🕒 Read time: 5-6 minutes
December has a weight all of its own. Even when the world fills with lights, music and expectation, for many of us, the season brings an undercurrent of heaviness. The contrast between expectation and reality can feel overwhelming. The pressure to be joyful, to give, to celebrate, to perform. And if grief, loss, or exhaustion is already present, the brightness of the season can feel almost cruel.
I know this personally. For years, Christmas was difficult. Grappling with the pain of infertility, I couldn’t relate to it at all. The commercial spectacle, the insistence on joy, the performances of happiness…none of it resonated with the person I was feeling inside. Grief lingered like a shadow, and participating in traditions I no longer felt aligned with felt like wearing a mask that didn’t fit.
Turning Towards the Winter Solstice
It was during one particularly difficult December that I turned to nature. I’d stopped celebrating Christmas, but I felt there was something missing which added to the loss I was already experiencing. I slowed my pace. I allowed myself to notice the stillness around me, the bare branches, the low winter sun, the frost on the ground.
I sought the quiet magic of the Winter Solstice. The Solstice, falling this year on Sunday 21st December, marks the longest night of the year. The moment when darkness reaches its deepest point. The darkest night, yet the moment when light begins to return.
For thousands of years, this moment has been honoured not as a celebration of endless light, but as a reverence for darkness itself. A recognition that life does not disappear in winter, it goes inward. Roots deepen, energy gathers and seeds rest beneath frozen ground, preparing for what will come next.
This understanding changed how I met the season and how I met myself.
Instead of seeing my grief, withdrawal, or quietness as something to fix, I began to see them as part of a natural cycle. Winter wasn’t asking me to be joyful. It was asking me to rest.
For the first time in years, I felt permission to be gentle with myself, to honour my own rhythm, and to create my own light in the darkness.
Winter Wisdom: The Green Santa and the Cycles of Nature
Long before the red-suited Santa dominated our imagery, winter held other figures. Among them, the Green Santa or Father Christmas of folklore. Clothed in deep green with a crown of holly or ivy, he represented the life hidden beneath snow, the returning sun, and the promise of renewal. He embodied the sacred cycles of the season: rest, reflection, and the gentle return of growth.
This idea, that the darkest time carries the seed of new life, became central to my own winter practice. It reminded me that even in despair or stillness, light persists. It reminded me to honour the rhythm of nature: darkness is not to be feared; it is fertile ground for new growth. It is necessary preparation for what will come.
And so, guided by the wisdom of nature, I created my own rituals celebrating the stillness and deep insight of winter and the return of the light.
Creating Your Own Winter Rituals
Honouring your own winter can take many forms. It does not need to be a grand gesture. Start by lighting a single candle to honour the return of the light. Here are some ways I’ve nurtured myself, and ways you might, too
- Slow the Pace: Give yourself permission to step away from obligations, social expectations, or over-scheduling. Even a few quiet hours in nature or at home can reset your energy
- Light in the Darkness: Candles, fires, or strings of soft lights can symbolise hope and warmth. You don’t need anyone else to validate your need for light.
- Nature as Anchor: Walk in the woods, sit by a frost-covered field, or simply notice the trees outside your window. Observe how life persists even in winter. Let the cycles of nature mirror your own resilience.
- Rituals for the Soul: Create small ceremonies that feel meaningful; journaling, mindful tea rituals, bath soaks, or writing letters to yourself. These practices can hold you when the external world feels too heavy.
- Permission to Reshape Traditions: You don’t have to follow old scripts. You can celebrate in ways that feel nourishing: skipping the commercial trappings, choosing solitude, or inventing new practices that honour your emotional needs.
Reflection and Takeaway
Winter asks us to slow down, to feel deeply, and to honour ourselves. This solstice, I invite you to ask:
- What do I need in this season of darkness?
- Which parts of me are asking to rest, grieve, or be seen?
- How can I create my own light, rather than wait for it to appear outside?
You don’t need permission from anyone else. It is okay to step off the treadmill of expectations, to honour your own rhythms, and to let nature and the cycles of sun and shadow guide you.
This winter, may you find the courage to create your own light, nurture your own heart, and honour your own path. The darkness holds wisdom. The silence holds healing. And even in the longest night, the return of light is quietly, beautifully inevitable.
