As the days perceptibly shorten and the long nights draw in across the globe, a pervasive societal inclination emerges, often finding individuals, myself included, spending increasingly extended periods tethered to digital screens. Among the myriad voices encountered in this virtual landscape, a particular TikTok creator, @thatglasgowwitch, stands out with her distinctive round, kelly-green wire-rimmed glasses and a captivating Scottish brogue. Her appeal lies in her candid articulation of universal truths, her guidance on straightforward mindfulness and manifestation practices, and an undeniable aura of authenticity. Her recent wisdom, suggesting that the profound depths of winter are not conducive to the typical flurry of New Year’s resolutions but rather an opportune time for "planting seeds for the self," resonated deeply. This perspective became particularly salient following my first therapy session in over a year, set against the backdrop of Anchorage where birch and cottonwood leaves carpeted the ground and the Chugach Mountains bore their first dusting of snow, signaling winter’s imminent arrival.

This period of introspection was spurred by a series of health challenges eerily reminiscent of those my mother faced at a similar stage in her life. Debilitating fatigue, persistent inflammation in my joints, and an overwhelming brain fog began to cast a shadow over my professional aspirations, causing me to question my capacity to embrace roles and missions that once ignited my passion. My physical state dictated a different path, an insistent whisper to rest and take care, echoing my mother’s experience, who, at roughly my current age, received medical advice to retire. For two years, caught in the relentless current of a productivity-driven culture, I attempted to push through these symptoms, adhering to the prevailing expectation of constant output. However, the body’s wisdom ultimately prevailed. I consciously stepped back from the conventional 8-to-5 grind, dedicating time to truly listen to its needs, and crucially, scheduled an appointment with a therapist.

During that initial visit, I specifically requested sensory-motor psychotherapy, a therapeutic modality that emphasizes the profound connection between physical sensations and emotional states. This approach is particularly effective for individuals experiencing symptoms like chronic fatigue or anxiety, where the body often holds unprocessed emotional information. Sitting opposite Claire, my therapist, I donned headphones through which calming music played, a gentle prelude to deeper exploration. She posed a seemingly simple yet profoundly evocative question: "What would life feel or look like if you were healthy?" My immediate response, "I’d be excited to make plans with my family," triggered an unexpected physical reaction – a sensation akin to a fish head lodged in my throat. The thought, so fundamental, surprisingly ignited a potent mix of fear and sadness. This visceral response stemmed from the frequent reality of my body’s limitations, often compelling me to remain home while my family embarked on cherished activities like ugruk (bearded seal) hunting, fishing, or even a simple walk through the familiar birch and cottonwood forests surrounding our home – activities deeply embedded in Alaskan life and culture. Migraines or crushing exhaustion too often confined me to the couch. Contemplating this vision of unhindered health, a profound tightness and heaviness enveloped my chest. I closed my eyes, allowing the sensations to unfold.

What emerged was a wave of sadness, followed by grief, and then a surge of anger. I recognized this anger, a familiar weight in my chest, as a lingering resentment over the absence of my mother’s vibrant, joyful, and utterly generous love. For decades, a deep frustration had simmered, lamenting that my children and our entire family no longer had access to the boundless affection she so freely gave. Claire, observing my internal process, gently suggested, "If it feels comfortable, place a hand on your chest." I complied, focusing on the shifting sensation, watching as it migrated upwards, once again settling in my throat, manifesting as that familiar "fish head" feeling, a constriction that made swallowing or speaking feel impossible. I remained with the sensation, observing its journey as it moved up the side of my face, until, remarkably, it began to transform.

A soft, golden light enveloped my head, and in that moment, I felt her presence – my mother’s essence, her heart, her voice. It was as though she stood right beside me, her voice echoing with profound reassurance: "The love is there. The love is there. The love is there. Babe, the love is there. The love is there. The love is there." This therapeutic breakthrough underscored a universal truth: love, as a powerful form of energy, transcends physical absence. It does not dissipate or vanish; it merely transforms its expression. This enduring energy manifests in countless ways: in the laughter of my children, the shared meals prepared in our kitchen, the meticulous process of cutting fish, the ritual of packing a tent, sleeping pads, and a Jetboil for a camping excursion, the comforting aroma of cranberry orange scones baking, the spontaneous dancing when a favorite song compels movement. It resides in my husband, Timm, confidently sporting the goofy, flowery pants I sewed for him, radiating a newfound swagger. It’s in the mundane yet intimate acts of wiping honey from the counter, scrubbing a coffee stain, or cleaning up breakfast yogurt dribbles. It’s in telling Pushkin, our small Yorkipoo, that his breath is offensive while still rubbing his belly with affection. It’s palpable in the warm embrace when my adult children return home, in the hurried goodbye hug as my young son Henning leaves for school, in the shared reminder to take vitamin D during the dark Alaskan winter, and in the comfortable silence of simply lying together on the couch. The love is undeniably there, an omnipresent force woven into the fabric of daily existence.

My mother departed 21 years ago. In the months leading up to her passing, she endured severe depression, experiencing sleep deprivation so profound she rarely slept more than 30 minutes a day. She spoke of distorted, troubling thoughts, and behind her eyes, the vibrant mother I knew was eclipsed by a woman in deep, unimaginable suffering. Every year, as winter descends, I find myself grappling with this grief, a recurring cycle of loss and remembrance. And of course, I miss her terribly. She embodied the very best of us, a sentiment she would have playfully acknowledged with a characteristic chin-out dance to Otis Redding in the kitchen, a joyful reminder not to take life too seriously. This winter, as we approach the solstice, a time traditionally associated with introspection and the gradual return of light, I offer her my gratitude, recalling her words. She was right, Mom. The love truly is there.

Reflecting on the wisdom of @thatglasgowwitch, I understand that this season, this deeply personal revelation, represents the "planted seed." This seed lies in the darkness of winter, dormant, hibernating, yet inherently waiting and ready for growth. The core principle that "thoughts become things" and "intention is essential" resonates powerfully. Thus, I will reiterate her message, just as my mother’s voice echoed in my therapist’s office: The love is there. The love is there. The love is there. The prospect of making future plans no longer elicits a scary or sad constriction in my chest. Instead, I feel a stirring in my belly and a luminous clarity behind my eyes. Like a golden light or the inexorable turning of a season, there is now an overwhelming sense of possibility, a profound reassurance that resilience and joy are not merely fleeting emotions but an enduring legacy of love. This profound realization, born from a winter’s introspection and therapeutic journey, illuminates a path forward, transforming personal struggle into a testament to the enduring power of connection and self-compassion.