Thaw is not Weakness

There is a particular kind of tired that feels noble.

The kind where you tell yourself you are resting.
Protecting your peace.
Holding your energy carefully and deliberately.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what you’re doing.

But sometimes — and this is the quieter truth — you are not resting.

You are refreezing.

There’s a difference.

Rest is warm.
Even when it’s still.

Refreezing feels tight.
Controlled.
Contained.

Rest allows breath.

Refreezing restricts it.

Winter is not the problem.

We need winter.

We need the quiet seasons where nothing is demanded of us, where the ground hardens and we retreat inward. There are winters in nature, and there are winters in people.

But winter is meant to move.

Even when you cannot see it, something shifts beneath the surface.

Water loosens.
Light lengthens.
The air changes before the landscape does.

And if you pay attention closely enough, you can feel it.

That faint irritation.

That small restlessness.

That whisper of:
“Okay. Enough now.”

Not in a dramatic way.
Not in a “burn it down” way.

Just a subtle refusal to stay frozen.

There’s a particular discomfort that comes when you have been small for a little too long.

Not small in worth.
Small in expression.

Small in visibility.
Small in momentum.

And the irritation can be confusing, because it doesn’t look like ambition.

It looks like:

A desire to show up more consistently. A desire to speak more directly about what you’ve built. A desire to stop pretending your work is a hobby.

It can feel inconvenient. Slightly embarrassing. A bit exposed.

But irritation is information.

It doesn’t mean you need to leap.

It doesn’t mean you need to bloom overnight.

It means something in you is thawing.

And thaw is not weakness.

Thaw is readiness.

It is the stage where the ground softens just enough for something to begin.

You do not have to hurry it.

But you also do not have to refreeze it.

You don’t have to slam the door on your own expansion because you are afraid of being visible.

You don’t have to shrink what you’ve built in order to feel safe.

There is a version of growth that does not require abandoning your peace.

There is a version of visibility that does not require performance.

There is a way to move forward that feels like a stretch — not a tear.

This is the work I call Holding Court — staying with yourself even as you step forward.

If something in you is thawing, you don’t have to force it into spring.

Just don’t press it back into ice.

Let it soften.

Let it move.

Let it take one small, unremarkable step.

Sometimes that step looks like speaking a little more plainly.

Sometimes it looks like showing up twice a week instead of when inspiration strikes.

Sometimes it looks like naming what you’ve built without apologizing for it.

Not because you need to be louder.

But because you are ready to be proportionate to your own work.

Winter served its purpose.

Now something is stirring.

You don’t have to leap.

You just have to stop pretending you’re still frozen.

There’s room for you in Holding Court