“Nothing in nature blooms all year.”
–Unknown

Even in places where snow never falls, December has a way of asking us to slow down. The days feel a little shorter, the air a little quieter, and—whether we like it or not—life insists on pausing (take it from me as I am forced to be home nursing the flu). And when you’re raising or teaching children, that pause can feel both comforting and overwhelming. Kids still buzz with energy, schedules still tug at you from every direction, and the world still expects you to sparkle because, well… it’s the season.

But “wintering” isn’t about stopping. It’s about softening.

Softening our pace.

Softening our expectations.

Softening the pressure we put on ourselves to keep everything bright and perfect.

Children sense the shift before we do.

They feel the heaviness of tired routines, the excitement of holidays, the swirl of emotions that come with endings and beginnings. They don’t always have the words for this internal weather—but they feel it. And often, the adults around them feel it, too.

Wintering invites us to treat these moments—not as disruptions—but as an important part of the rhythm.

Think about how kids move through seasons naturally. When something feels hard, they instinctively lean toward warmth: a familiar toy, a quiet corner, a long hug. They know how to seek restoration without naming it. We, on the other hand, tend to push forward. We keep going, keep fixing, keep organizing, keep performing—until our batteries flicker (or in my case completely burn out).

But what if this month, instead of rushing toward the finish line, we let ourselves notice the small signals that life is asking us to recalibrate?

Maybe a child is more tender than usual.
Maybe your patience feels thinner.
Maybe the classroom feels slower.
Maybe home feels louder.
Maybe joy feels close but just out of reach.

Wintering asks us to listen—not just to what children need, but to what we need as well.

Because when adults model slowing down with intention, children experience something powerful: rest is not a reward—it's a rhythm.

This doesn’t require grand gestures. Sometimes wintering simply looks like turning off a light instead of turning on a screen. Sitting together for five minutes without multitasking. Saying, “This is a lot—let’s breathe for a moment.” Choosing presence over productivity.

It’s in these small, unhurried pauses that children learn the emotional skills we hope they’ll carry for life: self-awareness, warmth, patience, connection.

So as we begin this month, consider this a gentle invitation—not to fix anything, not to redesign your routines overnight, but to observe. To notice. To soften. To acknowledge that December doesn’t just bring celebration; it brings reflection, recalibration, and the permission to move slower without losing the meaning of the season.

This is the kind of wintering that helps children feel secure… and helps us feel human again

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