May I Make a Suggestion? Trust the Thaw

The first day of Spring didn’t come with a big announcement. There was no record-release. No awards show. No dramatic shift in energy. Just a little more light through the window. A bit of softness in the chilled air. Just enough warmth to crack a window and feel something stir.

I wasn’t ready-ready. I was still wrapped in blankets, still moving slowly, still whispering prayers I wasn’t sure were working. But something deep in me—beneath fear, beneath doubt—began to rise. Not loud. Not urgent. But faithful. That’s when I realized Spring wasn’t arriving with a bang. She was arriving like we do in our peace: quiet, radiant, unbothered, steady-crowned.

And I was learning how to meet her there.

This past Winter, I did something that felt radical. I rested. Not because the money was flowing. Not because I had secured enough to finally exhale. I rested because I knew I had to. I rested because I believe I am nature, and nature does not grind through Winter.

It wasn’t easy. At first, I tried to make it palatable—said I was stepping back to plan, to strategize, to set the vision for the year. The truth? I didn’t want to plan a thing. I wanted to pause. To lay it all down. To see what might rise in the silence.

And that inner-voice? Oh, she came for me. That inner critic wearing the costume of logic and responsibility whispered,

"You don’t get to rest until you’ve earned it." "You can’t slow down until you’ve proven something." "You’re not successful enough to stop."

I had to choose: whose rhythm was I following? Mine? Or the rhythm of a society that never pauses to breathe?

So I turned inward. I followed the very wisdom I offer to others. That rest isn’t something to justify. It’s something to honor. Like the soil that goes still so that life can return stronger.

I fell into rest slowly, the way Winter asks us to. As I watched the sun retreat, I gave myself permission to do the same. I wasn’t chasing contracts. I wasn’t forcing clarity. I wasn’t performing spirituality. But I was listening. And in the stillness, I heard things I normally rush past. God. My mother’s voice. My own breath. And eventually, I understood: I wasn’t doing nothing. I was becoming.

May I make a Suggestion to anyone afraid that rest means falling behind? Know that rest isn’t the opposite of progress. It’s the foundation of it. We are not machines. We are seasonal beings. Look around. Nothing in nature blooms all year long. And yet we expect ourselves to keep producing, performing, and proving with no end.

The Suggestion is this: Be Still. Not because it’s safe, but because it’s sacred. Let the thaw come in its own time. Let the light return slowly. Let yourself remember who you are without the noise. Because when you do—when you trust the rhythm, when you listen for your own breath instead of the world’s expectations—you don’t fall behind.

You come home.

I wrote this during a season where I needed to remember that I am nature—that I don’t bloom all year, and I’m not supposed to. If you find yourself in a moment of stillness or slow unfolding, I’d love to hear how you’re navigating it. You can leave a comment, send a message, or share this with someone else learning how to rest. We don’t have to thaw alone.