Tending My Roots

Welcome back to Soft Days Collective, friend. Come in gently, take a breath, and stay awhile.

We’ve made it to the final stretch of February, and winter is still very much winter up here on the North Shore of Lake Superior. Three feet of snow sit stubbornly on the ground. The lake is moody and steel-blue. The trees look like they’re still holding their breath.

And yet… the light is changing.

It lingers a little longer in the evenings. The sun hits differently through the kitchen window. There are subtle shifts that only those of us who endure true northern winters can fully appreciate. Spring is whispering. Not loudly. Not boldly. But she’s there.

I’ll miss parts of winter. The permission to slow down. The cozy layers. The way the world feels smaller and quieter. But if I’m honest, I’ve been daydreaming about sweatshirts without parkas, sandals instead of snow boots, and losing entire afternoons to gardening season. I want dirt under my nails. I want to feel warm air on my shoulders. I want to feel awake again.

Because lately, I haven’t.

The last few weeks have felt… off. I’ve been disconnected from myself physically, emotionally, spiritually. There’s been this low-grade dissociation humming in the background of my days. That strange floaty feeling where you’re technically present, but not fully in your body. And underneath that has been the creeping awareness that a bigger depressive episode might be waiting around the corner.

There have been a lot of changes in my life. Some beautiful. Some painful. Some necessary. Some completely out of my control. And I would love to say I’ve handled all of it with effortless grace and grounded wisdom.

But the truth is, I’m struggling a bit.

There’s this grief that comes when you realize certain doors aren’t just temporarily closed. They’re done. Locked. No longer part of your story. And instead of circling back to what once felt safe or familiar, I’m being asked to carve out a new path again.

Reinvention sounds romantic on Instagram.

In real life, it’s exhausting.

Old Sarah would have handled this by shrinking. By isolating. By convincing herself that disappearing for a while was “self-care.” I would have hermited so hard that even the squirrels outside would have wondered where I went.

But I know better now.

Or at least, I’m trying to.

My body and brain have been very clear: it’s time to dig deep into the coping skills. It’s time to refill the self-care cup before it’s bone dry. It’s time to stop white-knuckling my way through and actually tend to myself.

So instead of disappearing, I’m choosing something intentional.

Beginning March 1st, I’m committing to 30 Days of Yoga.

Every single day, I will set aside sixty minutes just for me. Thirty minutes in the morning. Thirty minutes in the evening. Not to chase calorie burns. Not to punish my body. Not to prove anything to anyone. But to reconnect.

To breathe.

To feel my feet on the mat.

To notice where I’m holding tension.

To soften.

I’ll be following Breath – A 30 Day Yoga Journey by Yoga With Adriene alongside the 30 Day Yin Yoga Challenge from Devi Daily Yoga. One practice rooted in intentional breath and mindful movement. The other rooted in stillness, surrender, and deep stretching. A balance of effort and ease. Fire and softness. Doing and being.

And if I come out of this with stronger wrists and better flexibility, amazing. But that’s not the point.

The point is rebuilding trust with myself.

The point is coming back into my body instead of floating somewhere above it.

The point is remembering that I am allowed to care for myself before I hit rock bottom.

Winter has a way of revealing what’s sturdy and what needs tending. Beneath three feet of snow, the roots are still alive. They’re not panicking about blooming right now. They’re conserving energy. They’re strengthening underground.

Maybe that’s what this season is for me.

Not forcing doors open.

Not desperately trying to be who I was last year.

But tending to my roots so that when spring does arrive, I’m ready to grow in whatever direction feels true.

If you’re in a similar space, feeling untethered or heavy or just slightly not-yourself, consider this your gentle nudge. You don’t need a complete life overhaul. You don’t need a five-year plan. You just need one small, consistent act of returning.

For me, it’s yoga.

For you, it might be a daily walk. A journal practice. Therapy. A boundary. Drinking more water. Going to bed earlier. Saying no.

Whatever it is, you are allowed to begin again. Even in the snow. Even in the dark. Especially in the dark.

Thank you for being here. Truly. It means more than you know.

With love from the North Shore,
Sarah
Soft Days Collective ✨