The Darkness That Creates Us

Finding creative wisdom in life's darkest seasons

Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice.

I'm not writing to tell you about rituals to perform, teas to drink, affirmations to recite, or intentions to set. Although I’ll be hiking to a cave tomorrow for a group ritual, my fascination with the solstice is more archetypal than literal. I love what the solstice reveals about the nature of transformation and creativity.

The Myth of Endless Light

We live in a world that celebrates perpetual daylight—clarity, action, and visible progress. Creativity, too, is often mistaken for output—launching, writing, posting, sharing. But real creativity doesn’t thrive in endless light; it requires the dark, unseen spaces where transformation happens.

What if darkness isn’t an obstacle to be overcome? What if it’s the soil from which our truest self—and our most authentic creativity—emerges?

Darkness isn’t passive. It’s the space where things grow unseen, roots deepen, and ideas gestate. It’s where we’re stripped of the distractions of “doing” so we can reconnect with the quieter work of becoming. In the dark, there is no stage, no applause, no need to perform. Just the raw, unfiltered truth of who we are—and what wants to come through us.

This is the paradox of creation: the light we long for is born in the dark.

The Deep Work of Darkness

Darkness asks us to step away from the external markers of progress and success and enter a space of stillness and transformation. Think of how a butterfly dissolves completely in its cocoon before reforming. It’s not just changing in that dark space—it’s reimagining itself entirely. And to do so, it needs to die and be reborn. There is no butterfly without the death of its previous caterpillar expression.

Our own periods of darkness work the same way.

When we feel furthest from our gifts, when we can’t see the way forward, when everything we thought we knew seems to fall away—we are strangely, paradoxically in the midst of creation.

Darkness asks us to stop trying to force clarity and trust the slow, quiet work beneath the surface. It asks for patience, surrender, and faith in the unseen.

This is creativity at its most essential: not the act of making, but the courage to let ourselves be unmade. To trust that when we feel most disconnected from our gifts, we might actually be discovering what they truly are.

Trusting the Descent

For me, this darkness wasn’t just a moment; it was years. I had symptoms that matched clinical depression, but when the doctor prescribed meds, I knew that wasn’t the answer. It’s called "soul searching" for a reason—there are things we need to find within ourselves, a deeper yearning that medicine can’t touch.

My "winter solstice"—the peak of my darkness—came when the 'default path' I’d been following started unraveling. After college, I moved through a string of jobs, and fulfillment always felt out of reach. Deep down, I knew work was supposed to mean something, to be more than a paycheck, but I couldn’t seem to find that meaning.

During my brief stint selling life insurance, I sat at my desk one night with tears running silently down my face. I hung up the phone, grabbed my keys, and drove out into the Nevada desert at sunset. I didn’t have a plan, but something inside me needed space. It happened when I stepped out of my truck—a scream erupted from somewhere deep in me, raw and full of everything I’d been holding back.

Afterward, in the quiet, I heard a voice from within:
"You got yourself into this. You can get yourself out."

I didn’t know how, but I knew it was true. At that moment, I took responsibility, not for knowing the answers but for starting the process.

It was slow. Instead of seeking fulfillment from things outside of myself, I went inward. Years of healing work followed—plant medicine, psychotherapy, embodiment practices, and a wilderness vision fast. None of it was instant or easy, but piece by piece, I started to see glimmers of light. Glimpses of my true self.

The darkness had stripped away so much—old ideas, identities, and ways of being. And in its place, I began to feel something deeper: the truth of who I am and the life I’m here to create. And as a byproduct, the things I want to create.

During that time, I found solace in these words by

David Whyte

:

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.

For me, the fertile void wasn’t punishing me—it was preparing me. And I’ve come to see that this is true for all of us. The darkness we resist is often the space where our truest gifts and desires take root.

The Light That Emerges

When the light does return, it carries with it the wisdom of everything the darkness made possible. It’s not just a return to clarity; it’s a transformation shaped by the quiet work that happens in the void.

If you’re in a dark space now—whether it feels like a creative void, a loss of direction, or a questioning of everything you thought you knew—consider this:

What if this darkness isn’t keeping you from your gifts, but revealing them? What wants to emerge through you when you let go of who you thought you needed to be?

The solstice reminds us that darkness isn’t something to fear or rush through. It’s where we’re remade. Where we dissolve and reform. Where we discover what we’re truly meant to bring forth into the world.

Spring will come, but first, let the wisdom of winter do its quiet work.

Trust the dark. Trust what’s emerging. Trust yourself.

---

The Rhythm of Winter: My Timing

It can feel unnatural to spring into action this time of year, and yet, that’s exactly what the "new year" energy often entices us to do. The world around us is still dark and slow, asking for rest and reflection, but society pushes us toward resolutions and fresh starts.

When setting intentions or making plans for the year ahead, I like to pause and check in with myself: Is this the time when action feels authentic? Or am I unconsciously riding the societal wave?

If this feels like a time for planting seeds rather than sprouting them, honor that. Let yourself align with the natural rhythm of winter—the slow, unseen work beneath the soil.

I am taking this winter to tend to the next iteration of my work: Prismara, an ecosystem for creative leadership, transformation, and heart-centered community. The pace at which I am tending is slow, deliberate, and rather un-exciting. Focusing on closing previous creative cycles before fully engaging in this new one.

Invitations to come play inside Prismara will come when the timing feels aligned—when the seeds I’m planting have had the chance to deepen and mature. For now, I’m honoring this winter rhythm, allowing the space for what’s next to take shape naturally.

I wish you and your family a nourishing end of 2024 ✨