I’ve always been drawn to the Winter Solstice — not in a ceremonial way, and not because it feels particularly beautiful. More because it feels like an anchor to the year.

Long before deadlines and year-end pressure, people marked this day because it marked the longest night of the year. The point where darkness peaked, and the light — quietly, almost reluctantly — began to return. It wasn’t celebrated with excess. It was acknowledged. Fires were lit. People gathered. Food was shared. There was rest, because rest was necessary. That part resonates for me HARD.

This season doesn’t ask us to fix anything or tie the year up neatly. It asks us to stop long enough to notice what we’re carrying — and what we don’t need to carry forward.

This year has felt like that for me, and I know I’m not alone. Pride and fatigue living side by side. Growth that came with stretch marks. Momentum that sometimes edged too close to burnout. Things built slowly, imperfectly, with a lot of heart — and a lot of learning along the way.

Winter Solstice gives permission to sit with all of it. 

We’re also standing in a transition - moving from the Year of the Snake into the Year of the Horse. The Snake year asked for shedding, discernment, and quiet strength. It was inward, patient, sometimes uncomfortable. The Horse carries a different energy — movement, courage, expansion — but momentum without grounding never seem to last long. And this pause can be the bridge between the two.

I don’t use this moment for big resolutions -- I tend to use it for gentler questions.

What actually sustained me this year?
Where did I push too hard? 
What deserves more care going forward?

For me, the answers often come in small rituals — the kind that don’t demand anything back. Lighting a candle as the light fades early. Letting a room glow instead of glaring. Sitting in the quiet without needing to fill it.

This time of year, I find myself reaching for the same few candles again and again. Mackenzie Beach, when I want something grounding and familiar. Wick Beach, when the weather turns heavy and the house needs warmth. Midnight, on the nights when everything feels still, and a bit moody and Sunday Morning, for slower starts in the AM.

Not as products — but as little ways to signal to my nervous system that it’s okay to slow down now.

The return of the light doesn’t happen all at once. It’s barely noticeable at first. A few extra minutes - a subtle shift. All the proof I need that change doesn’t need to be loud to be real.

That feels like the right way to move into what’s next — personally, collectively, and within The Hobbyist too. Less force. More honesty. Building in a way that can actually be sustained.

This is why I pause here.
Messy, tired, deeply grateful — and holding so much hope for what comes next.