The other morning I stood in the kitchen at 7am, still cold to my bones. I was still in my scruffy outdoor layers from feeding the horses — muddy leggings, an old hoodie that smelled faintly of hay, and my favourite yellow beanie. I just stared out at the garden.
There was a robin on the fence post right in front of the window, all fluffed up and looking really pissed off. The frost was thick on the grass, the sky was that greyish-blue that makes you feel like the sun’s never going to fully arrive, and the only signs of life were our barn cats, Wilma and Zelda, skulking back inside after their morning patrol.
I just stood there, holding my coffee, watching the robin shuffle toward the feeder like it was all a bit much. And I thought, same mate, same.
I’m not rushing into the new year. There’s no plan, no push, no sense of needing to ‘begin again.’ I’m just moving slowly, pottering around the house, watching the light shift, and sitting by the log fire. A lot.
This time of year always feels a bit odd to me, does it for you? Some people I know have catapulted into January with colour-coded planners, goals, and vision boards. Meanwhile, others, myself included, are still in that slow, foggy in-between place. Not quite sure what day it is, not quite ready to begin anything just yet.
It’s a strange split. The world seems to expect us to speed up, but everything in me, and in nature, is saying: nah, not yet.
As most of you know, I live in a small village surrounded by farmland. At this time of year, the fields are frozen solid and the trees look bare. Everything seems dead-still. But if you’ve spent enough winters here, you learn that there are seasons when it looks like nothing’s happening, and yet, everything is. Just very slowly. Quietly. Under the surface.
I think we’re the same, really.
You don’t owe the New Year a ‘ready’ version of yourself. You just don’t. We don’t have to be ‘ready’ just because it’s the first week of the year. We are allowed to be slow, we are allowed to be quiet, and we are most definitely allowed to not have a clue what we’re doing yet.
Bernie and I talked about this on our podcast this week, that weird pressure to be “new” when most of us are still catching our breath after December.
If you’re not bouncing with energy, if you’ve forgotten your passwords and can’t remember how to be a functioning person, this episode is for you. It’s basically one big permission slip to go gently.
So, if you’re looking at other people’s 5am yoga routines and feeling deeply unmotivated, you’re absolutely not failing. You’re just wintering. (I highly recommend Katherine May’s book, Wintering, about just this).
Wintering is about resting and gathering; doing the small things that keep you going rather than overhauling your life. Maybe that’s a slow walk without your phone, or lighting a candle at 4pm just to make things feel a bit softer. Because in the coldest seasons, the goal isn’t to thrive, it’s simply to keep the pilot light flickering.
That’s enough. Honestly, some days, it’s more than enough.
Your energy will come back when it’s ready, just like the light does as winter turns. You don’t have to rush.