I’m a solar-driven person.
All year long, we’re told that after December 22nd, “the light returns.”
It sounds dramatic. Reassuring. Almost instant.
But that’s not really how it works.
The winter solstice isn’t the sudden return of light — it’s simply the end of the descent into darkness.
The turnaround is real, but it’s subtle. At first, the change is measured in seconds, not minutes.
Sunrise still comes painfully late. The days don’t suddenly feel brighter. You have to trust the math, not your mood.
And yet… something important has shifted.
By the end of January, here in Ohio, we’ll gain roughly 40 minutes of daylight. Not all at once. Not evenly. Day by day. Small, almost imperceptible changes that quietly add up.
Grief works the same way.
When someone we love dies, we often wait for the day the light comes back — the morning we wake up and feel like ourselves again. But healing doesn’t arrive like flipping a switch. It arrives like January sunlight: slowly, inconsistently, sometimes so subtly you doubt it’s happening at all.
First, it’s a second of peace.
Then a moment where you breathe without effort.
Then a short walk that doesn’t feel as heavy.
Then one evening where the darkness doesn’t last quite as long.
You’re not failing because the light hasn’t flooded back yet.
You’re adjusting — one day, one second, one small shift at a time.
The light is returning.
It just doesn’t announce itself.
And maybe that’s the most honest kind of hope there is.
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