On Rest, Remembering, and Being Held by Life
Today is the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.
It’s the turning point.
The moment when the light begins to return, even if we can’t feel it yet.
And I want to begin this season not with intention setting, not with fixing, not with pushing forward, but with being.
For many people, this time of year feels heavy. When I talk with clients, it’s common to hear about a quiet sadness or a low-grade depression that settles in as the days grow shorter. Sometimes it’s about the literal lack of light. Sometimes it’s more subtle, more internal. Less certainty. Less clarity. A sense of waiting without knowing what’s next.
Rather than rushing past that experience, this season offers us an invitation to slow down and ask gentler questions.
What is the dark time of year like for you?
How does your body respond when things slow down, when there is less light?
And what happens inside you when life feels quieter, less defined, or uncertain?
Do you find yourself wanting to rush through the season, to distract, to fix, to brighten everything up so you don’t have to feel the discomfort?
There’s nothing wrong with bringing light into the house or decorating with greenery. These are ancient practices. Humans have long brought evergreen branches indoors to remind themselves that life continues, even now. Candles, firelight, stories told in the dark — these have always been ways we stayed connected.
Our ancestors lived far more closely with darkness than we do. They knew firelight, moonlight, and seasons that required rest, waiting, and listening. And they told stories.
Across cultures and across time, humans have gathered in the dark to tell stories about how life begins. And when we listen to these stories together, something striking emerges.
Creation does not begin with light.
It begins in darkness.
In ancient Egyptian creation stories written more than four thousand years ago, there was Nun, the dark, endless waters. Stillness. Infinite holding. All possibility.
In ancient Hindu creation stories preserved for over three thousand years, darkness wrapped in darkness, and within it floated the golden womb. Creation rested. It gestated. Even the gods did not yet know what would come next.
In Taoist Chinese creation stories, there was undifferentiated wholeness. No edges. No separation. Creation emerged slowly, not because something was missing, but because something began to take form.
In Māori creation stories, first there was Te Kore, the nothingness, followed by Te Pō, the long night. The great fertile darkness. Only later did the world of light come into being.
In Hebrew creation stories, darkness lay over the face of the deep, and a breath moved across the waters. Not forcing. Not rushing. Hovering.
In Greek myths, there was chaos — not destruction, but vast openness. A great unformed possibility.
Across Indigenous North American stories, the world is formed from dark waters through cooperation, patience, and shared effort. In Norse mythology, life emerges from the meeting of cold and fire inside a great yawning void.
Different cultures. Different languages.
The same understanding.
In the darkness, we were never separate from life.
We were inside it. Held by it.
The dark was not a place where life stopped. It was the place where life gathered itself.
And maybe this is what remembering really is. Not recalling facts or stories, but remembering with life. Being placed back into belonging. Back into togetherness. Back into the body of the living world.
In the dark, the edges soften. The sense of being alone loosens. Something older takes over. Something that knows how to hold us without asking us to perform or figure anything out.
So if this season feels quiet, heavy, unfinished, or unclear for you, there is nothing wrong.
We live in a world that has largely forgotten how to stay with life when the lights go out. But the darkness still remembers. And it knows how to hold you.
You might let yourself experience that holding in simple ways. Sitting in warm water by candlelight. Resting in stillness. Letting yourself be rocked rather than directed. Letting the waters hold you. Letting yourself remember what it feels like to merge with life instead of managing it.
This season may not be asking you to do more.
It may be asking you to gather yourself back.
To return to what is essential.
To rest inside the truth that you are not alone.
That you are held.
That you have always been held.
Creation does not begin with light.
It begins with darkness that is held.
And for now, you are allowed to rest inside the beginning.
Listen to the Podcast Episode
This piece is adapted from a recent episode of the Resource Yourself Podcast, where these reflections are offered as an embodied, spoken experience.
🎧 Listen here:
https://therapytothrive.com/podcast
Continue Resourcing Yourself
If this reflection resonates and you’re seeking more grounding, support, and ways to create a life and relationships that feel more secure and nourishing, you can explore additional resources here:
🌿 Learn about my work and offerings:
https://therapytothrive.com
🌿 Explore free resources and reflections:
https://therapytothrive.com/resources
🌿 Take the attachment-informed quiz:
https://therapytothrive.com/quiz
