by Annalisa Holcombe, Founder & Principal Consultant
Last week, I joined about a hundred people in silence as we walked through the dark forest at Bloedel. Each of us carried a small lantern. There was no talking, no narration, no instruction—just the light we held and the path in front of us. We were strangers. But we moved quietly together. At one point, the path curved slightly, and I was at just the right angle to see our collective stillness: the tall black trees surrounding us, the glimmer of light from the lanterns ahead, and the long string of people behind me who looked like a river of stars.
This month, I’ve heard so many people talk about feeling tired. Tired in their bones. In their spirit. That includes me.
Part of what makes mission-driven work so exhausting is that it doesn’t stop. The injustices keep coming. The stories keep breaking our hearts. The systems don’t fix themselves. There’s so much need.
And the truth is, we never have a full map. At least not the kind most of us crave. We don’t know what’s coming next. We don’t always know if what we’re doing is enough. And the temptation, especially at the end of the year, is to double down. Keep pushing. Don’t stop. Don’t rest. Just try harder.
But last week, walking through the woods with that small lantern in my hand, I remembered something I used to teach in the Alumni Mentoring Program: you don’t need to see the whole path. You just need to see far enough ahead to take the next step. That lesson has echoed back to me this month. I’ve found myself returning to it. Not as advice I give others, but as something I’m trying to remember for myself. The pressure to sprint toward a new year, to fix what’s broken or to prove we’re doing enough. It’s so loud right now. But maybe what we need most is a different rhythm.
That image—the soft light just in front of my feet—stayed with me. It reminded me that the next step is enough. That what’s already within me can guide the way. That I don’t need to wait for certainty to keep moving forward.
When I emerged from the trees, a quiet hymn was playing through speakers at the Residence, a small home on the property. Just a soft, steady sound. Something about the moment made my eyes well up. I couldn’t quite explain why. That night felt like a necessary pause. Like something sacred.
This year, the winter solstice hit me differently.
I’ve always loved this time of year. I know most people focus on the light returning. But lately, I’ve been thinking about how meaningful it is to stop at the darkest point of the year. The pause before the turn. The stillness before the light.
There’s a beauty in this darkness. A rhythm that calls us to slow down. To pull close. To gather around a fire or under a blanket. To be with the people we love. To nourish our souls. This is the season for rest, for reflection, for quiet. It reminds us that dormancy is not the absence of life—it’s part of how life renews itself. There’s something profoundly human about this season. We gather close, light candles, cook warm meals, and wrap ourselves in blankets. Even nature tells us to slow down. The trees are bare. The nights are long. This isn’t a time to bloom. It’s a time to be still. To listen. To rest.
Rest matters.
Presence matters.
The work will still be here in January.
As the year ends, I’m not making grand resolutions. I’m just holding a small light and trusting the path ahead will reveal itself, one quiet step at a time.