Love, Loss, and the Long Night of Winter

Being born on the Winter Solstice, I've had a lifetime of evolving through seasons, literally and internally. Winter, for me, has always been a portal inward. It's when introspection becomes unavoidable. When grief needs room to breathe. When death and rebirth aren't metaphors, but lived experiences.

Every year, after my birthday, I feel like a newborn dropped into an unfamiliar world. There's a brief moment of clarity, almost innocence, and then the grief rolls in. Historically, the weeks surrounding my birthday are when I make drastic life changes. Big ones. The kind that shift the entire trajectory of my life. And once the decision is made, there's no running from it. I have to sit in it.

That's usually when the denial shows up.

Maybe, I don't have to make that choice to move forward. Maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe this could've worked another way.

Before I know it, I'm bargaining with my own standards. The very standards that keep me safe, grounded and aligned. The ones that have proven, time and time again, how much they mean to me. Not out of fear. But out of love.

Because the truth is, I identify as love.

I was conceived in love. Rasised in love. Live in love. There's an ease that comes with that frequency, a natural openness. And every year, around November into early December, I take inventory of my life and ask myself one simple question: What feels out of alignment?

I know my purpose here is to embody love. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But here's the caveat no one romanticizes enough: love comes with loss. It comes with letting go. And sometimes that makes me angry. Enraged that I never seem able to hold onto the things I love for long. I get pockets of love, moments of deep connection, and then something happens. Something that completely dysregulates my nervous system, and I'm back in the familiar cycle of release.

Letting go. Again.

That's usually when the depression creeps in. When I start to self-sabotage, not because I don't care, but because I care too deeply. Because feeling everything on a molecular level is exhausting. Spiritually. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically. I feel everything.

Eventually, I do come to terms with the changes in my life. I always do. But it doens't happen without sitting in the darkness of Winter for a full three months. No shortcuts. No bypassing. I've tried. I've tried not putting my heart on the line. I've tried loving less. I've tried choosing safety over devotion.

But how do you stop loving when love is your embodiment?

Escaping doesn't serve my emotional body. Avoidance doesn't bring relief. And patience, well, that's never been my strongest virtue.

So what do I do?

It's a question I've asked myself more times than I can count. And at 38, I think I finally have my answer.

I wait it out.

Not passively. Not hopelessly. But with reverence. With trust in the seasons. With understanding that Winter isn't here to punish me. It's here to teach me how to stay.

Even in the dark.

~Seven

A solitary bare tree stands in a quiet winter landscape, its dark branches reaching upward against a pale, overcast sky. Snow blankets the ground below, and the white sky feels heavy and dim, reflecting the stillness and introspection of the season.