The hardest part of winter for me is the freezing temperatures that turn me into a hibernating bear. I don’t love bundling up in extra layers just to step outside — and even when I do, there isn’t much to do when the world is sitting in the 30s. And those layers? They only work for so long before the cold finds its way in anyway.

So most winter days, we stay inside — where warmth lives.

The holidays make the beginning of winter more bearable. There’s excitement and sparkle and things to look forward to. But once January rolls in and the decorations come down, the walls can start to feel a little too familiar. The stir-crazy hits. The longing for sunshine grows.

When we get closer to the end of winter, I shift toward hope. I start planning our summer garden — dreaming of tomatoes and zinnias and days spent with my hands in the dirt. It gives me something bright to look forward to.

Inside, our rhythms change too. We play more games. Read more books. Bake more treats. We slow into a cozy closeness we don’t always have in the busy months.

And when spring begins hinting that it’s near?

That’s when my heart feels full again.

I look for:

🌱 The first daffodils pushing through beds of fallen leaves

🌸 The dogwood buds scattered along the mountains

🎶 The birds — lively and loud — singing that the world isn’t asleep after all

Winter has never felt like a season of teaching to me — not in the obvious ways, at least. I never quite connected with the idea that winter teaches patience. But I do think winter teaches rest. The plants outside my window rest. The earth rests. And maybe that means I’m supposed to rest too.

If you’re a mama reading this in a long, cold season (literal or figurative), I hope this truth settles gently in your heart:

You don’t have to bloom every season.

Rest is holy too.

Joy is coming — and you’ll feel the warmth again. 🤍