The deep green cocoon: Why I'm rejecting the January pressure
Last night I dreamt of a forest,
quiet and heavy.
A canopy of security, a deep green
cocooning me from the world.
Dappled light breaks through the trees.
The forest encourages me along a carved path,
where animals have gone before me.
I’m in no hurry,
each exhale a complete moment.
A deep green forest, a dirt path carved through, dappled light above.
I have joined Beth Kempton’s winter writing sanctuary, spending time looking inward; the first session inspired those words. As we begin a new year, I am reminded that for many, January is simply the middle of winter. It is a time for reflection and preparation, not always action.
Christmas is a twinkly light that breaks the dark, cold season, but once the decorations come down, we are still very much in the season of hibernation. So, if you don’t feel like a salad and a dark morning jog, that is okay. We can begin at any time.
My year doesn’t have one single “start” point; it has seasons of beginning:
January is for the quiet tools: a new diary, clean pages, and the private promise of organisation.
March is for social beginnings: longer days that invite me to meet friends, move my body, and step back out into the fresh air.
September still carries that “academic” pull: the back-to-work energy that invites me to reconsider direction and motivation. New pencil case, anyone?
Interestingly, one of the first iterations of the Roman calendar started in March, with the original 10 months named, and winter an unnamed period, which makes sense to me.
The Myth of the “Fresh Start”
In the therapy room, I often see the guilt that January brings, the weight of expectations that we should suddenly be “new” just because the digit on the year has changed. But nature doesn’t work that way. The forest in my writing wasn’t rushing toward spring; it was safe in its stillness.
Perhaps the “fresh start” isn’t a date on a calendar, but a permission slip to move at our own pace, whether that be with nature or our internal seasons.
If you are still in your cocoon, stay there. The carved path will still be there when the light changes. For now, maybe the most productive thing we can do is exhale, be in no hurry, and trust that the “quiet and heavy” work of winter is exactly what we need to sustain the “growth” later on.
It’s lovely to share a few quiet moments with you today.
My closing question to you: Where are you in your season? Are you still cocooned, or are you looking for the dappled light?
Until next time,
💛🌿 Helen
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