The Work of Winter
The first chapter of Humble Roots is titled “Withering on the Vine,” a phrase that resonated deeply with me as I reflected on the end of 2024. For two weeks, our home was upended by a stomach bug that brought sickness, pain, and disconnection. Christmas morning passed in a fog of illness, with no festive dinner or meaningful time with visiting family. Like the pine needles scattered on the floor after the holiday, I felt brittle, depleted, and undone.
It wasn't just the illness—it was the culmination of a season where I had been stretching myself thin, trying to piece together a life that felt increasingly fragmented. The hardest part was knowing I was aware of it all. So, to tell the whole story, I must back up to the fall, to the start of school, when I was desperately rearranging the pieces of our life, searching for a way to fit them together more efficiently.
I carved out time to read the books on my nightstand and complete an essay near to my heart for submission. I orchestrated a slew of activities for my children, cultivated friendships at a new school, and hosted playdates. I started a book club complete with charcuterie and wine. I planned a detailed 9th birthday party with everything a Harry Potter fan could dream of. I scheduled morning coffees, lunch dates with my husband, paid the bills, and kept up with the endless cycle of laundry and dishes. I ran thousands of miles with a friend, climbed mountain peaks, and completed both a 50K and a 50-miler. I went on a girls’ trip to Bend, Oregon, and another to the Grand Canyon in Arizona. In September alone, I mountain biked more than I had all summer. I consumed podcasts, music, and audiobooks, updated social media, exchanged emails, started blog posts (many still in drafts), and chipped away at long-anticipated projects, or two or three.
Yet, despite all my effort, our home—and my heart—remained a mess, both literally and figuratively. It struck me how easy it is to hold all the right pieces yet fail to see how they fit together. In the flurry of activity, I lost clarity, blurred my vision, and drifted from my sense of purpose. Underneath it all, I was withering—fragile and overwhelmed by the weight of what I had taken on.
Dear reader, I do not write to burden you with more words splashed about the interwebs. I do not wish to weigh you down in my own heaviness. What I want to share is what I’m learning right now: it’s okay. It’s okay if the world is running vigorous laps around you while you suck wind. It’s okay to be quiet even when you’re expected to speak out. It’s okay to fail, to be smacked in the face with disappointment, to not only miss planned goals but lose hope in unfulfilled dreams. But remember - that is not the end of the story. Courage is found in sweeping the pine needles from the floor, in using their crispy bits as kindling. Withering is not an ending, it is a beginning.
In our culture, productivity and outward success are often celebrated above all else, making it easy to see withering as failure. After all, a garden in full bloom is far more inviting than one stripped bare by winter. But winter’s work is not to be beautiful—it’s to restore. The bare branches and frozen soil tell a quieter story: pests are being eliminated, diseased growth is being cut away, and the earth is being prepared for renewal. Winter isn’t an ending; it’s the essential pause before growth begins again.
As I reflect on this season, I’m curious—who are you, dear reader? What brought you here, and what would you like to see more of? Would a newsletter with reflections, favorite reads, or practical guides bring value to your inbox?
If this resonates, let me know—your feedback will help shape what comes next. Thank you for reading and being part of this small, meaningful circle.
