Every year, as winter settles over the farm, I feel a familiar tug in my chest. The gardens go quiet, the fields freeze, and the colours of summer fade into a palette of whites, greys, and muted browns. Even after all these years, I still miss gardening more than I expect to. It feels like a piece of my identity gets tucked away with the tools in the shed—a part of me that used to spend long warm evenings outdoors, checking on seedlings and deadheading flowers until the light slipped away.
But life changes. I’ve changed.
Becoming a mom shifted the rhythm of everything, and now with baby number two on the way, I find myself releasing a little more each year. The farm is still here, of course, waiting for spring like it always does—but winter is no longer an interruption to my life the way it once felt. It has become a gentle invitation to slow down.
Resting From the Frenzy of Summer
Summer on a flower farm is beautiful, but it’s also relentless. There’s always something to weed, something to harvest, something to fix. The evenings stretch late, and even when I finally come inside, my brain is still buzzing with lists and logistics.
Winter removes all of that pressure.
There is no guilt about leaving beds half-done or weeds half-pulled. Everything is asleep. The land asks nothing of me except patience. And for the first time in many years, I’m learning how to give myself the same grace.
Cozy Nights and Winter Crafts
With the garden at rest, I rediscover hobbies that only seem to fit in the quiet months. Slow crafting becomes a kind of winter nourishment—pressed flower art, little handmade gifts, small projects that make me feel connected to creativity without the rush of a summer harvest.
I put on Christmas music, sometimes singing and sometimes just listening to it float softly through the house. It makes even the most ordinary moments feel like a small celebration. I bake more. I move slowly. I stay home without the weight of FOMO that summer evenings always bring.
The shorter days also mean more time curled up with my family. There’s no expectation to go anywhere once darkness falls—which, let’s be honest, is at about 4:30. We snuggle under blankets, sip something warm, and watch the big, heavy snowflakes drift past the windows. Those fat flakes, falling softly and steadily, make the whole world feel hushed.
Missing the Wildlife
The hardest part of winter, for me, is how quiet the wildlife becomes. In the summer the farm is alive with birds, turkeys strutting through the pasture, deer grazing at dusk. That movement and sound is such a big part of why I love this place.
But in winter, the silence settles in deeper.
There are days when I look out and don’t see a single bird, and I feel a little pang of longing for that summer hum. But winter strolls help. I try to remember to get out for a walk, and bundle up my son once or twice a day to get out even for 30 minutes.
Gratitude in the Quiet Season
Even with the stillness—and maybe because of it—I find myself more grateful than ever for the life we’ve built here. The slow mornings. The cozy evenings. The softness of winter light on the fields. The time to breathe before spring comes roaring in again.
Mostly, I’m grateful for my family. For the little ones who already shape my seasons more than any planting schedule. For the chance to lean into this quieter chapter, even when it feels unfamiliar.
Winter teaches me, year after year, that rest is not a pause from life—it is part of the rhythm of it.
And as I sit here watching the snow fall outside the window, hands wrapped around something warm, I feel a deep contentment settle in. The garden will return. The wildlife will return. The busy nights outdoors will return.
But for now, winter is enough.
