Wintering
on retreating without shame
When I was a high school senior, our class was sent to a convent. This is pretty typical of schools and universities where I’m from, where “Values” and “Christian Living” are actual classes you have to take every year until you graduate. Anyway, this little convent excursion is called a retreat. And ours was held a few weeks before graduation and was a requirement for every graduating student.
For two days, we participated in workshops that revolved around introspection: who we are, who we want to be, what pains us, and how to let go of our burdens so we could move forward with lighter hearts. There were also sessions on family, community, and, naturally, the importance of holding tight to our core values.
But mostly, we just spent time with the nuns. We prayed with them, ate meals together in the dining hall, helped with chores, or sat quietly in contemplation—in our dorm rooms, the chapel, or out on the vast grounds surrounded by nature. This was their home and daily life, and we were allowed to immerse in it. The only rules were to show respect and observe silence.
Of course, the deeper purpose of it all was lost on a bunch of dumb teenagers more interested in rebellion than reflection. To us, it was just a chance to ditch our uniforms for casual clothes, smuggle in some booze, sneak into each other’s dorms after lights out, and swap ghost stories. (There was a rumor that a girl from a different class got possessed by an evil spirit during the first night of our stay.)
Now, looking back, I find the concept actually quite sweet. Before we headed back into society’s constant rush and relentless noise, before we got swept up in our ambitions, before we became obsessed with growth and the endless shedding of our skins, we were given a rare moment to pause—a chance to step away from the chaos, look inward, and take stock of what truly mattered. To confront our shadows in that stillness so they didn’t trip us up down the line.
I know many of us like to slag off our religious upbringing, and not without good reason. I could definitely do without the ingrained guilt and shame, thank you very much. But retreats are one thing I think they actually got right.
It was author Katherine May who popularized the term “wintering.” In her book Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, she describes it as:
“A fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. Perhaps it results from an illness or a life event such as a bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from a humiliation or failure. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition and have temporarily fallen between two worlds.
Some winterings creep upon us more slowly, accompanying the protracted death of a relationship, the gradual ratcheting up of caring responsibilities as our parents age, the drip-drip-drip of lost confidence. Some are appallingly sudden, like discovering one day that your skills are considered obsolete, the company you worked for has gone bankrupt, or your partner is in love with someone new. However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely, and deeply painful.”
A lot of us are in stages of life where we are either forced into or longing for a retreat. Maybe that’s why there’s a spike in the desire to delete social media, why trends like cottagecore, slow living, and quiet quitting have emerged. We are collectively tired, not just of chasing success, but of putting on a mask.
Sadly, society doesn’t care about how we feel. The bills don’t stop, the laundry basket continues to pile up, the fridge needs to constantly be restocked, and there’s always a message that’s waiting for a reply.
We’re expected to keep moving, keep pushing forward, and keep bouncing back. Our bosses and loved ones don’t wave us off to temporarily live with nuns when we need a break from it all. On the contrary, we’re expected, by both others and ourselves, to keep it together all the damn time. “Everybody’s got problems, you’re not special, now get over it.”
When I say we are part of nature, not separate from it, most people tend to agree. But everything in nature is cyclical. Every year, plants go dormant and store all their life force into their roots. They don’t pressure themselves to grow a single leaf for others to marvel at. Animals use very little energy and allow their breathing and heart rate to slow. They often get too cold to bring themselves to think, much less dream. We don’t fret about it; we know for a fact they won’t stay in this state forever, and that it’s a natural part of their existence. Only we, humans, believe that our trajectory is linear—always moving, always forward. We’re the only ones ashamed to rest, stay still, or back down. How strange is that?
I think we could all use a little wintering. To let the cold in and sit with it. To decorate whatever’s dead with string lights and tinsel until it's ready to breathe again. To find ways of keeping our souls warm. Maybe by lighting a fire, indulging in more hot chocolate, or putting on extra layers. To love those who are around us, miss those who are not, and remind ourselves that we are all under the same sky. To wish people well, whether they are freezing in the cold like us or frolicking somewhere sunny and bright.
Maybe then, we’d know ourselves a little better. Maybe then, we’d hate each other and the world a little less.
I totally relate! I went to an all-girls Catholic school, and while I did not dorm, the nuns were part of our everyday life. In senior year, a nun asked me to "wipe that dirt off my face" when I experimented with eyeliner! We also had retreats, although we called them "recollection." Though at that time it focused on reflecting on our sins and how we could do better, I have good memories of the quiet times in the beautiful gardens of the convents or seminaries in Baguio City. Most of the retreat was silent, and we went off into the garden and enjoyed nature. It was a time for prayer, and that practice of quiet reflection I have carried to this day. Thank you for a beautiful article.
I love the storytelling of this piece, nam! From the relatable retreat scenes (I went to one when I was in an all-girls school back in elementary, and a few as well as an adult since my mom is part of Opus Dei)...to the never-ending chores and tasks. I wonder if people in the 1800s, or the 1300s, or in ancient times, ever felt this way? Were they ever "Another day another hunt" "Got to stock up on berries for winter; chasing the rats away from the flour sacks never ends." Like, how recent is this cycle of rushing we feel?
If only we could really winter it out, right? Without fear of running out of supplies, without worrying about a world out there, with full faith that our bodies will tell us when it's okay to venture out again.