It started the way winter things usually do, quietly, without much intention. A few pages here. A note scribbled down because I didn’t want to forget it. Lists that weren’t really lists. Thoughts that felt too small to matter, but somehow stayed with me.

I kept reaching for the same pages again and again.

Winter has a way of slowing everything down whether we ask it to or not. The days shorten. I noticed myself wanting fewer answers and more space. Somewhere to land without being told what to do next.

At some point, it became clear that what I was making wasn’t a notebook or a journal or a project. It was a companion, something meant to be nearby, not finished, just returned to.

That’s what The Wintering Companion is.

It’s a book you open on a quiet afternoon. One you leave on the table next to your mug. One you pick up again when winter starts to feel long or when it feels especially beautiful and you don’t want to rush past it.

There are reflections, winter rituals, traditions, cozy kitchen pages, space for notes and memories, collage pages, and open areas where nothing is required. Some pages invite writing. Others don’t ask for anything at all. You can start anywhere. You can skip pages. You can come back to it next winter and let it be different then.

I’ve learned that winter isn’t really something to endure. It has its own pace, and when we stop fighting it, it gives us things the rest of the year doesn’t, quiet, repetition, room to notice what’s been waiting.

I made this book because I wanted a place for that kind of noticing.
Because I wanted winter to feel held, not hurried.

It’s here now, the same way winter arrives, without announcements, without urgency.

And if this season has been asking you to slow down too, you might recognize yourself in it.

It’s in the final stages now, and I wanted to share it here first. If you’re reading this, you’ll be the first to know when it’s available, I’ll send a note as soon as it’s live.

With love,

Autumn