Winter

This year, winter has become a season of recalibration.

Each day feels like moving through familiar motions while trying to negotiate with grief, finding ways to keep it at arm's length without pretending it isn't there. I'm trying to make peace with the resentment of a celebration that feels stolen and the joy that should have accompanied this chapter of life.

Instead, I find myself carefully occupying my own space, trying not to lean too heavily on others, not to say too much, and searching for an honest answer to the simple question, "How are you?" One that isn't a lie, but also isn't the whole truth.

I have the sense that there is an expectation from the other party that, after eight weeks, the sharp edges should have softened. That everything has been processed and life should somehow continue as though nothing extraordinary has happened. Perhaps that's a reflection of unprocessed guilt or emotional immaturity. Perhaps it's simply an inability to recognise the enormity of the damage their choices have caused. Whatever the explanation, one thing has become abundantly clear. I will never forget who you have shown yourself to be. Whatever happens from here, no future actions will ever undo what has already been done.

There are moments when I try to make sense of it all, and my mind searches for an explanation that logic can comfortably hold. Instead, I find myself confronted by decisions that still beggar belief. It is difficult not to conclude that another person's safety, autonomy and future became little more than variables weighed against a desired outcome. While one life continues largely uninterrupted, mine has become a constant exercise in fear, preparation, accommodation and adaptation. The freedoms I once took for granted feel as though they have been quietly moved across an abacus, calculated, counted, and ultimately deemed an acceptable price for someone else's ambitions.

Grief doesn't work that way. Neither does rebuilding a life that has been dismantled.

I'm angry.

Angry that someone could make decisions with such far-reaching consequences and then expect life to simply carry on. Angry that I have been left to shoulder responsibilities alone I never chose, while they continue with the freedoms they protected for themselves.

This experience is changing me. I can feel it.

The woman who trusted easily, who bent to keep the peace, who believed people would naturally do the honourable thing, is disappearing. I don't celebrate that. I resent that it was necessary.

But I also know this.

I won't bend simply because someone expects me to. I won't make myself smaller so someone else can remain comfortable. Every lesson has been paid for at an extraordinary price, and I intend to use every one of them. If we ever stand opposite each other years from now, you won't find the woman you discarded. You'll find someone who knows exactly where her boundaries are, who won't be manipulated by guilt or by the trust she once placed in you.

You don't get to decide who I become because of what you've done.

I do.

And with that decision made, life continues to ask things of me.

I’m already at the point where my body asks me to step back from the heavier work on the farm, yet winter carries its own long list of jobs that prepare everything for spring. Layered over that are the losses I never expected to carry: the complexity of abandonment, and the uncertainty of navigating single parenthood. For someone who thrives on plans, certainty, and the quiet reassurance of knowing where home, work and life are headed, this is not the future I imagined.

Today, though, I'm writing from the warmth of my studio. A winter afternoon sun pours through the windows, warming the lounge where I'm tucked beneath a throw, a mug of tea beside me, slowly bringing my core temperature back to somewhere comfortable. Outside, the camellias are alive with little wrens. I've always thought they defy logic. Round, fluffy little bodies somehow suspended by impossibly tiny wings and impossibly skinny legs, darting through the garden with effortless grace. They make me smile before I've realised I'm smiling, and lately that feels like a small victory.

I've just come inside from my walk, seeking counsel from my wisest companions. The livestock never offer profound advice. They feel no need to change your grief for their own comfort. They simply greet me with varying levels of enthusiasm, particularly when the rattling of a bucket suggests special treats are involved.

With our winter husbandry scheduled this coming weekend, there is a quiet satisfaction in simply laying hands across the herd. Feeling the condition of each alpaca. Watching how the mothers are travelling as they continue feeding their cria. Checking body scores. Thinking that weaning time isn't too far away, a milestone that breaks my heart just a little. Alongside it all come their winter supplements, another small act of care that forms part of the rhythm we've settled into.

Beyond those scheduled tasks, the farm itself has slowed to a comforting heartbeat. The urgency that summer demands has quietly stepped aside, replaced by the steady patience of winter. I haven't quite managed to slow with it yet, but each day the farm reminds me that not everything needs to be urgent. The old saying about watching grass grow suddenly makes perfect sense. Nature seems to whisper that this is the season for darker mornings, earlier evenings, slower days, and preparation rather than production.

The list of new jobs grows more slowly than the list waiting to be done, and somehow that feels reassuring. For now, it's simply time to clean paddocks and burn the piles.

The winter solstice has already slipped behind us, and I found myself reflecting on where I stood a year ago, alongside a family I believed I would grow with in love and friendship. The irony isn't lost on me. My son will bind us together forever, yet I have never felt further removed or more isolated. 

Acceptance has become one of the most useful skills I've had to learn these past few months.

In the stillness of winter, a single year can feel impossibly long and yet somehow incredibly close. The days are beginning to shift ever so slightly. My walks haven't quite become routine again, though I long for that quiet familiarity. In the meantime, the sounds of the farm are returning to me, especially the river carrying fresh mountain water along our boundary.

I still haven't walked the entire property boundary. Something inside me isn't quite ready to wander that far from home. I know that day will come, but for now the familiar paddocks are enough.

Next week I'm heading to Victoria for the Sheep Show with a dear friend.  More than anything, it feels like a quiet test of my ability to step back into the world, while carrying something that still feels unbearably heavy. To meet new people. To immerse myself in fibre, farming and conversations that aren't centred on heartbreak feels almost utopian. 

An opportunity to lift, even briefly, the fog that has settled across my thoughts.  Each morning I've watched the fog settle low across the paddocks.  At first it feels permanent, as it swallows the hills beyond the fences.  Then, almost imperceptibly, the sun begins its work. It doesn't rush. It simply keeps shining until the landscape slowly reveals itself again.

I'm beginning to wonder whether healing works the same way.

I don't expect the grief to disappear. I don't expect certainty to return any time soon. But perhaps, like a winter morning on the farm, there will come a day when the warmth quietly outlasts the fog.

Until then, I'll keep walking the paddocks, checking fences, feeding animals, watching wrens, drinking tea in the afternoon sun, and trusting the seasons to remember what I sometimes can't.

I'm sure I'll find her again out in the paddocks. If I keep returning to the small things, often enough, perhaps one day I'll realise I've been quietly walking my way back to myself all along.

I hope so.

Winter has never been the end of the story.