Winter Light, Not Darkness
On moving through fog, trusting time, and choosing the next step
Before you start: here’s a music playlist curated to match the tone of what follows. Press play if you like, and meet me back here. For those not on Tidal, the track list unfolds at the bottom.
It is January, a day after my birthday. The evening ended with pasta and wine at our local Italian restaurant. Quiet. Uneventful. Until a waiter entered carrying a plate of cake with sparklers flying and “Happy Birthday” suddenly blaring through the speakers. My eyes went wide. Then, thankfully, he turned to a young woman in a party hat. We all sang for her. Relief.
I don’t enjoy being sung to. Writing that still feels oddly guilty — as if I’m rejecting celebration itself. But it isn’t about gratitude or joy. It’s about visibility without agency. Being made the center of attention for something I didn’t choose, didn’t earn, didn’t actively shape. Last year, I had asked my friends not to sing. They did anyway. They meant well. Still, something in me withdrew.
This year, I chose something else. I got away. I spent my birthday weekend alone in a town called Langweiler — literally “boring people.” A hideaway hotel and spa. Long hikes through a foggy forest. Sauna heat after cold air. Dinner for one. A good book. I was in excellent company.
I celebrated sharing my birthday with Dolly Parton. Every year I vow to be a little more like her — generous, grounded, unapologetically herself. We look and sound nothing alike. She is one of a kind. But I like to think she’d understand the choice.
After publishing This Is Not Your Final Destination, I found it ironic that I went looking for clarity only to walk through the densest fog I’ve ever seen. It didn’t help that my head hurt, filling the inside of my skull with the same dull whiteness that surrounded me outside. I could only see what was right in front of me. I couldn’t tell where the fog ended and the sky began. Everything dissolved into a single, cold shade of grey.
I walked for hours in a wide loop, trusting the path to bring me back to the hotel as promised. And it did.
When the path disappears, it’s a signal to me that I’m heading in the right direction — because there is no map for a life that deviates from the one laid out for you. The only step that matters is the next one.
I had arrived with a perfect plan. A digital detox. No screens. No Messages. Time to walk, read, journal and rest. But after the cold air of the forest and the dry heat of the Finnish sauna, my body had other ideas. I was too tired to read. Too tired to write. I opened my iPad, connected to the WiFi and watched a movie instead.
At first, guilt crept in. As if I had failed the assignment. As if rest only counts when it looks intentional. But in hindsight, that moment was part of the medicine. The fog outside and the fog inside needed the same thing: permission to pass without being forced.
You are only wasting time until you aren’t.
Until the moment reveals itself as exactly what allowed something else to settle, loosen, or come back into focus. Trusting the process sometimes means trusting what doesn’t look productive while it’s happening.
Before leaving, I had grabbed a random book from my “currently reading” pile — Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir. A fun and compelling story about a lone astronaut on an impossible mission, aided by an ally he never imagined. I didn’t expect to find parallels between Ryland Grace’s journey and my own life on earth, here and now. And yet, there they were. The solitude. The trust. The slow realization that progress doesn’t always look like certainty.
I also wrote. A lot. And while I was writing, I was listening — curating a playlist alongside the words. Song by song, heartbeat by heartbeat. It felt like the most direct way to stay connected to you. Put it on, meet me there, and feel free to send song recommendations my way. Music is my favorite way to connect. It carries what language sometimes can’t.
The past year — especially after my time in Bali — I’ve been working on realigning my actions with my values. Letting go of people-pleasing. Releasing what drains rather than supports. That includes habits, expectations, and sometimes relationships. Not out of harshness, but out of respect. For myself. And for what wants to grow.
In my younger years, I never questioned my path. There was a plan, conviction, and the belief that if you want something badly enough and work hard enough, it will happen. For the most part, it did. I don’t regret a single choice I made. But when delays, costs, and complications piled up, I hardened alongside them. It took time — and more lessons than I anticipated — to soften again.
I’m grateful I did. This isn’t a new version of me. It’s the truer one. Softer. Calmer. More precise. Ironically, stronger.
So instead of resolutions, I wrote this.
I am no longer rushing to prove anything.
Not to others. And especially not to myself.
I have learned:
patience over pressure
rhythm over urgency
reliability without rigidity
This shows up as:
sustainable work over hustle
daily devotion to my craft — writing, design, presence
slow confidence replacing anxious ambition
What’s falling away:
the need to explain my choices
inherited definitions of success
pressure to be seen as legitimate
guilt for not wanting the obvious path
This isn’t avoidance. It’s discernment.
I’m no longer asking, “Am I doing this right?”
I’m asking, “Is this true for me?”
It matters because it brings mental precision. I can now:
name what matters
say things cleanly
cut through fog without cruelty
My voice sharpens.
My thinking simplifies.
My decisions get lighter.
From: I need to justify my pace, my choices, my timing.
To: I move deliberately. I trust my rhythm. I speak when it’s true.
This year isn’t about expansion through force. It’s about direction through clarity.
I feel emotionally steadier after the work of the last year. I no longer need urgency to feel alive. I’m done with internal trials and verdicts. I’m ready to name my path without defending it.
My guidance, for now:
Commit to what grows slowly but lasts.
Stop rehearsing explanations.
Let clarity replace motivation.
Use words as tools, not weapons.
Trust consistency more than inspiration.
As the days slowly grow longer, I can feel my energy returning. January is for hibernation — rest, recovery, integration. February is when movement begins again.
There’s still decluttering to do. Physically and digitally — the latter being the bigger mess, if I’m honest. But for the first time, I’m looking forward to it. Making space. Letting the outside reflect the inside, piece by piece. If I haven’t touched something in a year, it goes. What stays needs to reflect who I am now.
To be continued.
Thank you for moving through the fog with me.
Staying happens at its own pace.
Nothing here is wasted.
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PS: The playlist that accompanies this piece is my own expanded version of one originally curated by Sam Weisband — a keeper of frequencies whose work I admire. If you’re looking for more musical inspiration, look up The Weisest Band. She sorts playlists by color. Enough said.
Beautifully said, Patricia. That internal shift toward honesty isn't always easy, but you've described the strength behind it so perfectly. Such a resonant read!