What to do when your season changes…

This year was another year of “different.”

There was no snow. No tree. No family. No overcoats and boots.

Yes, it was still Christmas, but not really. The air wasn’t as fresh and cold. There was no smell of turkey or stuffing in the air. There were no stockings. No sleepy-eyed children whisking the hair out of their eyes. No delighted eyes at the sight of presents under the tree.

But there was still Christmas. There were Christmas carols, the outdoor decorations still lit up the park, the candlelight service was only attended by a handful instead of hundreds. But there was a candlelight service.

There was a smattering of down-turned faces as they thought of Christmases past and missing family members. There were “Merry Christmas’s” called out to passersby, sometimes with gusto and sometimes without much conviction.

This is a new season of life for some who have moved away from the cold and snow of the north and into the pleasant breezes of the south. Along with being able to take a daily swim and sit outdoors and visit with new friends, comes the cost of being without tradition, without old friends and family, and without the comfort of familiarity. All who are here made the decision to head south for various reasons, but perhaps not realizing the real cost of change. But change would happen anyway.

Nature Doesn’t Apologize for Turning Seasons

Here’s what struck me as I sat outside on Christmas morning in shorts and a t-shirt: nature doesn’t ask permission to change seasons. It doesn’t apologize. It simply turns.

The maple tree in Ohio doesn’t cling to its summer leaves when October arrives. It lets them go—brilliantly, boldly—in a cascade of crimson and gold. It stands bare through winter not because it has failed, but because it trusts the rhythm. It knows spring will come.

The ocean doesn’t hold back the tide because we prefer calm waters. It surges and recedes, following the pull of something larger than itself. The waves reshape the shoreline day after day, year after year. What was familiar yesterday becomes unrecognizable tomorrow.

And yet, the shore adjusts. Always.

The same is true for us. We change locations, lose loved ones, face unexpected health challenges, watch our children grow and leave, retire from careers that defined us. Life keeps moving, reshaping our shoreline whether we’re ready or not.

The question isn’t whether change will come. It’s whether we’ll let ourselves adjust to it.

The Cost of Clinging to Summer in the Middle of Winter

Years ago, I spent my first holiday season away from my childhood home feeling like I was wearing someone else’s skin. Everything felt wrong. The warmth felt wrong. The palm trees felt wrong. Even the laughter of new neighbors felt like an intrusion on what Christmas was “supposed” to be.

I saw this in the faces and the strained conversations with people who are experiencing it for the first time. And I could relate.

I wanted snow. I wanted my grandmother’s kitchen. I wanted the familiar creak of the old farmhouse floors and the scent of pine needles scattered under the tree.

But here’s what I didn’t realize then: by holding so tightly to what was, I was suffocating what could be.

Nature teaches us this lesson quietly, persistently. A seed buried in autumn soil doesn’t spend winter wishing it was still attached to the parent plant. It surrenders to the dark earth, to the cold, to the unknown.

And in that surrender, transformation begins.

As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage.”

The dragon of my first different Christmas wasn’t the absence of snow or family. It was my refusal to see the beauty in what actually surrounded me: warm breezes carrying the scent of jasmine, neighbors who smiled and waved, the freedom to walk barefoot on Christmas morning, the gift of health that allowed me to be here at all.

I was so busy grieving the winter that I wanted that I couldn’t see the kind of grace that southern winters hold.

The Gifts Hidden in Each Season

Think about the seasons of nature and what each one offers.

Spring doesn’t arrive with everything in full bloom. It begins with mud—messy, un-glamorous mud. It’s the season of tender shoots pushing through cold earth, of buds that haven’t yet opened, of mornings that still carry frost. It’s the season of becoming, not being. And that’s exactly its gift: possibility.

Summer brings abundance—long days, warm nights, growth everywhere you look. But it also brings heat, drought, the work of tending what’s been planted. Summer demands attention. Its gift is vitality, but also the reminder that nothing flourishes without care.

Fall is the season we romanticize most. The colors, the coziness, the harvest. But autumn is also the season of letting go. Every brilliant leaf is a small death, a release. Fall teaches us that there is beauty in endings, that letting go can be as magnificent as holding on.

And winter. Winter gets a bad reputation. It’s cold, dark, quiet. But winter is the season of rest, of restoration, of going deep. The bear hibernates. The soil lies dormant, gathering strength. Winter’s gift is the permission to be still, to turn inward, to trust that beneath the frozen surface, life is preparing for its return.

We need all of these seasons. We can’t skip from spring to fall, avoiding summer’s heat and winter’s cold. Each one prepares us for the next.

