Permission to Pause

Winter Taught Me How to Stop

For a long time, I believed winter was something to push through.

Something inconvenient. Something to endure. Something to survive until spring arrived.

That belief shaped how I worked — and how I treated my own limits — for years.

In 2014, winter finally asked me to listen.

When Hustle Caught Up With Me

That year, I moved Zippy Chicks into a new downtown space — right into the heart of walking traffic. The buildout had delays. Stress stacked on stress. My parents helped me paint late into the night before opening day. My husband and I, along with some dear friends and employees, packed up the old location and moved everything into the new space in a single night.

Opening day was a smashing success. The weeks that followed were, too.

Too successful, honestly.

I wasn’t staffed properly. I had already booked a long-planned beach vacation with my husband shortly after the launch. I told myself everything would settle once the holidays passed.

But when January arrived, I was empty — and I didn’t yet have language for it.

I went to my energy healer, like I often do. We started with a check-in, and I immediately went into problem-solving mode.

Maybe I need to change my diet.
Maybe I’m depleted in XYZ vitamins.
Maybe it’s my thyroid acting up again.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

And underneath all of that, there was a quieter, more uncomfortable truth I hadn’t wanted to admit:

I used to secretly wish I’d get sick — just sick enough that I’d be forced to stay in bed. Forced to stop. Given permission to pause that I didn’t know how to give myself.

She listened quietly for a few minutes and then asked,

“Do you want to know what I think?”

I leaned forward in anticipation.
“Yes! Tell me — what do you think?” I said.

She looked at me, deadpan, and said,

“I think you’re f***ing exhausted.”

Not vitamin deficient.
Not in need of more vegetables.
Not another vacation.
Not a new routine.

Just… exhausted.

She asked if I had staff who could run the shop if I rested for a while. I didn’t. Then she asked if I could close the shop.

“How long?” I asked.

“At least three weeks,” she said.

I guffawed out loud.
“There is no way!” I exclaimed.

And then something in me — instinct, maybe — said yes anyway.

She told me exactly what to do:

For today, go put a sign on the door — closed for today. Just for today.
Create a quick plan. Email my list. Explain logistics clearly. Make a new sign with dates.
Go home… and don’t get out of my pajamas for a week.

I did it.

And that was the moment I understood this truth in my body:

I cannot run myself into the ground — no matter the financial cost — because the personal cost is always greater.

Winter Is Not a Problem to Solve

We’re taught that winter is inconvenient.
That slowing down is dangerous.
That rest has to be earned.

But nature doesn’t operate that way.

In winter, roots deepen.
Energy is conserved.
Nothing is rushed.

Winter isn’t a failure of momentum.
It’s a phase of preparation.

And yet, every January, we’re told to do the opposite: push harder, fix ourselves, rush toward change before we’ve even listened.

By the time January comes, most of us are already tired — from the holidays, from excess, from being “on.” And still, we feel pressure to hit the ground running, to optimize, to reinvent ourselves immediately.

What most people want instead is permission — to rest, to integrate, and to pause before deciding what’s next.

Why I Guide This Work Now

The Quiet Winter Reset was born from this lived knowing — not as a program to improve anyone, but as an invitation to do what winter has always asked us to do: pause, listen, notice, and nurture before acting.

I’ve spent years learning, unlearning, healing, and being witnessed — in recovery spaces, in coaching containers, in business, in motherhood, and in community.

The throughline has always been this:

Sustainable change doesn’t come from force. It comes from awareness, support, and timing.

The Winter Reset is a space for women who feel that something is shifting — even if they can’t yet name it.

Not a crisis.
Not a breakdown.
Just a knowing.

Winter taught me how to stop.
And in stopping, I learned how to listen.

This work is an extension of that lesson.