By Eve Bell

Last Christmas was so different. It is usually a much needed rest followed by a surge of energy ready to make plans for the new year ahead.

A few days before Christmas, on the winter solstice, I had closed the doors on a business that had been my life for years. It wasn’t just a job; it was my purpose, my identity, the thing that had defined so much of who I was.

And suddenly, it wasn’t there.

I wasn’t expecting the emptiness that followed. I wasn’t prepared for the long, quiet days that felt as though they had no shape or purpose. For the first time in years, I wasn’t building, creating, or planning. I was just… there. The biggest loss wasn’t just the work itself but the vibrant, supportive community that had been part of it.

I don’t know if my mum knew exactly how lost I was going to feel. She probably did. Mums have that uncanny ability to see the things we try to hide. For my birthday, which sneaks in a couple of days after Christmas, she gave me two gifts. The first was a beautiful pen. Not a flashy, look-at-me pen, but one that fit perfectly in my hand, with weight and purpose. A writer’s pen. The kind you keep in your bag and don’t lend out to anyone.

The second gift was a handmade cardigan, soft and warm, in a colour that felt like comfort itself. She had knitted it herself, just as she had when I was a girl. I grew up in her cardigans, each one a little different but always the same in how they made me feel. Loved and special because I had a cardigan that no one else had.

She didn’t say, “You should start writing again.” She didn’t have to. The pen and the cardigan said it for her. They were nudges. A pen to remind me of the hours I spent as a child, at the table, filling notebooks with stories and dreams. A cardigan to remind me of the times when life was simpler, when I felt warm and held and sure of my place in the world.

I didn’t start writing that very day, or even that week. But something shifted. My hands itched to pick up the pen, to let words flow again. My mum’s gifts weren’t just the pen or the cardigan. They were the belief that I wasn’t lost, that I could find my way back to something I loved.

This past year has been one of wintering. A season of dormancy, yes, but also of quiet transformation. Like the trees shedding their leaves to conserve energy, I’ve learned to let go of what no longer serves me. Wintering has taught me the beauty of stillness and the strength found in pause. It’s given me space to listen. Not to the world’s demands, but to my own rhythm.

Now, as the year draws to a close, I’m filled with gratitude. For the lessons wintering has taught me. For the chance to recalibrate, to ask who I am without the labels or the relentless doing. And for you, who have read my newsletters and blogs, who have journeyed alongside me with kindness and encouragement.

And while this might sound romantic, let me assure you my life is chaos most of the time. I’m never in one place for long enough to catch my breath. But even in the noise and mess of it all, I feel like I have found my compass in the calm moments, guiding me through the whirlwind.

As I step into the new year, I carry these lessons forward. I want to build on the quiet strength of wintering and create something meaningful. Something that honours the power of rest and the possibilities it holds.

Have you ever found yourself in the space between endings and beginnings? I’d love to hear your stories.

Thank you for being part of my journey. I can’t wait to share what’s next with you in the year ahead.