Holding The Pause
On winter rhythms, uncertainty, and quiet resilience
“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”
~ Albert Camus
Welcome to Sage Haven. Here you’ll find a quiet space to slow down, reflect, and feel at home with the turning seasons. As a paid subscriber, you’ll enjoy full access to my 60-page Seasonal Wellness Ebook, plus the archive of heartfelt letters and my 30-day collection of gentle self-care prompts, each designed to help you pause, notice, and nurture yourself.
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We woke up on Monday morning to find the world had been painted white. My youngest was delighted, running and laughing in the snow with the dog, while my eldest and I stayed tucked beneath the covers, only our noses braving the cold air.
The last few months have brought more change than I could ever have predicted. I left a long relationship that, over time, had become a constant source of stress and anxiety, wearing me down in ways I didn’t fully notice until I stepped back. Leaving meant giving up a stability I thought I could rely on. It also meant losing family support I assumed would always be there.
My daughters and I are living with my mother temporarily, sleeping on the floor of a small apartment while we wait for a new home to be built. We don’t know exactly when it will be ready, or how we’ll manage the cost of setting it up. Support that should have been consistent is not. Everything feels provisional, as though we’re standing on ground that hasn’t quite settled. Yet it also feels exciting, a new chapter ready to be written.
At the same time, something unexpected has returned to my life, a love I thought belonged firmly in the past. It brings warmth and hope, but also complication. Change, even good change, rarely arrives neatly.
One of my children is struggling deeply, and our days are shaped by anxiety, adjustment, and a constant effort to keep things steady in the middle of uncertainty. I notice the different ways my children cope - one bursting outward, one retreating inward - and I recognise the same patterns in myself. Some days I move forward with energy. Other days I pull back, conserving what little steadiness I have.
Looking back now, I can see choices I made that don’t make sense to me anymore, even though I believed in them fully at the time. That realisation has left me cautious. Unsure. Sometimes unable to trust my instincts or the advice offered by others. On harder days, it freezes me. Decisions feel heavy. I hesitate, unsure whether stepping forward will make things better or worse.
When I feel overwhelmed like this, I retreat - from writing, from reading other people’s words, from engaging at all. I tell myself I’ll come back tomorrow, when things feel lighter. Today, I’m easing myself back in gently, trying to honour both my need for caution and my desire to reconnect.
There’s a rhythm to this, internal seasons that don’t follow calendars or cultural expectations. There are periods of withdrawal and reflection, followed by moments of action and emergence.
January often comes with pressure to reset everything at once, to make bold plans and dramatic changes. But I’m learning that starting again doesn’t have to look impressive. Sometimes it just means showing up in a small way. Sometimes it means pouring another cup of tea and letting that be enough.
Today, I’m wrapping Christmas mugs and nesting them in blankets and pillowcases that used to live on the couch. Cookie cutters are returned to their old tin box. Glittering baubles and the fur-lined golden angel are laid carefully back into their boxes, checked twice to make sure none are left behind. The tree has been sent for recycling, leaving behind a trail of silvery green needles.
There’s something satisfying about these ordinary acts. Each folded blanket and boxed ornament carries a memory - laughter, mess, warmth. Putting them away doesn’t erase those moments. It marks a transition. One season ending. Another beginning, slowly. The work is small and repetitive, but it feels meaningful. A quiet acknowledgment that things move on, even if they do so gently.
Christmas passes quickly, often leaving behind a strange sense of emptiness. We’re encouraged to fill that space immediately - with resolutions, plans, better versions of ourselves. But the space itself has value. It’s a pause. A chance to reflect on what’s just been lived, to sit with how it felt before rushing ahead. January doesn’t need to be about reinvention. It can be about noticing. About gratitude for the abundance of the season just past, and rest before the next one begins to stir.
In the natural world, this pause is obvious. Bare trees aren’t empty, they’re conserving strength. I notice how small routines help me feel grounded. A quiet morning. A cup of tea. A few minutes of stillness. How rest, when allowed without guilt, builds more resilience than pushing ever has.
Some days, I still feel myself slipping back into old doubts. Some evenings, the weight of past choices settles heavily, and trusting my instincts feels impossible. Then, unexpectedly, clarity arrives in small ways - a decision that feels right, a moment of calm restored by a simple ritual, a reminder that learning doesn’t happen all at once.
This season is also asking me to care for myself in ways I’ve long ignored. To notice my body. To reclaim small parts of myself that disappeared under exhaustion and doubt. I’m not ready to unpack all of that yet, but the intention is there. It will unfold slowly.
If you happen to be reading this from a place of uncertainty, be it between homes, between decisions, between what was and what might be, know that this isn’t a failure of planning or strength. Sometimes it’s simply the cost of choosing yourself.
Winter doesn’t offer quick answers. But it does offer something quieter: the chance to strip things back, to endure, to pay attention, and to begin again without pretending you have it all figured out. And if there’s room for a snowball fight or a second cup of tea along the way, so much the better.
Until next time,
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Quiet resilience, all will be well. ♥️❄️