The Quiet Season Within
Post #2 in the series, A Field Guide to Your Inner Seasons
There have been moments in my life when everything inside me seemed to dim at once — not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice, but in the soft internal shift that happens when I stop recognizing my own pace. It’s a subtle thing at first. A heaviness behind the eyes. A longing to step away from the noise. A sense that the world is moving just a touch too quickly for my spirit.
I didn’t know to call this Shadow for a long time.
I just knew I felt tired in a way sleep couldn’t touch.
Shadow arrives the way winter does: quietly, without permission, and often before I’m ready for it. One day I’m keeping up with life just fine, and the next I’m craving silence, softness, and a kind of inner stillness that feels more like retreat than rest.
And retreat, for me, has always felt a bit uncomfortable.
As if pulling back means I’m unraveling or falling behind.
But Shadow isn’t the unraveling.
It’s the gathering.
The folding in.
The resting of parts of me I’ve pushed too hard for too long.
When I finally stopped fighting these darker seasons, I began to notice something unexpected: Shadow is not the absence of light. It’s the place where light learns to root. The place where truths I’ve been avoiding settle in beside me and wait until I’m quiet enough to hear them.
Shadow is where I stop performing.
Stop explaining.
Stop reaching outward for clarity I can only gather by turning inward.
It’s where I remember grief I’ve postponed.
Where I notice longings I’ve ignored.
Where I meet the parts of myself I’ve kept tucked away until I feel brave enough — or quiet enough — to let them surface.
Shadow isn’t punishment.
It’s invitation.
And creativity changes here, too.
In Shadow, my creativity isn’t loud or productive.
It isn’t clever or ambitious.
It becomes instinctive — almost primal.
I gather scraps.
I tuck things into notebooks.
I collect colors, textures, scraps of sentences.
Sometimes I make nothing at all.
And yet something inside me is being fed.
In this season, creativity becomes less about expression and more about nourishment — the way soup nourishes in winter, not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s warm.
Shadow is the season where my inner life says,
“Come home. Sit down.
You don’t need to shine right now.
You just need to be.”
There’s a strange relief in that, once I let myself feel it.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that Shadow isn’t the ending of anything. It’s the compost. The deep wintering. The place where the soul recovers, resets, and heals in ways that can’t be rushed. It’s where I meet the most honest version of myself — the one who doesn’t need to be inspiring or bright or brave, just human.
And maybe that’s the real gift of Shadow:
its insistence that we don’t have to be luminous to be worthy.
That we don’t need clarity to be whole.
That we are allowed to dim, to soften, to rest.
Shadow is the season that teaches me how to stay with myself long enough to truly hear what’s asking for my attention. It’s the deep inhale before the light returns — a pause, not a disappearance.
So if you find yourself in a Shadow season, my friend,
please know this:
There is nothing wrong with you.
You are not falling behind.
You are not losing your spark.
You are simply wintering.
And wintering is part of the rhythm of becoming.
Let Shadow hold you for as long as you need.
There is wisdom here — quiet, tender, and entirely yours.
For when the first tiny hints of light begin to return.
If this season feels familiar — the dimming, the soft retreat,
the sense that something inside you needs space —
the Shadow’s Quiet Practice guide might be a beautiful companion.
It’s a gentle way to sit with yourself,
to listen inward,
to honor what’s quietly unfolding.
