kind of threat. Cold months and snowy days could mean empty tables, tight margins, and constant worry. Winter wasn’t a time to reflect, it was a time to hustle harder, to compensate for what the season might take away. Rest felt irresponsible. Slowing down felt dangerous.

So the spiritual narrative of winter as a season of introspection and renewal felt abstract at best, irrelevant at worst. It belonged to people whose lives allowed long pauses, whose winters were measured in weeks, not survival.

And yet, something has shifted.

Recently, I have found myself slowing down almost without effort. I’m reflecting, noticing, celebrating the cold rather than resisting it. I leisurely walk my dog and look up at the sky, checking for snow, not with dread, but with anticipation. Snow no longer feels like a burden; it feels like permission. It softens the world. It quiets the noise. It creates a landscape where nothing is expected to rush.

Inside, my kitchen tells the same story. I’m cooking pot roasts, chili, soups, and chicken pot pies, meals that simmer slowly and nourish deeply. These are foods meant to warm you from the inside out, the kind that “stick to your bones.” They speak of abundance rather than scarcity, of care rather than efficiency. Cooking this way feels like an offering to my family, to the season, to the idea that warmth can be shared.

My mornings are quieter now. I knit hats and mittens, I write in my journal and practice yoga. I paint tiny vignettes, small enough to be completed without pressure, intimate enough to feel personal. These are not acts of productivity; they are acts of presence. They don’t demand urgency or perfection. My reward is in the process.

Even my reading has turned inward. I’m drawn to books about women who practice herbal medicine; women who understand cycles, patience, and the intelligence of the natural world. Herbalism requires listening: to plants, to seasons, to the body’s subtle cues. It feels aligned with this moment in my life, as if I’m learning a language I studied but was never given time to practice before.

What I’m realizing is that I didn’t miss winter’s wisdom, I was simply never allowed access to it. For years, winter asked too much of me to give anything back. Now, for the first time, I am experiencing winter as it is meant to be: not a test of endurance, but a time for rest and self-care.

Tuesday as I begin to pack away the Christmas decorations, I plan to replace the green and red garlands with softer wool garlands and candles, textures meant to hold warmth. I’m not saying goodbye to the holidays, I’m settling into winter coziness.

This slowing down doesn’t feel indulgent. It feels corrective. It feels like reclaiming a season that once belonged to survival and allowing it to become something softer, something truer. Winter is no longer something to get through. It is something to inhabit, to honor, to listen to, to learn from.

And perhaps that is the deepest renewal of all: discovering that rest is not something we earn after hardship, but something we are finally safe enough to receive.