Winter has a way of asking us to pause. Its stillness slows the world, leaving space to notice what we often miss in the rush of busier seasons. This winter, for me, has been a time of rediscovery—a time to notice and embrace quiet moments that feel as vital as any act of creation.

As the seasons shifted in 2024 from summer to autumn, I found myself spending more time outside, experiencing how autumn tiptoes in, to gently prepare the earth for winter’s stillness. The days grew shorter, the air crisper, and the leaves fell quietly to the ground, blanketing the soil in preparation for rest. The rhythm of the earth seemed to shift, settling into a quieter, steadier pace as winter approached. Watching it unfold, I felt a pull to slow down too—and to finally give myself permission to do so.

Not long ago, my idea of stillness looked very different. I had just become a new chicken owner in September 2024, taking on four hens and beginning the process of learning about their habits, their needs, and how to care for them. Backyard chickens bring joy but also require patience and learning, especially when you’re balancing their care with other responsibilities.

At the same time, I was also navigating life with my two standard poodles, Ginger and Emma, whose natural instincts made them a real danger to the survival of my chickens. For the dogs, the chickens were irresistible—a flutter of feathers that triggered their prey drive and presented a chase too tempting to resist. But I knew these gentle, vulnerable creatures needed my protection.

Learning Patience and Slowing Down

Patience became my greatest tool. I had to slow down and focus on each of them individually. Ginger caught on quickly. Within a week, she understood the boundaries and left the chickens in peace. But Emma needed more time. She required my calm, steady presence, and I had to remind myself not to get frustrated with her pace. Training dogs around chickens couldn’t be rushed; it had to unfold naturally, one quiet moment at a time.

As I slowed down for Emma, I began to slow down for myself too. The time I spent outside with her turned into something more than training—it became an opportunity to observe and reconnect. I started to notice the gentle shift in the world around me, the way the season moved quietly from summer to autumn and then to winter. The crisp air on my face, the golden light softening as the days grew shorter, the rustle of leaves on the breeze, and finally the first snowflakes became part of my routine.

Standing there, watching Emma learn and the chickens settle into their rhythms, I began to notice things I had forgotten—things I hadn’t slowed down enough to remember since I was young. After a few days of truly noticing, the winter felt different. Now, when I’m with my chickens, I don’t just watch them—I let myself be with them.

I notice the quiet that settles over everything like a blanket. It’s a quiet broken only by the soft rustling of feathers, the occasional caw of a crow overhead, or the sound of the wind weaving its way through bare branches. In these moments, I’ve found something I didn’t realize I was missing: a sense of peace, of connection, of thriving in the stillness.

Winter whispers the truth we often forget: every soul and season thrives in the slow, quiet moments.

The Value of Slow Living in Winter

I didn’t set out to embrace slow living; it came to me in the simplest way, through nature itself. Winter’s rhythm—the shorter days, the frozen stillness of the earth—showed me the value of pausing.

I began to notice things I’d once overlooked: the way sunlight glances off frost-coated grass, the sound of snow crunching underfoot, and the way the world seems to exhale in winter, as if it too is letting go of the year’s busyness.

These small moments, quiet and unassuming, have become my anchors. They remind me that life isn’t measured by how much we do but by how deeply we experience the present.

What Slow Living Means to Me

Slow living isn’t about abandoning our responsibilities or retreating from the world. For me, it’s about finding balance. It’s about carving out space for what matters most—whether that’s spending time with my chickens, savoring a warm drink, picking up my knitting needles again, or simply sitting and listening to the wind in the trees.

This winter, I’ve learned that slow living isn’t about doing less—it’s about doing what matters most. It’s about stepping away from the rush to truly notice the world around you and to create space for what brings peace and meaning. It’s not the absence of busyness, but the presence of what truly matters.

It’s not always easy. Like many of you, I’m used to the pull of busyness—the sense of accomplishment that comes from checking off a long list of tasks. But this winter, I’ve learned that there’s a different kind of fulfillment in slowing down.

An Invitation to Slow Down

I share this because I believe we’re all looking for a way to breathe more deeply, to connect more fully, and to let go of the constant need to keep up. Maybe for you it’s a walk in the snow, the act of lighting a candle, or taking time to sit with a loved one and truly listen.

Whatever it looks like, I hope you’ll give yourself permission to pause this winter. To step outside and feel the air on your face, to notice the quiet, and to thrive in the stillness.

Slow living, I’ve learned, isn’t about doing less. It’s about doing what matters most. It’s about finding joy in simplicity and peace in presence. And for me, it started in the stillness of autumn, as the earth began to slow and deepen into winter, surrounded by my two dogs, chickens, crows, and the gentle whisper of the wind.