When the Soul Enters Winter: Finding Grace in the Cold Seasons

I won’t lie to you—I don’t like winter.

Here in the southern hemisphere, winter has just arrived, and the cold has already settled in. I’ve lived in New Zealand for 18 years now, but I still haven’t adjusted to these chilly Kiwi winters after growing up under the warm, sunny skies of Queensland, Australia. The days here are short, the nights are long, and the cold seems relentless—like it seeps right into your bones. The trees lose their vibrancy, their leaves falling away, and the skies hang low and grey. Today is one of those days.

Every year, I feel a familiar dread creeping in as the season changes. This year was no different—at first. But something stirred in me. I made a quiet resolution to try something new: to ask God to help me see winter differently—to find something to appreciate in it.

And slowly, I have.

There’s something comforting about snuggling into a warm blanket each night. Lately, our family has been gathering more around the table to play board games, lingering longer as the cold darkens the evenings. The kids are loving a card game called Skip-Bo—and I’ll admit, they beat me nine times out of ten! I’ve started teasing them that the game has a personal vendetta against me. Just last night, we huddled together for a Mario Kart session, racing as a team and laughing as we tried to dodge the “bad guys.” These small moments? They’re gifts. And I’m learning to notice them.

Winter—both in nature and in the soul—has a way of slowing us down.

Our lives also move through seasons. There are spiritual springs full of new life, summers filled with energy and fruitfulness, and autumns of change. But then there’s winter. And if I’m honest, winter is often the hardest.

The winter of the soul can feel cold, dark, and desolate. Joy fades, energy vanishes, and what once brought life now feels empty. It’s a season that can be marked by loss, suffering, unanswered questions, or just silence. It’s a time of pruning, waiting, wrestling. It can feel as though everything is dead—or dying. The days blur together. God seems quiet. Friends grow distant. It feels like all we can do is wait.

But maybe, just maybe, there’s more happening beneath the surface than we realize.

Even when trees appear barren in winter, they’re far from lifeless. In this hidden season, a tree’s trunk forms a new growth ring, strengthening its core to endure future storms and bear summer fruit. Its roots reach deeper, anchoring it more securely and drawing in vital nutrients. In what looks like stillness, the tree is being prepared—restored and fortified—for what’s to come.

In 2018, I contracted a virus that triggered a long battle with chronic illness. Despite significant progress, I’m still walking that road. At the beginning of that season, I sensed the Holy Spirit whisper something unexpected: “This is a gift. You’ll learn things you couldn’t otherwise.”

I didn’t understand what that meant then. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

The suffering has been real—physically, emotionally, spiritually. And yet, in the midst of it, God has been quietly working in the deep places of my soul. He has taught me about His goodness, His provision, and His character in ways I may never have encountered otherwise. This winter season has drawn me into deeper intimacy with Him. It’s opened doors to new relationships, fresh perspectives, and healing I didn’t know I needed. I can see now how God has been strengthening not just me, but our whole family, for what lies ahead—even the parts we don’t yet understand.

So why am I sharing this?

Because if you’re walking through a winter season of your own, I want to encourage you: there is purpose in the pain, even if you can’t see it right now.

Can I gently invite you to lean in—to draw near to God during this time? That may look different for each of us—prayer, journaling, time in Scripture, walking in nature, simply being still. These are practices that help us stay connected and attuned to the One who works even in silence.

And if you’re wrestling with questions or facing a dark night of the soul, please don’t walk that road alone. Talk to someone you trust—a friend, a family member, or a spiritual director. (My husband is a spiritual director, and if you’d ever find it helpful, feel free to reach out.)

Whatever it looks like, let God use this winter to do something deep and unseen within you—something that prepares you to carry the fruit you were created to bear when spring comes again.

Today, I stopped into a store for something small. The person at the counter looked at me and said, “It’s cold, huh? I guess it’ll be warm again soon.” And in that simple moment, I felt the Spirit whisper again: Winter won’t last forever.

The seasons will change. They always do.

The days will grow longer. The sun will return. Life will rise again.

So, hold on.

And let me leave you with a blessing—a strange one, perhaps, but one that was shared with Brennan Manning on the day he became a priest. It feels like a fitting end:

May your expectations all be frustrated.
May all your plans be thwarted.
May all your desires be withered into nothingness,
That you may experience the powerlessness and poverty of a child
And can sing and dance in the love of God the Father,
God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.

Amen.