“I beg you…to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
Still Wintering
I find myself standing at the beginning of a new year, feeling both eager and hesitant at the same time. There’s a familiar pull to get started — to set intentions, to move forward, to become something clearer or more defined. And yet, beneath that energy, there’s another truth quietly asking to be heard: I am still wintering.
Not everything in my life is ready for growth or a quick finish. Some things are asking for patience. I can feel that tension in myself — the desire to move ahead paired with the knowing that forcing everything at once would only take me further from what I’m actually moving toward. When I try to hold every idea, every plan, every hope all at the same time, I end up exhausted and disconnected. That isn’t the direction I want to go.
Learning to Be
Lately, I’ve been noticing small places where this wintering shows up — even as part of me wishes it were already spring. One of them appears in something as simple as my reading. I’m working through a daily book and keep feeling the urge to rush ahead. I could read more than one entry a day. No one is telling me not to. And yet, something in me wants to slow down — to stay with each day’s words, to contemplate them, to let them settle before moving on.
It feels like a quiet metaphor for my life right now.
There’s a sense that something new is coming — a next step waiting somewhere ahead of me. Not urgently. Not loudly. Just there. And instead of leaping toward it, I’m asking myself to pause. To trust the timing of what’s unfolding and to enjoy what is now. Wintering, for me, looks like resisting the urge to get ahead of myself and learning how to be.
Compassion Without Fixing
As I sit with this, I’m beginning to see compassion differently. I used to think it required action — fixing, helping, offering solutions. But more and more, compassion is showing up as a step back. A pause. A breath. Kindness doesn’t always ask us to do something. Sometimes it asks us to simply be present.
Being fully present in my own life — not mentally racing toward the next step, not anticipating or worrying about what comes next — feels like an act of kindness toward myself. There is gentleness in allowing this moment to be enough, without needing it to immediately lead somewhere else.
Treating Energy as Precious
This reflection has made me more aware of my energy — how finite it is, and how easily I give it away without noticing. Some things nourish me. Others quietly drain me, leaving very little in return. Wintering with compassion is teaching me to pay attention to that difference, not with judgment, but with care. To treat my energy as something precious, worthy of protection and respect.
Alongside this awareness comes another quiet realization: how much of what I do is shaped by my assumptions about what others expect of me. Often, no one has actually asked anything of me at all. The pressure lives entirely in my own mind — a story I’ve created about how I should be showing up, producing, progressing.
When I pause long enough to notice, I realize that I have no proof of my assumptions except for what I have created in my mind.
Trusting My Own Knowing
I’m learning to question that story gently. To ask whether it’s rooted in reality or habit. Whether it’s driven by care, or by fear of falling behind. And in that questioning, something steadier begins to surface.
I do know what I’m doing.
Not in a loud, certain, five-year-plan kind of way — but in a quieter sense. I know when something feels aligned and when it doesn’t. I know when I’m forcing, and when I’m allowing. I know when I need rest, and when I’m ready to engage. That knowing doesn’t always come with words or proof, but it’s there nonetheless. I’m learning to listen to myself.
A Softer Pace
This season is inviting me to listen more carefully to how I speak to myself, especially when I feel tired, quiet, or unmotivated. Judgment tends to show up quickly — sharp, automatic, familiar. But I’m drawn to the idea of replacing that judgment with curiosity instead. With gentleness. What if, instead of reacting negatively, I asked What’s being asked of me right now?
What if I realize rest doesn’t need to be earned?
Wintering with compassion, I’m discovering, isn’t about withdrawing from life. It’s about staying with it — just at a softer pace. It’s about allowing some things to remain unfinished. About staying with questions instead of rushing toward answers. And being ok with some of them unanswered. About trusting that rest, too, is part of the work, even when there’s nothing visible to show for it yet.
Closing Reflection
Wintering is asking me to listen, trust, honor, and move in ways that feel honest to myself.
Perhaps that, too, is compassion.
Be Kind to Yourself
This is the kind of conversation that grows.
What does wintering look like for you? Feel free to reach out and share.