Learning How to Live With My Anxiety: Letting Winter Be Winter

One area of anxiety that I’ve managed to tackle—though maybe not fully conquer—is exercise.

Every winter, like clockwork, it happens. It’s cold. It’s dark. The alarm goes off and the last thing I want to do is leave my warm bed—let alone scrape my windshield and head to the gym. My morning walks disappear. My body softens. My muscles feel less defined. And if I’m not careful, my inner dialogue gets sharp.

You know the voice: You’re lazy. You’re slipping. You need to push harder. Do better.

That voice—the one we often call the “monkey mind”—is relentless. In the realm of anxiety, it’s that endless chatter that keeps us flailing. It’s critical. It’s closed. It constricts our thinking and our breathing.

But this winter, something shifted.

Living in Montana Means Living With Real Seasons

Here in Montana, we truly experience all four seasons. When winter arrives, it doesn’t whisper—it settles in.

If you pause long enough to really look around, nature makes it clear what winter is for:

• The grass goes dormant.

• The trees stop blooming.

• The animals hibernate.

• The earth rests.

Historically, humans did the same. I often picture scenes from Little House on the Prairie—families huddled together in small homes, wood stoves burning, soup simmering, wind howling outside as snow piles up against the door. Survival didn’t mean productivity. It meant conserving energy until spring.

Even the grizzly bear retreats to its den.

Winter is a season of rest and reflection- and death.

And yet, in modern society, we try to override that entirely. We keep 9-to-5 schedules. We pay bills. We maintain productivity as if the sun hasn’t disappeared by 4:30 p.m. We demand summer output from a winter body.

That misalignment alone is anxiety-inducing and partially what I believe leads to the systemic mental health crisis.

The Subtle Change

Last April (2025), I was waking naturally at 5:45 a.m., rising with the sun. I felt energized. My body moved easily. I flourished.

Then November hit. The time changed. The sun stayed hidden.

From November through March, I could barely wake up by 7:00 a.m. because it was still pitch black. My morning walks stopped—especially on the brutally cold days (and yes, I know this winter was unusually mild, but I’m talking about the norm, not the exception).

In past years, this is where the criticism would take over. I’d spiral into rigid thinking:

You’re fat. You’re lazy. You’re failing. Push harder. Do better.

Criticism leads to constriction.

When we constrict, we can’t breathe. And when we can’t breathe, we certainly can’t think clearly. Anxiety thrives in that tight, suffocating space.

But this year, when those thoughts surfaced, I responded differently.

Instead of feeding them, I gently reminded myself:

It’s temporary.

You’re not going to be this way forever.

Trust yourself.

That became my mantra: It’s temporary. Trust yourself.

And something incredible happened.

The monkey mind quieted—not instantly, not perfectly—but gradually. The less I fed it, the less power it had.

In its place, compassion grew.

Curiosity Over Criticism

As I often tell my clients:

Criticism Constricts. Curiosity Opens.

When we get curious—What does my body need right now? What season am I actually in? What if this slowdown is natural?

—we create space. And in that space, compassion grows. And from compassion, confidence emerges.

Now that March is here, I feel myself “springing” awake again—literally. My circadian rhythm is syncing back up with the sunrise. My energy is returning without force. Not because I shamed myself into it, but because I trusted the cycle.

Anxiety Isn’t a Failure

If you live with anxiety and find yourself beating yourself up—especially around productivity, exercise, or seasonal changes—you are not alone.

It has taken me a full year of experimenting, reflecting, and gently challenging my own inner narrative to arrive at this place. Not perfection—just awareness.

We are not meant to bloom year-round. We are not meant to operate at peak capacity in every season.

Maybe this next season—whatever it looks like for you—is an invitation to observe your inner monologue. To notice where it constricts. And to gently ask:

What if this is temporary? What if I can trust myself?

Learning to live with anxiety isn’t about conquering it. It’s about relating to it differently.

And sometimes, that starts with letting winter be winter. Spring is the time to plant seeds and those seeds are the journal entries, the notes of your current natural rhythm, start observing and documenting today and see what you learn by next year.