In The Quiet Season

I haven’t written in a while.

In the quiet season, a lot has happened.

Business has grown. I’ve supported many clients toward better health and lifestyle transformation. And somewhere along the way, I turned back toward myself too, re-establishing a solid movement routine and reconnecting with my body after an absence of connection I didn’t realize had run as deep as it did.

On the other side of that reconnection, I saw it clearly: a subtle depression had taken root. Not the dramatic kind, the quiet kind. The kind that grows from feeling a little lost in mind, body, and spirit. From drifting a few degrees off purpose. From falling into that familiar rut where even the career that lights you up begins to feel like routine.

It felt like restlessness - a stirring, like autumn leaves shifting before a fall.

A gentle descent, not a fearful one.

The beginning of a new season without knowing what the season would hold.

And in those seasons, the first instinct is always control.

Lie awake.

Come up with solutions.

Fix the unease.

Change the circumstances.

Do something.

Because doing feels safer than feeling; more productive than being.

Doing distracts us from the discomfort.

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But constant doing has a cost.

It pushes emotions down into the body, where they lodge, linger, and eventually show up as stress, inflammation, or symptoms we can’t explain.

Dis-ease begins when we stop being with ourselves long enough to feel what’s asking to be felt.

In this quiet season, I intentionally practiced the opposite.

I practiced being.

I practiced noticing each emotion and where it lived in my body. honoring its presence, even when it burned or tightened or ached. I practiced letting my body speak. I practiced showing up fully for life rather than trying to outrun it.

It wasn’t comfortable.

But it was honest. And it was healing.

I’ve navigated health concerns of family members and felt the heavy pit of anxiety in my stomach as the weight of disturbing news sinks in. I’ve been held by loving arms. I’ve cried on shoulders. The same space that I hold for clients on a daily basis has been held for me in times when all I could do was be and feel, because there was no more doing to be done.

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In times of pain, I seek solace in little ways. This quiet season has provided me the opportunity to actively create warmth and comfort around me. 

It has been the little things, like finally changing the bulb in my salt lamp and welcoming back its warm glow and hanging curtains around my Buddha painting, providing texture and gentleness against the stark white wall. 

With milder temperatures, I’ve opened windows and doors and plugged in twinkle lights. 

I wandered a library book sale and came home with paper bags full of books, not to read all at once, but to stack on shelves with candles, incense, and intention.

I’ve rearranged plants, furniture, and thought patterns - creating space for fresh vibes and fresh ideas. Creating space for new energy to move in.

I hung art that quietly, yet boldly, declared my beliefs about human rights and women’s rights.

I said yes to writing opportunities that made me feel seen.

I’ve baked apples with cinnamon and honey for the sheer purpose of letting the warm aroma and flavor comfort parts of my soul that were aching. 

I’ve sipped warm tea on a cool patio, wrapped in layers of blankets and a full moon glow, letting the night sky remind me of how small and held we really are.

Lately, a perfect evening has looked like fuzzy socks and dry wine, with a hearty bowl of soup and warm sourdough bread. 

It has also looked like an impromptu night of karaoke at home, paired with good friends and steaming mugs of cacao sweetened with agave nectar.

These moments are my medicine.

My meditation. 

My way back home.

They are what silence the chaos around me and remind me that I am safe, I am held, I am enough. These are the everyday celebrations of this life experience that often go unnoticed and sometimes even undone, because we fail to recognize their power. 

These moments remind me that peace doesn’t only live in retreats or big trips or life-changing decisions. It lives in the everyday rituals we overlook - the ones that cost little, but shift everything.

We often chase the big, extravagant ways to feel better, forgetting how capable we are of creating serenity in our own homes, our own routines, our own bodies.

We forget how much control we do have, even when so much feels out of control.

And maybe that’s the lesson of this quiet season: That healing isn’t always loud.

Sometimes, it looks like soft light, warm tea, a deep breath, and the courage to be with yourself long enough to feel the truth.

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If you too are finding yourself in a quiet season, I hope this brings you comfort and inspires you to welcome in the warmth that is already there for you in nature.

I invite you to sit outside and let the silent strength of the trees be what holds you up.

The cool air refresh the parts of you that feel stagnant or stuck.

The promising glow of the sunrise be the energy that fuels you.

The soft colors of the sunset remind you that rest, too, is a natural part of life.

Nature is our home, so why not invite it into yours?

Let rich, grounding soups made from root vegetables seep warmth into places that feel tired.

Let bone broth bubbling on the stove and a bundle of fresh thyme remind your nervous system it’s safe.

Your senses know how to soothe you through taste, scent, color, texture, and sound if you slow down enough to let them.

Allow the quiet season to hold you, teach you, and lead you back home.