For most of my life, I thought of myself as a creature of the sun. By that, I really mean heat. Having grown up in the Caribbean and later living in Madrid, warmth felt instinctively comforting – energising, familiar, easy. It might sound bizarre, but I even loved being too hot to sleep, the kind of rest punctuated by the low hum of a fan, a sound that still feels deeply nostalgic.
As an adult, that preference shaped the way I travelled and, in many ways, the way I lived. I gravitated towards tropical climates, deserts and humid cities, always chasing that same feeling of ease. And each time I returned home to a British winter, I felt its absence keenly.
Cold, dark months left me feeling flat and resistant. January, in particular, became a paradox: a season that demanded both rest and relentless momentum. Work deadlines peaked, social commitments lingered, and the familiar pressure to reset, reinvent and ‘start strong’ crept in. Instead of feeling renewed, I often began the year already exhausted.
Looking back, I can see how little space I allowed for winter to be winter.
What winter taught me about wellness
That began to change in my 30s, sparked unexpectedly by a new friendship. A woman from Scandinavia entered my life – someone who not only tolerated winter, but actively cherished it. Where I avoided the cold, she sought it out: frozen lakes, snowy forests, long nights under wide skies.
Listening to her talk about winter wasn’t about convincing me to love it. Instead, it gently challenged my assumptions. For her, winter wasn’t something to endure or escape; it was a season with its own rhythms, rituals and rewards.
Not long after, she invited me to join her on a trip to the Arctic Circle. To my own surprise, I agreed.
Arriving in deep winter cold was confronting, but also strangely calming. The landscape was quiet and expansive, softened by snow. Time felt slower. Simple pleasures – things like walking, talking, laughing, throwing snowballs – took on a childlike quality I hadn’t realised I’d missed.
It made me reflect on how rarely we give ourselves permission to play or slow down as adults, and how winter, when approached differently, might naturally invite both.
Stillness as nourishment
A later trip deeper into Swedish Lapland reinforced this lesson. We spent long hours waiting for clear skies, playing games, eating simply, talking without distraction. When the Northern Lights finally appeared, it was breath-taking – but it was the waiting that stayed with me.
Back home, winter had always felt like a season of urgency. Here, it was defined by patience.
Watching nature lie dormant reframed something for me. Instead of pushing through darker months with the same intensity as summer, perhaps winter asks for a different approach – one that prioritises rest, reflection and nervous-system repair. Less doing, more being.
It’s a reminder many of us could use, especially in a culture that rarely pauses.
Learning through movement
The following winter brought another lesson, this time through skiing – a new and humbling experience for me. Unlike previous adventures where I’d followed more experienced companions, skiing demanded full presence. You can’t rush it. You can’t multitask. You have to listen closely to your body.
I fell. A lot. But in between the frustration and fatigue, I noticed something else: winter asking again for focus, respect and self-awareness.
Later, aching and recovering, a simple truth stood out. On skis, your body is the brake. When strength fades, you stop – not because you’ve failed, but because rest is required. Recovery isn’t optional; it’s essential.
It felt like an obvious metaphor, and one I’d spent years ignoring.
A quieter relationship with winter
Gradually, these experiences reshaped how I relate to the colder months. Winter no longer feels like something to power through or escape from. Instead, it offers cues – to slow down, to restore, to balance effort with ease.
That might look like gentler movement, earlier nights, nourishing food, or simply allowing January to be quieter than June. Not as an act of indulgence, but of self-respect.
By leaning into winter rather than resisting it, I’ve found a steadier energy that carries through the rest of the year. And while I’ll probably always love the sun, I’ve learned that cold has its own kind of warmth – one rooted in stillness, reflection and care.