Your Life Has Seasons Too—And That’s Not a Flaw

Maybe you’re in the autumn of your career, watching what once defined you slowly fall away. Maybe you’re in the winter of grief, feeling frozen and wondering if warmth will ever return. Maybe you’re in the muddy spring of a new beginning—awkward, uncertain, not yet sure what’s taking root.

Wherever you are, the season is not a mistake.

When I finally stopped fighting the warmth of my southern Christmas and started noticing what was actually here, something shifted. I saw the egret standing perfectly still in the marsh, patient and present. I felt the soft gulf breeze that didn’t sting my face. I tasted the fresh oranges we picked from a neighbor’s tree.

I wasn’t in Ohio anymore. I was here. And here had its own beauty.

Mary Oliver once asked, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

Not your past life. Not the life you thought you’d have. This one. The one you’re living right now, in this season, with its particular weather and terrain.

What If You Stopped Resisting?

So let me ask you this: What if you stopped trying to recreate the past and started receiving what’s here?

What if this different Christmas—the one without snow, without the full family table, without the traditions you’ve carried for decades—what if this one has something to teach you?

Nature doesn’t resist. The tree doesn’t fight winter. The shore doesn’t refuse the tide. They bend, they adjust, they find beauty in what is.

You can too.

Maybe this is the Christmas where you start a new tradition. Maybe it’s ordering takeout instead of cooking a feast. Maybe it’s a candlelight service with strangers who become friends. Maybe it’s sitting outside in warmth instead of bundled by a fire.

Maybe different isn’t wrong. Maybe it’s just… next.

Trust the Rhythm Beneath the Change

The hardest part about transitioning to a new season isn’t the logistics—the move, the new routine, the unfamiliar landscape. It’s the inner weather. It’s the grief for what was. It’s the uncertainty about whether this new season will ever feel like home.

But here’s what I’ve learned, both from watching nature and from living through my own seasons of change: there is a rhythm beneath all of this. A deeper current that carries us even when we can’t see where we’re going.

The earth doesn’t worry about winter ending. It trusts spring will come. The oak tree doesn’t panic when its leaves fall. It knows they’ll return.

You are part of this same rhythm. You are not separate from nature—you are nature. The same wisdom that tells the birds when to migrate, that signals the bulbs when to push through frozen ground, that turns the tide twice a day without fail—that wisdom lives in you too.

Trust it.

Trust that this season, even if it feels foreign, is preparing you for something. Trust that what you’ve lost has made space for what’s coming. Trust that the cost of change—the traditions left behind, the distance from family, the unfamiliarity of new surroundings—is not too high a price for being alive, for having the chance to grow, for discovering parts of yourself you never knew existed.

An Invitation to Embrace

If you’re in a season of change right now—whether it’s a cross-country move, a retirement, an empty nest, the loss of someone you love, or simply the quiet recognition that life looks nothing like you planned—I want you to know this:

You’re allowed to grieve what was.
You’re allowed to feel disoriented.
You’re allowed to miss the snow, the tree, the family, the familiar rituals.

But please, also give yourself permission to be here. Fully here. In this moment, in this season, in this particular slice of your one wild and precious life.

Notice the warmth on your skin. Taste the food in front of you, even if it’s not what you expected. Say Merry Christmas to strangers. Light a candle. Feel the breeze. Let yourself be surprised by small beauties.

The season you’re in right now won’t last forever. That’s the nature of seasons. But while you’re here, while this is your weather and your landscape, let yourself inhabit it. Let yourself learn from it. Let yourself be changed by it.

Because change isn’t something happening to you. It’s something happening for you. It’s the way life deepens you, softens you, makes you more fully human.

And like the maple tree that lets go of its summer leaves, you might find that letting go creates space for something even more beautiful.

Perhaps even a different kind of Christmas. One without snow, but with warmth. Without the old traditions, but with new moments of grace. Without what was, but with what is.

And what is, when we finally stop resisting it, is always enough.

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A Gentle Prompt for Reflection

If you’re willing, take a quiet moment today. Maybe with a cup of tea, maybe on a walk, maybe sitting outside feeling whatever weather surrounds you.

Ask yourself:

• What season am I in right now, and what is this season asking me to learn?
• What am I still holding onto from a previous season that it might be time to release?
• What small beauty is right here, right now, that I’ve been too busy resisting to notice?

Your answers don’t have to be profound. They just have to be honest.

And then, if you can, take one small step toward embracing the season you’re actually in.

Not the one you wish you were in.
Not the one you used to be in.
This one.

The one where you’re alive, where you’re learning, where you’re still becoming.

That’s enough.
You’re enough.
Right here, right now.

Even if Christmas feels different this year.
Maybe especially then.