How to Winter Well: A Nervous System Guide for Darker Months

Walk through the woods in November and you’ll notice something subtle: the pace has shifted. The canopy has thinned. Leaves soften underfoot. The forest isn’t blooming, but it isn’t failing either. It’s simply wintering.

And maybe we need to remember the same.

The darker months aren’t a mistake. They’re part of the cycle. But for many of us, winter feels brutal; endless nights, low energy, grey moods that cling. We try to power through on caffeine and Christmas lights, but our bodies keep whispering: slow down.

This isn’t laziness. It’s biology. Your nervous system is seasonal too.

So how do we winter well? How do we honour the pull toward stillness without sliding into collapse?

Lesson from the Forest: Cycles, Not Straight Lines

The forest doesn’t bloom in January. It doesn’t shame itself for slowing down. Roots deepen. Energy withdraws underground. Growth is happening — just not visibly.

What if we lived like that too? Instead of expecting ourselves to stay in summer all year, what if we let winter be what it is — a season of repair?

This is the first step to wintering well: recognising you’re not broken for feeling slower. You’re seasonal.

A Nervous System View of Winter

In therapy, we talk about the nervous system as if it were a thermostat. Too much stress and it overheats (fight/flight). Too little stimulation and it shuts down (freeze).

Winter makes both more likely. Less daylight. More demands. Loneliness. The cultural pressure to keep performing while your body is craving hibernation.

So wintering well isn’t about pretending everything’s fine. It’s about learning to regulate differently, season by season.

A Compass for Wintering Well

Here’s your compass for the darker months; not rules, but guides. Tools rooted in trauma-informed practice and nature’s own rhythm.

1. Grounding Like the Oak

When your thoughts spiral, come back to your body.

• Stand barefoot on the floor (or on the earth if you can).

• Press your feet down, noticing how the ground holds you.

• Imagine roots moving down from your soles into the soil, anchoring you like the oaks in Burroughs Wood.

Why it works: Anxiety pulls us up and out, into racing thoughts. Grounding brings us back down, reminding the body it is here, safe, now.

2. Light Rituals

The forest follows light. So do we. With less sunlight, our nervous systems falter.

Create small rituals of light:

• A candle at your desk before you start work.

• A lamp by your bed instead of scrolling your phone in the dark.

• A ten-minute walk at midday, letting real daylight touch your skin.

Think of it as feeding your circadian rhythm. Your body doesn’t need blazing sun. It just needs the reminder that light still exists.

3. Micro-Rest, Often

Animals don’t wait for collapse to rest. They nap, curl, pause.

Winter well by weaving rest into your day, not just your holidays.

• Lie down for five minutes with no agenda.

• Step outside and notice the cold air.

• Close your eyes between tasks.

Rest doesn’t need to be earned. It needs to be regular.

4. Nourishment Without Shame

Winter can stir old battles with food. Comfort eating. Restriction. Shame.

But the forest doesn’t apologise for storing. Trees don’t judge themselves for holding sugar in their sap.

So feed yourself in ways that truly nourish: warm soups, whole grains, foods that bring both comfort and steadiness. Drop the guilt. Eating to stay alive through winter is not indulgence. It’s survival.

5. Connection as Firewood

In winter, we gather. Around fires, tables, songs. Because isolation chills us quicker than cold.

If loneliness creeps in, reach out, not always with big social plans, but with small sparks of connection. A text. A shared coffee. Sitting beside someone in silence.

Connection doesn’t have to be noisy. It just has to be real.

6. Boundaries Like the Hedge

Hedges in winter look bare, but they’re still barriers. They still protect the field.

Set your own hedges. Protect your time, your sleep, your quiet. You don’t need to attend every gathering. You don’t need to hold everyone else together. Boundaries are not selfish — they’re winter wisdom.

7. Movement as Warmth

Frozen bodies need thawing. Not punishing workouts, but warmth.

Try:

• A short walk in the cold, breath rising like smoke.

• Stretching by a radiator.

• Dancing in your kitchen to one song.

Movement isn’t about burning calories. It’s about reminding your body it’s alive.

Putting It Together: A Wintering Practice

Choose one anchor each day. That’s it. Not all seven. Just one.

Some mornings you’ll ground like the oak. Some evenings you’ll light a candle. Some days you’ll let soup be your medicine.

Wintering well isn’t about doing more. It’s about tending to the small things that keep you steady.

Why This Matters

We think survival means pushing harder. But the forest teaches another truth: survival is in the slowing down.

When you winter well, you’re not giving up. You’re repairing. You’re preparing. You’re listening to the wisdom of your nervous system and the land around you.

Because come spring, the forest will bloom again. And so will you.

You’re not lazy. You’re not failing. You’re wintering. And wintering is sacred work.

Sarah x