The Winter Between

I’ve been trying to find my voice my whole life. 

Not because I don’t have anything to say… but because for so long it didn’t feel safe to say it. 

I am the kind of person who can feel everything, sense everything, know so much inside of myself… and still hold it back. Like I was always measuring what I could say, how I could tell it, and whether it would land okay. 

So yes…finding my voice has been a lifelong journey. 

And then three and a half years ago, I came to Unity Windsor. 

And honestly, I’m grateful for that chapter. 

Unity gave me opportunities I needed. It pushed me. It gave me chances to speak, to lead, to stretch myself. I broke through fears I’ve carried forever. There were moments where I surprised myself, like, wow… I actually did it. I actually said what I needed to say. 

And the truth is… I’ve never been able to express myself as well as I can now. I’ve been sensing a shift, like something in me is moving, but hasn’t found its words yet. It’s like I can feel there’s more in me. 

More truth. 

More depth. 

More to say. 

And I don’t totally know how to bring it out. 

I don’t know what the platform is. 

I don’t know where these words are supposed to go. 

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Sometimes a chapter completes. 

When one door closes. It’s not always because something went wrong. Sometimes it’s just that I can feel it…the alignment isn’t there anymore. My energy needs to shift.

And that’s when the anxiety rises, not because something bad is happening, but because I’m standing in the unknown. I’m in between. And my mind doesn’t like the in between. 

And then… winter came. 

And winter in Canada is no joke. It just shows up. Grey sky, sharp air, long nights. 

Winter doesn’t ask permission. 

Winter just comes. 

And that’s when the anxiety comes too. 

I had gone away for just a week…sunshine, fresh air, different scenery. And it really helped. I felt lighter. I remembered there’s a bigger world out there. I even felt joy again. 

But when I came home… those same feelings came back. 

Not so much anger. I feel like I’ve moved through a lot of that. 

But worry. 

Mistrust. 

Disappointment. 

And the question underneath it: 

What now? 

I remember one afternoon just sitting at home, listening to the quiet, and even the quiet felt heavy. 

And I admitted something to myself that I didn’t really want to admit. 

I have big expectations of myself. 

I expect to do something meaningful with my life. 

Nothing about being famous, just being useful, being a light, helping people remember who they are. 

But then the reality hits…

I’m at home. 

I feel isolated. 

And I start wondering… how did I get here? 

And then, without making it into a big spiritual moment, I do what I always do. I come back to yoga. 

I move my body. 

I breathe. 

I feel what I feel. 

I let the breath slow down the fear. 

I let my nervous system settle. 

And this is where the real shift happens, not because the outside world changes… But because I stopped living in my mind. 

Because my mind can spiral. 

My mind can future-trip. 

My mind can make everything feel like a problem that needs to be solved immediately. 

But yoga brings me back to the present moment. 

And the present moment is always truer than the future my mind is making up. 

It’s in that practice… 

in the breath, the body, the stillness… 

that I remember who I am. 

And from that… 

The writing comes. 

The words come.

Not forced. 

Not planned. 

They come because I’ve practised being still enough to hear them. 

So yes, writing is bringing me joy. 

But it’s not separate. 

It rises out of the yoga. 

It rises out of presence. 

It rises out of my willingness to return…again and again…to what’s real. 

And this is what I’m learning: 

Winter isn’t punishment. 

Winter is an invitation. 

It’s the season where roots deepen. 

It’s the season where I’m not here to impress anyone. 

I’m here to become real. 

So I’m sitting in this. 

Not trying to fix everything. 

Not trying to make a plan. 

Not trying to be “spiritual enough."

Just… being honest. 

Letting the anxiety be there without believing it. 

Letting the quiet be there without making it mean I’m failing. And the sentence that keeps coming through for me lately is simple: “I’m in transition. And that’s okay.”

I’m not broken. 

I’m not done. 

I’m in the winter between. 

And maybe the whole purpose of this season is to practise coming back. 

Back into my body. 

Back into the present. 

Back into Truth.