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There is a pressure that arrives every January like clockwork, slowness becomes passe. Slow is the villain of the moment, and we must be ready to move onward and upward to the next level.
A collective inhale that says go.
New goals. New systems. New versions of ourselves—shinier, faster, more resolved...and just all the things all at once!
And yet.
I find myself standing firmly in winter, not quite ready to charge forward. Not stuck. Not lost. Just… not prepared. This season feels less like the start of a race and more like a deep exhale. A pause that isn’t empty, but full. Full of feeling. Full of reflection. Full of the quiet hum of something forming beneath the surface, reminding us that embracing slow growth can foster patience and self-awareness.
So this year, I’m allowing myself a slow start.
Winter Is Not a Delay
Winter has never been a time of stagnation in nature. It’s a time of preservation, rest, and recalibration. Roots deepen. Soil recovers. Energy moves inward before it dares to rise again. And I’m realizing how deeply I need that same rhythm. The urge to push is there, of course. I feel it daily. Ideas knocking. Collections forming in my mind. The pull to map the future, outline plans, and make declarations. Still jumping in on the urgent things, but intentionally and very discriminately picking which moments those are.
But there is another voice—steadier, quieter—asking me to linger a bit longer in the stillness.
The Difference Between Stillness and Stagnation
To languish.
Not in a dramatic or defeated way, but in a way that honors the body, the spirit, and the year that just passed. To sit with what was before deciding what will be. To allow rest and recuperation to be active choices rather than something earned only after burnout. Embracing patience and self-compassion during this season can foster a more mindful and gentle approach to growth.
This is not about stopping. It’s about moving forward without rushing, not needing to decide everything right now, and still keeping energy circulating so it doesn’t become stagnant, while resisting the cultural demand to sprint before I’ve even stretched.
There is wisdom in winter if we let it speak.
This season, I feel especially drawn to history, both personal and collective. To the stories we carry, the ones we’ve inherited, and the ones we’ve outgrown. I’m finding myself wanting to explore the historical connections of crystals more deeply: how they were used, revered, misunderstood, and reinterpreted across time. Not just their metaphysical meanings, but their human ones. What people believed. What they hoped for. What they feared. What they loved.
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Crystals, History, and the Stories We Carry
Crystals, after all, are witnesses. They form slowly, under pressure, over time. They hold memory in a way that feels both scientific and poetic. And perhaps that’s why they feel like such appropriate companions for seasons of reflection. Serving as reminders that beauty doesn’t come from force, but from patience, consistency, and allowing transformation to happen in its own time.
At the same time, this historical curiosity is asking something of me personally.
Which stories am I still holding because they once kept me safe?
Which narratives deserve gratitude… and release?
Winter has a way of stripping things back. It asks us to review, not to judge. To look honestly at the year behind us and not through a highlight reel or a list of failures, but through a lens of compassion. There are moments I want to celebrate, moments I want to grieve, and moments that simply need to be acknowledged for what they were: necessary steps, even if they were uncomfortable.
There is an overwhelming need to review right now. To take stock. To sift through what worked, what didn’t, and what quietly carried me through when I didn’t realize I needed support. That process doesn’t feel linear or efficient, and I’m learning that it doesn’t need to be.
Alongside that reflection lives something softer: hope.
Not the loud, motivational kind. Not the “this is my year” declaration that demands certainty. But a gentle, steady hope. A belief that emergence is coming, even if I can’t see its shape yet. A sense of joy that feels less performative and more rooted, like warmth returning to cold hands.
And then there is the phrase that keeps circling me this season:
The Quiet Luxury of “I Do Not Know”
It feels Radical. Relieving. Spacious.
“I do not know” isn’t a failure of planning, a lack of understanding, or a sign of being less than. It’s an act of honesty. It allows curiosity to replace control. It invites humor where fear might lurk. It opens the door to grace when certainty would only tighten my grip.
There is a quiet luxury in admitting you don’t have all the answers.
Not luxury as excess, but luxury as choice. As discernment. As the ability to move thoughtfully instead of reactively. To value quality over urgency. To step into the unknown with courage, and yes, a little blindness, trusting that clarity often arrives after movement, not before it.
Preparing for Emergence
This season feels like standing at the edge of a thaw. The ground is still hard. The air is still sharp. But something is shifting. I can feel ideas warming. Collections form not from pressure, but from curiosity. From asking better questions instead of demanding immediate outcomes.
What if preparation doesn’t have to be frantic?
What if rest is part of forward motion?
What if honoring our rhythms is the most productive thing we can do?
I don’t believe emergence is something we force. I think it’s something we prepare for, we evolve by listening, resting, reviewing, and trusting the slow intelligence of growth. Spring will come. It always does. And when it does, I want to meet it rested, grounded, and open, not depleted from rushing toward a version of the future I hadn’t fully met yet, nor do I understand or maybe even want.
So for now, I’m choosing slowness.
I’m choosing reflection.
I’m choosing curiosity over certainty.
I’m allowing winter to do what it does best: hold space for becoming.
And when the time comes to rise, I’ll know, not because I planned every step, but because I honored the season that made it possible.
In Stillness, with Love,
Autumn M.
FAQs
Why is slowing down important at the start of the year?
Because reflection builds stronger foundations than urgency. Slowness allows clarity, alignment, and sustainable growth. Nature's calendar differs from ours. This is still the moment of rest in the Northern Hemisphere.
How do you avoid stagnant energy while resting?
By staying curious. Journaling, gentle planning, creative exploration, and intentional review keep energy moving without forcing outcomes.
Is it okay to not have clear goals right now?
Yes. Not knowing can be a powerful place of honesty and emergence. Clarity often arrives after a pause, not before. Once we start listening and taking small actions, we gain a clearer understanding of what does and does not work, so we can make bigger, bolder moves later.