Warm Movement In Winter
I frequently sit with folx who bravely share their pain. When they speak, I notice the words they reach for.
“Sad.”
“Lonely.”
“Isolated.”
“Cold.”
Sometimes the descriptions are even more vivid — wanting to hide under warm blankets, covers pulled overhead, disappearing into a bed that feels safer than the world.
As they speak, their bodies often tell the same story. Shoulders curve inward. Eyes lower. Arms wrap around their ribs as if trying to warm their core — the way we pull sweaters tight around ourselves in winter.
Depression doesn’t just live in thoughts. It lives in the body.
It can feel heavy. Thick. Like trying to move through cold, sticky gelatin — every step requiring effort we’re not sure we have.
And almost always, the question comes:
“How quickly can I make this feeling go away?”
That question reminds me of winter here in Vermont.
There comes a point in winter when we ache for sunlight. We long for warmth. Cabin fever sets in. We crave fresh air and movement again. (Though I’ll admit, those who love mountain sports may have a different relationship with this season than those of us who belong to summer.)
Pain can feel endless. And yet — pain is also informative.
When we injure our bodies, we seek medical care. We rest. We might attend physical therapy. We understand that healing requires time, patience, and intentional support.
Emotional healing is no different.
We carry our life stories in our bodies. Stories that sometimes settle deep beneath the surface. Stories we may ignore for years — until something stirs them awake and the pain flares to life.
And when it does, our instinct is often to push it away.
To fix it.
To numb it.
To override it.
But what if, instead of asking, “How do I make this stop?” we asked, “What are you trying to tell me?”
If we have chest pain, we don’t go to the dentist. If we have a toothache, we don’t see a dermatologist. Different pain requires different care.
The same is true emotionally.
Not every technique works for every wound. We must tune in to where the feeling lives. What part of us is activated? Where in the body is the emotion held? What happens when we allow it space instead of demanding it disappear?
We cannot command ourselves into happiness.
Pain has a function.
Katherine May writes in Wintering:
“…if happiness is a skill, then sadness is, too… Wintering is the active practice of allowing ourselves to feel it as a need. It is the courage to stare down the worst parts of our experience and to commit to healing them the best we can.”
Unhappiness tells us something is wrong. If we silence it too quickly, we miss the invitation to adapt.
So when I sit with someone in their pain, I encourage them to sit with it, too.
Not to collapse into it.
Not to “bed rot.”
But to practice a kind of intentional wintering.
Wintering can look like warmth.
Holding a hot cup of tea.
Wrapping yourself in a blanket.
Going to bed earlier.
Letting your nervous system soften.
It can mean asking:
What part of me feels cold right now?
What part needs tending?
When we listen to our bodies with the tenderness we would offer a child, something begins to shift. Winter becomes less of a punishment and more of a rest period. A season of conservation. A gathering of energy for spring.
If you are feeling cold — physically or emotionally — try a gentle body scan.
Notice where your body is asking for care.
Where it longs for warmth.
What it is communicating beneath the stories your mind wants to create.
Can you allow sadness to ripple through you without attaching a future to it?
Not:
“I will always feel this way.”
“Bad things always happen.”
“I should have done xyz.”
Just sensation.
Just awareness.
Just presence.
What changes when you respond with warmth instead of resistance?
If you’d like guidance, I offer a body scan meditation in my digital store under “Meditations.” You can also pair it with the “Tracking Somatic Sensations” worksheet to deepen your awareness.
Wintering is not weakness.
It is wisdom.
And spring comes — in its own time.
