Clearing the Soil
Closing chapters, honoring transitions, and trusting what will grow
Winter has always been a quiet season, but this year, it felt like an unraveling. A slow shedding. A season that asked more of me than I realized I had to give. I used to think of winter as stillness, as waiting. But I see now that it’s also an ending. A necessary one. Because nothing new can take root in soil that hasn’t been cleared.
This winter, I learned that letting go isn’t always about choice. Sometimes, it happens so gradually, you don’t even realize you’ve been loosening your grip. Until one day, you look up, and the thing you were holding onto—the identity, the ambition, the version of yourself you thought you’d return to—is gone.
Since the beginning of the year, I’ve been toying with the idea of stepping away from marketing consulting—or rather, not returning to it. Honestly, it feels like stepping into the unknown, with one foot still anchored in what’s familiar, what’s comfortable. A part of me still wants to cling to what I’ve built—to my connections, my projects, my place in a world I’ve been a part of for so long (omg, a decade). It’s tempting to keep that foot in, to convince myself I can somehow make space for something new without fully letting go of the old. But deep down, I know that if I don’t release my grip completely, nothing new will have room to grow.
It’s like trying to plant seeds in soil that hasn’t been cleared of its weeds. The soil is already full, already crowded, and nothing fresh can take root in that. I’ve realized I need to step back, to clear space—not just in my schedule but in my heart and my mind. And that’s what I’ve been grappling with: the fear of not knowing what will fill the space once it’s empty. I’m a planner, after all.
I’m also one of those multi-hyphenate, multi-passionate, manifesting generators who simply aren’t designed to do just *one* thing. We’re meant to dabble, to explore, to start things without feeling obligated to finish them. But for the past decade, I’ve done myself a disservice by trying to do the exact opposite—forcing myself into a neat little niche, trimming the edges of my curiosity to fit into something more palatable. Well, I’m done with that. I’m finally ready to honor my true design, to let inspiration lead, and to trust that the things meant for me will take root in their own time. But trusting that kind of unfolding is easier said than done—especially when so much of my identity has been shaped by structure, by knowing who I am and what I do.
Motherhood, for me, has been a unique kind of unraveling—one I first experienced when my daughter was born. In those early days, I felt like I had lost my old self —like the version of me that existed before had vanished in the throes of late nights, early mornings, and a new rhythm of life. I kept waiting to feel like myself again, only to realize that version of me no longer existed in the same way.
When my son was born 4.5 years later, I knew what to expect. The loss didn’t catch me off guard the way it did the first time, but that didn’t make it any less real. Motherhood reshapes you, over and over again. And just when you think you’ve found your footing, another shift comes—a new season, a new challenge, another layer of yourself to let go of. Over time, I’ve come to understand that this loss is not permanent. It’s a transformation. The pieces of myself that seemed to disappear are evolving into something new.
I was reading Megan Gilger’s Substack (article here) a couple weeks ago, when I came across this line about Winter: "To love anything, though, is to let it go, to let it fade naturally, and to allow it to transition." Something in me shifted. The phrase felt like a permission slip to release—gently and without regret. I don’t need to force myself to go back to the version of me I was before. Instead, I need to honor the transition—to allow things, ideas, and even myself to fade and change in ways that might not be visible at first.
In this space of transition, I’m learning that true love—for anything, whether it’s a career, a dream, or even a past version of yourself—comes with the willingness to let it go. To trust that something new will take its place when the time is right. It’s a letting go that doesn’t diminish what came before but allows for the possibility of something more. Something that’s been waiting for me to clear the space.
And with that, I am so ready to welcome Spring and all of the change it will bring. I don’t know exactly what’s ahead, but I can see a few passion projects on the horizon—ones that may last only a season, maybe two. And for the first time in a long time, I’m completely at peace with that. Because in the end, everything is part of a bigger picture, a vision that continues to evolve. And I am the common thread that weaves it all together—not the other way around. It’s not a title, a niche, or a single path that defines me—I’m the one who gives them meaning.
I’d love to hear if any of this resonates with you —are you also navigating a season of transition? Perhaps in the midst of letting go of something—an identity, a role, a dream—so that something new can take shape? Or maybe you’ve released something in the past that, looking back, made room for something better? Either way, I’d love to hear what this change in season is bringing up for you.
As always, thank you for reading!
LATELY ON OFF SEASON:
Slow Takes—No. 01
In the age of social media influencers, it feels like we’re swimming in a constant stream of hot takes—quick, reactionary, and often fleeting (maybe even forced/fake?) opinions—and I find myself craving something different. A slow take is its opposite: a thoughtful, considered perspective that unfolds with intention, depth, and the luxury of
So beautifully written and I can relate to a lot of this as a fellow manifesting generator--it's in the letting go, that something new will bloom. Can't wait to see all that will bloom for you.
I loved reading this for so many reasons! I’ve felt the same re: work, but also maybe not a complete letting go (my default is “burn it all to the ground!”) but an evolution or change created from a space of openness to it looking different. However, as you mentioned, very much easier said than done.
That said, I’m excited for you to make this energetic space, it’s often something that sacral beings have difficulty with, but is soooo important to allowing new, more aligned things to flow in. It’s just sitting in the in between that’s hard to do. I always picture it like your aura is a swimming pool, and it gets filled up with old leaves, sludge, and rusty lawn furniture, so we need to clear out all that muck clogging things up so there’s actually an inviting space for the wonderful things to land, like cute pool floaties and tropical drinks haha. But your garden soil analogy is much more sophisticated!!