September 29, 2026
The winter solstice is the shortest day of the year — the point where the light stops withdrawing and begins, almost imperceptibly, to return. Cultures that mark it tend to treat it as a pause rather than a party: a long night, a candle, a quiet meal. Which makes it a good evening to sit down with a notebook.
Not to make resolutions. January will offer plenty of chances to do that badly. The solstice is for something gentler and more useful: taking stock of the year behind you, putting down what you have been carrying without noticing, and deciding what this slower season should hold.
Why the solstice works better than New Year
New Year's Eve arrives with noise, expectation and other people's plans. The solstice is quieter, and the dark gives you permission to be honest rather than upbeat. Nothing has to be announced. No new personality is required.
There is a practical advantage too. Late December is close enough to the year's end that your memory of it is still warm, but far enough from January that you are not competing with a hangover or a list of goals. If 21 December does not suit, any evening in the final fortnight of the year will do. The date matters less than the intention behind it.
Set the scene in ten minutes
Ritual works on the body before it works on the mind, so give yourself something physical to mark the start. Keep it simple:
- One candle or a low lamp instead of the overhead light.
- Your phone in another room, not face down on the table. Face down still pulls.
- Paper and a pen. Handwriting is slower than typing, and the slowness is the point: it lets your thoughts catch up with your hand.
- A hot drink you actually like.
- Forty-five to sixty minutes, and no longer. Past an hour you start performing for yourself.
If you live with other people, tell them what you are doing. One sentence is enough, and it usually earns a curious question the next morning.
Review the year honestly
Start with the review, because you cannot release what you have not looked at. Write fast and badly for twenty minutes, answering whichever of these pull at you:
- What did I actually spend my time on, and does it match what I say I care about?
- Which three days would I happily live again, exactly as they were?
- What was harder than I expected, and what did I get through that I once thought I could not?
- Who did I see most? Who did I mean to see and did not?
- What did I finish, and what is still open? Does it deserve another year of my attention?
- Where did I feel most like myself?
Do not edit, and do not turn it into a story where you are either the villain or the hero. When the twenty minutes are up, read it back and underline anything that appears twice. Repetition is where the real information hides.
Release what no longer serves
Letting go is not pretending something did not matter. It is deciding, deliberately, that you will not carry it into January. Some of what you underline will be practical — a project, a subscription, a commitment you agreed to out of politeness. Some of it will be harder to name: a grudge, a standard you hold yourself to, a version of yourself you have quietly outgrown.
Work through it like this:
- Give each thing its own line. Naming it plainly takes away some of its weight.
- Ask three questions of it: Is this mine to carry? Is it still true? What does keeping it cost me?
- Choose one or two to release properly. Write what each one gave you, and say goodbye.
- Finish two sentences: I am no longer… and I am making room for…
- Do something physical with the page. Cross it out hard, tear it into small pieces, or burn it safely — outside, in a fireproof dish, never left unattended. The gesture is what your memory keeps.
Some things a notebook cannot resolve: grief, debt, illness, a situation that frightens you. Write about them, then talk to someone qualified — a GP, a counsellor, a debt adviser or a solicitor, depending on what it is. Reflection supports action; it does not replace it.
Set intentions for the season, not the year
Winter is a fallow season. Little grows above ground, and the work that matters happens out of sight. Intentions set now should match that: small, repeatable, more about tending than achieving.
Make them concrete enough to keep
- Instead of "get fit", try "walk twice a week before the light goes".
- Instead of "write a book", try "one page every Sunday morning".
- Instead of "see friends more", try "message one person a week and reply to them properly".
- Instead of "rest more", try "lights out by eleven on weeknights".
Three is plenty. Choose them across different parts of your life — energy, attention, connection, rest — and write each as something you will do rather than something you will be. "I will be calmer" is not a plan; "I will leave my phone in the hall during dinner" is.
Underneath them, write one line about how you want the season to feel. That is the line you will come back to in February, when the intentions have lost their shine and the mornings are still dark.
Reflection is not rumination. If you are going round the same loop for the third time, close the notebook. The aim is to decide, not to relive.
A sixty-minute shape for the evening
If you would rather follow a structure than improvise, this one works. Set a timer for each part so the writing does not sprawl.
- Five minutes: light the candle, make the drink, put the phone away. If you did this last year, read what you wrote then.
- Fifteen minutes: the review. Fast, no editing.
- Ten minutes: read it back, underline what repeats.
- Fifteen minutes: the release. Decide what goes, write it down, dispose of the page.
- Ten minutes: three intentions, plus one line about how you want winter to feel.
- Five minutes: close the notebook, blow out the candle, stand outside or at an open window for a minute of cold air.
Then put the notebook somewhere you will see it, not in a drawer, and diarise one check-in for early February, when the light has returned enough to notice. Read the page, adjust what is not working, keep the two things that are.
The solstice is a turning point, but it turns slowly. Nothing needs resolving tonight. You only need to have looked honestly, put something down, and left yourself a note about where you are heading.
Photo: betül nur akyürek / Pexels
