I used to be the same person all year round. Same energy. Same expectations. Same frustration when January-me couldn’t accomplish what June-me had planned.
It took embarrassingly long to realize: that’s not how anything in nature works.
The realization
Last winter, I spent a week beating myself up for being “lazy.” I was sleeping more. Moving slower. Making soup instead of salads. Wanting to be home by 8 PM. Obviously, I concluded, something was wrong with me.
Then I stepped outside one evening and noticed it was pitch dark at 4:30 PM. The trees were bare. Everything around me had slowed down. Everything except my expectations for myself.
What if I wasn’t broken? What if I was just… winter?
What seasonal living means
It’s not about horoscopes or moon phases or anything mystical (though if that works for you, great). It’s about something simpler:
Seasons exist. The external world changes dramatically four times a year, and those changes affect light, temperature, food, and how our bodies feel.
We’re part of nature. Despite living in climate-controlled boxes and staring at screens all day, our biology still responds to seasonal shifts. Ignoring this doesn’t make it stop.
Forcing consistency is exhausting. Trying to be the same person at 7 AM in January as you are at 7 AM in July is fighting against fairly fundamental forces.
What each season asks
I started noticing the different invitations each season offers:
Winter asks for rest, reflection, and going inward. It’s a time for sleep, soup, candles, and finishing things rather than starting new ones. My grandmother used to call it “sharpening the tools” season.
Spring asks for emergence and beginning. Energy returns, slowly at first. It’s a good time for clearing out, starting projects, and reconnecting with people you’ve been hibernating away from.
Summer asks for expansion and activity. Long days mean you actually have time for all those plans. It’s a season for doing, moving, and being outside as much as possible.
Autumn asks for harvest and release. Finishing the projects started in spring. Letting go of what didn’t work. Preparing for the quiet to come.
How this changed things
Once I started paying attention, a lot made sense:
I stopped fighting my winter fatigue. Going to bed at 9 PM in December isn’t failure; it’s alignment.
I started planning with seasons in mind. Big ambitious projects get started in spring, not January 1st (when everyone’s recovering from holidays and dealing with the darkest days of the year).
I let summer be busy. When there’s light until 10 PM, I stop feeling guilty about back-to-back plans. That’s what the season is for.
I use autumn to edit. What worked this year? What didn’t? What needs to be released before winter?
The practical adjustments
Some things I do differently now:
Food: I crave different things in different seasons and stopped fighting it. Salads in summer. Stews in winter. Asparagus when it’s actually asparagus season.
Sleep: I let myself sleep more in winter, less in summer. The hours don’t have to be identical all year.
Socializing: More outings in summer when the world is warm and inviting. More home gatherings in winter when going out feels like a mission.
Exercise: Running and hiking when it’s light and warm. Yoga and swimming in darker months.
Goals: Quarterly instead of annual. What makes sense for this season specifically?
The cultural resistance
This goes against almost everything modern life demands.
Our work schedules pretend seasons don’t exist. Our productivity culture insists we should output at identical rates all year. Our January gym memberships ignore that it’s the literal worst time to start a new exercise habit.
Seasonal living is a form of gentle rebellion against all that. It says: I’m going to acknowledge reality. I’m going to watch what the natural world is doing and let that inform how I move through the year.
What I notice now
I pay attention to things I used to ignore:
- The exact day when the light shifts in spring
- The first morning cool enough to need a sweater
- When the leaves start going gold
- The particular quiet of a winter afternoon
These observations aren’t productive. They won’t help my career or make me money. But they tether me to something larger. They remind me that time has texture, and each part of the year has its own character.
An invitation
If this resonates, try this for one week: pay attention to what the season is actually doing. Notice the light. Notice the temperature. Notice what your body wants.
Then ask yourself: am I aligned with this, or am I fighting it?
The answer might explain some things.
Right now, where I am, winter is settling in. The light is low. The world is asking me to slow down. For once, I’m listening.