Honoring the “Bleak Midwinter”
I first sat down to write this and promptly fell asleep on the sofa, as the sun went down at 4 pm. Now I’m sitting at my kitchen table, seeing the reflection of myself and the twinkle lights in the room reflected in the window. The early setting sun makes it easier to feel cocooned in my house, and going out at 6 pm feels like a midnight voyage.
I am hearing and feeling the dissonance between what November and December are “supposed” to be: a time of positive family interactions, celebration, or gift giving; and the reality of what 2025 has been for many people: a year of loss, uncertainty, or transition. If you are feeling this disconnect as we enter the last month of the year, know that you aren’t alone. Nationwide, and Chicago in particular these last couple months, there has been a collective heaviness.
Winter in the Northern Hemisphere is the “dark half of the year” (Katherine May); the liminal space where the spooky feels a little closer and we are faced with, at best, equal halves light and dark in the day. It is hard to avoid what feels dark or heavy, or the absence of light, because it is mirrored in the season.
So how might we care for ourselves and honor our experiences of loss, darkness, or being in limbo? Instead of pushing away, can we welcome in seasons of moving slowly, not denying that things feel heavier or darker, while remembering that we don’t stay here, and the balance of light and darkness will change again? In sessions I’ve been talking about how we can prepare and take care of ourselves during this season, and I’m sharing my ongoing, imperfect list with you. Perhaps you’ll find something that will appeal to you, or perhaps you’ll share with me something that is working for you.
Poetry, always poetry.
Reminders from activists and changemakers that rest and regulation are part of the movement, too.
Playing with light. How do the twinkle lights have an extra magic this time of year? Or the fire, or candlelight? Can I notice the sunset a little more?
Seasonal cleaning. Can you reset your space in a way that prepares you for being home a little more? We flipped our sofas, on a whim, and my fiddle leaf fig has a new spot by the window now.
Prioritizing warming my muscles. This could be movement, yoga, the hot tub at the Y while my kids do their swim class. Maybe a sauna afternoon in January?
This year I created an altar as a place to mark and honor my grief, less about a specific death loss, but more as a home for feelings of collective grief and loss. What would your altar include?
I planted bulbs for the spring and dug up my dahlia tubers with the hope that they will have a thriving season next year. What can we place our hope in for the future?
Interested in working with Hannah? Connect with her at Hannah@RoomToBreatheChicago.Com