A Season for Wintering

For the past few years, as February begins, I—alongside the groundhog—find myself poking my head out to take a look around. Like the groundhog, I'm looking for signs of spring. Is warmer weather on its way? Are signs of growth on the horizon? When it comes down to it, I'm asking myself, "Is it time to come out yet?"

I'm not exactly sure when this need began, but after the Christmas season each year, I've felt a strong desire to retreat—to draw back from the world and the regular rhythms of daily life and simply be. I've longed for more time to be still, to be quiet, and to give my mind and body rest.

I don't remember always feeling this need. Maybe it has grown alongside the challenges I've endured. It's always seemed to me that the longer we live, the easier life should get. Doesn't that seem fair? Like practice—the more time you spend doing something, the better you get at it, and the easier it becomes. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be the case with life. Instead, the longer we live, the more heartache, challenges, disappointment, and grief we experience. Perhaps we become more accustomed to them. We're not quite so shocked when the rug is pulled out from under us. And yet, I've felt this need for recovery time more and more.

For the past couple of years, I've finally given myself permission to spend an extended time after the new year wintering. January has become my season of retreat—a time to embrace the cold as an invitation to draw inward.

What is Wintering?

I first came across the concept of wintering through a book recommendation: Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. Part memoir and part philosophical reflection, May examines how hardship—illness, loss, upheaval—forces us into unexpected seasons of slowing down, and how these "winters" can become not just survivable, but transformative.

Although Wintering is not a faith-based book, the concept itself is deeply rooted in the rhythms God designed. Winter is a season crafted by our Creator. Throughout creation, we see living things responding differently during this season than they do the rest of the year. Growth slows. Energy is conserved. Activity changes. In this way, wintering reflects a truth Scripture shows us again and again: there are seasons for activity and seasons for rest, and both are part of God's good design.

I began to understand wintering as an extension of the Sabbath principle. Instead of a single day of rest, it becomes a full season of drawing inward—for retreat, quiet, and restoration. It's a time to reflect, look back, learn, and then set your mind forward.

Of course, wintering looks different depending on your life stage and circumstances. For parents of young children, it might be finding twenty minutes to sit quietly with your favorite warm drink, doing absolutely nothing. For someone with a demanding career, it might mean protecting your weekends throughout January. Instead of attending events or networking, you simply enjoy quiet weekends at home. For me, with more flexibility in my days, it includes long stretches of time curled up under a blanket reading, continuous cups of warm coffee, hot herbal tea, or my new favorite, warm lemon water. (It's just the best!) It looks like extended time in prayer. It's rethinking the past and seeking changes for the coming year—because I need more than December 26-31 to do this well. It's finding things I can focus my mind on that don't drain me, like working a puzzle, organizing drawers, or building my Books I Want to Read list. And it's saying no to obligations that aren't necessary.

Learning to Rest Without Guilt

It took me a while to stop feeling guilty about giving myself time to live more slowly, without setting goals and running full speed ahead to complete them. The guilt would whisper that I was being lazy, unproductive, and selfish. Our culture celebrates constant motion, productivity, and perpetual growth—a continuous season of spring. I've never had any problem doing what was expected of me, and so to deliberately choose to slow down almost felt rebellious.

What I've found is that by allowing myself this time, I eventually emerge feeling rested and ready to face whatever the future holds. Restoration has taken place, and although hidden, growth has occurred, too.

What Nature Teaches Us

When I first began contemplating the idea of wintering, my thoughts immediately turned to the natural world and God's creation. The plants and animals around us go through the wintering process every year. They don't fight it. They don't ignore it. They don't pretend it's not needed. It is, in fact, exactly what is needed in preparation for the coming season.

Consider the bear. It hibernates to avoid food scarcity and the harsh winter climate. Its body slows in incredible ways—body temperature drops, metabolism and heart rate slow—all while the bear appears to be doing absolutely nothing.

Trees also use the winter season to conserve energy. Many trees enter a season of dormancy. They shed their leaves and redirect their energy to their roots. This strengthens their foundation, and it all unfolds when no one can see any growth at all.

Have you ever wondered how perennial flowers grow back each spring? In winter, the bulbs lie dormant beneath the earth. What we cannot see is their root systems further developing and converting stored food into a natural antifreeze to prevent the plant from freezing. Incredibly, some bulbs will even use their roots to pull themselves deeper into the soil, seeking a warmer, more stable environment as they await spring.

Nature has remembered what we seem to have forgotten: rest is not the absence of growth. It is simply a different kind of growth—one that takes place beneath the surface.

Emerging

So here I am in early February, checking in with myself like the cautious groundhog. Instead of anxiously asking, "Is it time to come out yet?" I'm asking myself, "Have I given myself the time I needed?"

Spring will come whether I'm ready or not. But I've learned that I will meet it with far more resilience if I have wintered. I no longer want to see my winter shadow with disappointment. Instead, I want to learn to trust the rhythms my body, mind, and soul need—not the ones the world demands.

What I know is that when I emerge, it won't be because external pressures forced me out. It will be because I feel that quiet stirring beneath the surface that speaks of renewal. I'm not convinced I will need six more weeks of winter. But if I do, bring it on! I've found that the depth of my rest determines the height of my growth.

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:"

Ecclesiastes 3:1