Winter is a season of coziness and connection. The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer, and the cold temperatures encourage us to slow down and draw in. When the weather takes a turn for the worse, we are given the opportunity to rest, retreat, and sit with what is rather than rushing toward what’s next.
I often think of the winter solstice as an invitation.
The longest night of the year doesn’t come to swallow the light, but to remind us that even in deep darkness, something is quietly shifting.
The light returns not all at once, but gradually and almost unnoticeably at first.
Winter, and especially the holiday season, can feel especially heavy for parents of transgender children.
It’s difficult to head into a dark season when you are already carrying worry, grief, or uncertainty.
This is even more true this year, when the world feels loud and divided. We typically head into the holidays with excitement about the upcoming year. But in chaotic and uncertain times, the future can feel unclear. The new year can look to contain shadows of the past year, and when you’re raising a transgender child, those shadows sometimes feel closer and more personal.
There are days when hope feels like too much to ask for. When the headlines sting and the weight of responsibility settles heavily on your shoulders. In those moments, it can be tempting to believe that darkness is winning.
But hope doesn’t require brightness. It only requires a flicker of belief that, so long as you keep showing up and doing the work, things will eventually get better.
Winter may be dark, but light shows up in everyday, ordinary moments. It could be a shared laugh over a cup of hot cocoa, the steady rhythm of a routine family movie night, or the moment your child looks at you and knows they’re safe. These are not dramatic victories, but they are real. And they matter.
The solstice reminds us that darkness is not a failure. It’s a season. A necessary pause before something new begins. Just as the earth rests beneath the cold, we too are allowed to slow down, to feel tired, to acknowledge what’s been hard without rushing toward resolution.
Finding light in the darkness doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay. It means choosing to notice what is still good, still worthy, still alive, even when it’s fragile.
As the days slowly begin to lengthen, may you trust that change is happening, even if you can’t see it yet. Have faith that love is still working quietly beneath the surface. Believe that the care you pour into your child, day after day, is its own kind of light.
You don’t have to shine brightly right now.
You only have to stay.
And that is enough.
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