For the past several years, I’ve marked the winter solstice with a ritual inspired by the Rauhnächte: writing 13 wishes, burning one each night, and holding one to consciously tend through the year ahead. It’s been a tradition I’ve loved; and one that’s felt grounding, hopeful, and connective.
This year, though, something shifted.
I found myself here, today, at the solstice without preparation… and without certainty that I wanted to do the ritual… at least in the same way.
I’ve been silently questioning this for days. Not because it no longer matters, but because this year has asked something very different of me.
This past year has held grief in ways I didn’t anticipate: the loss of my beloved cat Monster, major health changes, and the ripple effects that follow those kinds of losses. Work paused. A home renovation stalled. Added financial stress arrived. My partner became a primary support in new ways, and with that came tenderness, strain, gratitude, guilt, love — all braided together. It’s been a year of dependency, uncertainty, and nervous-system-level survival.
And in that landscape, wishing feels… tender.
It feels almost too vulnerable because my heart has been busy protecting itself. When a year has taken as much as this one has, the act of wanting can feel like reopening a wound. And this isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed desires going “offline” when the body is just trying to stay safe.
At the same time, the solstice and the lingering new moon energy still feels like a doorway. A small, quiet one; but a doorway nonetheless.
So instead of forcing myself into a familiar shape, I’m letting the ritual evolve.
This year, the practice is becoming a gratitude ritual.
Not gratitude as bypass.
Not gratitude as “at least.”
Not gratitude as a moral obligation.
But gratitude as attention.
As a way of gently teaching my system to notice what is holding, even amid what has been lost.
Gratitude, when it’s done honestly (not forced, not comparative, not moralized), is a way of telling the nervous system: “Some parts of this reality are not actively threatening right now.”
And this is how I’ve decided to practice reception again… not big dreams or polished desires, but small, survivable truths. Warmth. Support. Moments of okay-ness. The fact that I’m still here. The fact that I’m not doing this alone.
In this way, gratitude becomes its own form of calling in. Where attention goes, energy flows, as the saying goes. And I’m inviting that gratitude-imbued energy to flow not toward grand outcomes this year, but toward capacity. Toward regulation. Toward the possibility of wanting again, slowly.
I’m still honouring the structure: 12 nights, one slip burned each evening. But instead of wishes for the future, I’m offering thanks for what has carried me, and inviting more of that frequency, whatever shape it takes. I haven’t quite decided how I will handle the 13th “wish”— the one that I consciously weave into my reality throughout the following year—but I won’t let having it ‘all figured out’ hinder me in keeping this tradition alive this year.
Consider this is a gentle reminder that traditions don’t have to stay static to remain meaningful. Sometimes the most honest magic is letting a ritual meet you where you actually are.
This year, I’m not asking for more.
I’m re-learning how to hold what’s already here.
Cover photo by Denys Nevozhai on Unsplash
