Winter reveals what softer seasons let us ignore.
The world performs joy loudly at this time of year—bright lights, louder voices, and rituals repeated out of habit more than meaning. But the cold eye sees what warmth once blurred: the unspoken ache beneath the smiles, the hollowness inside familiar traditions, the longing hidden behind all the noise.
There comes a moment when the soul refuses to pretend.
Not in rebellion, but in quiet self-preservation.
This is the week of walking alone—not as exile, but as intention. A soft, steady solitude that feels like stepping out of a crowded room and inhaling your first real breath. There is a certain clarity only winter can offer: an honesty stripped clean of sentimentality, expectation, and performance.
You don’t have to force joy.
You don’t have to participate in someone else’s script.
You don’t have to become smaller just to keep the illusion intact.
Walking alone through the frost allows you to feel what is real.
And perhaps that is the most sacred act of the season.
No comments:
Post a Comment