After the storm passes, there is often a sense of relief. The wind has died down. The urgency has eased.
The world feels quieter.
And yet—everything is still changed.
The snow remains.
In some places, it is pristine and brilliant, catching the light and inviting awe. In other places, it is smudged and dirty, marked by footprints, plows, and what the storm stirred up along the way. Both are true. Both belong.
This is often what life transitions feel like after the initial upheaval. The decision has been made. The ending has happened. The diagnosis, loss, move, career shift, or identity change is no longer theoretical—it has arrived and moved through.
But what remains is not nothing. What remains is a covering.
The In-Between Is Not Empty
Snow covers the ground completely. It doesn’t ask the earth to perform. It doesn’t demand immediate results. It simply rests there.
Transitions often invite us into a similar season—one that our productivity-driven culture doesn’t always know how to honor. We expect clarity, motivation, and forward momentum right away. We ask ourselves, Why don’t I feel better yet? Why don’t I know what’s next?
But the snow reminds us: this stage is not empty or wasted. It is protective.
Snow insulates the ground. It keeps what is beneath from being exposed to harsh extremes. In the same way, the “after” of a transition can serve as a necessary buffer—a time when your nervous system, heart, and sense of self are shielded while they recover and reorganize.
You may feel slower here. Less certain. Less visible. That is not failure. That is wisdom at work.
Nourishment Happens Quietly
What looks like stillness on the surface is actually nourishment underneath.
Snow slowly melts into the soil, offering water that will be needed later. It seeps into places we cannot see, preparing the ground for what has not yet appeared.
In transitions, this nourishment often takes subtle forms:
- Rest you didn’t know you needed
- Grief that finally has room to breathe
- Questions that soften instead of demanding answers
- A re-regulation of your nervous system after prolonged stress
This is not the season for pushing or forcing. It is the season for allowing yourself to be supported—by rhythm, by reflection, by compassion.
If you feel like nothing is happening, look again. Something essential is being restored.
Honoring the Messy and the Beautiful
The snow is not uniformly perfect. Some patches sparkle. Others are gray and uneven.
So it is with transitions.
There may be moments of clarity and relief alongside disappointment, doubt, or resentment. You may feel gratitude one day and grief the next. These contrasts are not signs that you are doing it wrong. They are signs that you are human.
Life transitions rarely resolve in a clean, linear way. They integrate slowly. They leave residue. They ask for patience.
Coaching in this season is not about rushing toward answers—it’s about helping you stay present to what is here, without judgment.
Making Space for What Hasn’t Yet Emerged
Snow creates space.
Beneath its covering, the ground rests. Seeds lie dormant—not dead, not forgotten, just waiting for the conditions that will allow them to emerge.
You may not yet see what this transition is making room for. That doesn’t mean nothing is coming.
Growth does not announce itself early. It begins in hidden places.
Your work right now may simply be:
- To rest without apology
- To notice what feels tender
- To listen to your body’s cues
- To trust that timing matters
This is not a holding pattern. It is preparation.
A Gentle Invitation
If you find yourself in the “after” of a storm—resisting the slowness, questioning the quiet—consider this invitation:
What if this covering is not an obstacle, but a gift?
What if your only task is to let the ground rest?
In time, the snow will melt. New growth will appear. But not because you forced it—because the conditions were right.
And for now, that is enough.
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