Dear Friend,
May my words find you gently germinating like the sweetest seed.
This winter has felt long, hasn’t it? Dark in ways that seemed to stretch beyond the early-setting sun, reaching into the soul, unearthing what lay dormant. I have found myself face to face with old wounds, the kind that whisper just beneath the surface, waiting for the quiet to be heard. And quiet, I have learned, is something we must carve out for ourselves in a world that rarely allows it.
London is hardly a peaceful place. The hum of the city rarely softens, and yet I have had to find ways to retreat, to rest—to honor the deep, necessary silence that this season has called for. There were moments I wanted to resist, to fill the space with distraction, but I knew better. Instead, I paused and did what I could. I became discerning about where my attention went, careful with what I consumed, and whom I let in.
This winter demanded that I tend to the resentment I had buried, the pieces of me that had hardened in self-protection. There is a specific kind of pain in realizing how tightly we hold onto old wounds, mistaking them for shields. But I am learning to soften, to thaw, to release. I sat with my anger, my grief, my tired heart—and instead of turning away, I asked them what they needed. I am still listening.
And now, the whisper of spring is near. I am ready for that first warmth, the kind that settles into the bones and reminds us that renewal is not just a concept, but a promise. This season of deep reckoning is making way for something lighter, something new.
If this winter has felt heavy for you too, remember that seasons change, and so do we. Beloved, may you find steadiness even as the world around you shifts. May you embrace the darkness without rushing toward the light. And when your moment of renewal arrives, may you greet it with a deep breath and an open heart.
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