‘My Winter Mind is Grief’
Slowing down in times of change, uncertainty and pain
My alarm goes off at 7am and before I even open my eyes, I’m tired. Reluctantly, grudgingly, I peel open one eye, and then the other. It’s mostly dark. The smallest amount of bluish light seeps in through the window as the sun contemplates rising. It’s cold in the room, but under my comforter, I’m warm, cocooned, safe. It’s impossible to drag myself out of bed.
Eventually, I do.
I move through my morning, my day, slowly. My energy is fickle. I get bursts of inspiration — an idea for a story, a journal prompt, a solution to that problem at work — and I write feverishly for a while. And then, often without warning, the energy dissipates. Suddenly, I’m tired again. Too tired to properly focus. Much too tired to finish what I started.
The result is a jumble of half-baked ideas, half-formed thoughts, half-finished products. For a Type A high achiever, that lack of follow-through is incredibly frustrating. I try to be gentle with myself, but the truth is: I’m angry. I’m disappointed in my own lack of motivation. I beat myself up for not being able to concentrate.
This is a pattern I know well — and yet I never seem to get used to it. It appears every year, sometime after the leaves turn, fall and dry underfoot; sometime after the cold sets in. It’s a product of my winter body, my winter mind.
My winter mind is slow.
My winter mind is scattered.
My winter mind is distracted.
My winter mind is grief.
I got the phone call just after midnight on a cold February morning. I knew, before I answered it, what my mom would tell me. I felt it in my gut; I felt all over my body.
I had felt uneasy throughout the evening. A sinking feeling of dread — an inexplicable knowing — grew in me as the hours wore on. That two-minute phone call confirmed it.
He was gone.
I couldn’t speak, I just dumbly nodded to my mom, who of course couldn’t see me. I didn’t cry — not at first. I just felt numb, empty, cold. When I spoke, my voice sounded different — robotic, monotone almost. Like I didn’t care. Like my world wasn’t crashing down around me. Like my grief wasn’t about to swallow me whole.
I guess I was in shock, although I wasn’t altogether surprised. I had seen the writing on the wall, seen this coming, for far too long. I worried about this outcome every time I didn’t hear back from my parents when I called or texted. I worried about them, and I worried about him.
My brother was studying to be a nurse. He had the biggest heart and the biggest imagination. He was wickedly smart. He cared deeply, laughed loudly. He was funny and fun. Despite our differences and challenges at times, he always had my back. He wanted to protect me. All he wanted to do in life was help people.
At his core, he was kind and he was good. But he was also sick.
He was diagnosed with multiple mental illnesses over the years, and he struggled with addiction. His illnesses would sometimes take him away from himself, and he would become someone very different. The rage and violence that came out through that other him led to some terrible, dangerous and traumatic situations throughout both of our lives. And it’s what eventually led to the end of his.
I won’t go into the details — I can’t. But ever since I lost him on that February morning, I’ve become someone different too. Especially during this time of year.
That was in 2014. Sometimes I feel ok, and sometimes it hits me, out of the blue, like a ton of bricks. His memory is with me every day, and yet I often forget that our shared trauma colours so many of my experiences. Year after year, I forget that it’s the reason I sink into this slow, sad state. Grief never really leaves you. And winter is grief for me.
Things feel especially hard this season. Like the rest of the world, I’m tired. Tired of pandemic talk, tired of uncertainty, tired of bad news, tired of not being able to see my friends and family. I’m exhausted and overwhelmed and burnt out from simply existing in this version of the world.
On top of my pandemic fatigue and grief-induced winter blues, I’m facing another emotional challenge: three months ago, I got sober. I decided to tear down the person I used to be and rebuild her from scratch. My days are often filled to the brim with self-discovery work — journaling, meditating, reading, discussing. I’m digging into my past, thought patterns and habits; my emotions have never been closer to the surface. It’s incredibly rewarding, but incredibly draining.
These days, I’m giving all of myself to my recovery — recovery from my alcohol misuse, from my trauma, from my anxiety, from my self-doubt. And as a result, I’m showing up less in other areas of my life. That’s hard for me to accept. It’s hard for me to embrace this season in life in which I’m not, and cannot be, focused solely on productivity. I’m putting myself and my healing above all else. Hustle culture be damned.
This version of me is frankly not someone I know. She is not the driven, success-above-all-else go-getter who relentlessly chases gold stars. As much as I beg her to focus and pick up the pace, she refuses. She reminds me to slow down. She reminds me that steady, slow progress is still progress.
She gently, kindly reminds me to listen to what my body needs, to follow what’s calling me:
If your body calls for rest, rest.
If you’re feeling pulled to write, write.
If your mind needs movement, move.
But don’t force any of it.
Do what feels right, she whispers, moment to moment.
Our society is obsessed with productivity. But the truth is, none of us is defined by how much we can produce or how successful we are. Our existence is enough. Being a good person is enough. Pursuing our own purpose, passions and hobbies is definitely enough.
I know that my energy and focus will return. But for now, I will simply exist. I will follow what calls me. I will embrace my winter mind, in all her slow-moving, introspective glory. She is valid and she is worthy, exactly how she is.
If you’re also feeling slow this season — tired, frustrated, sad, unfocused, unproductive — know this: you’re valid and worthy just as you are, too.
