On The Darkest Day, Choosing Presence

Here I am, sitting by the fire on the eve of sacred ceremony—Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year. It feels fitting, because that’s exactly how life feels right now. Dark. Uncertain. Tender with fear.

And yet, beneath it all, there is also a calm. A quiet knowing that whispers: this is going to be okay.

My mind has been racing since receiving my MRI results today. Not good—but still wrapped in uncertainty. Something on my left kidney, unnamed for now. As I sit with the symbolism of the left side—the inner world, receptivity, receiving support, the mother line, caregiving—it all resonates so deeply it almost takes my breath away.

After the initial shock—oh shit, here we go again, but this time it’s happening to me—my fear immediately turned outward. How will everyone else hold up? How will my kids react? Kyle? My family?

I see the pattern repeating itself. My mom was around this same age when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. As kids, we were kept in the dark, shielded from the truth. At that age, I was terrified—terrified of losing her, terrified of the unknown. That fear lived in my body for years.

I don’t want my children to carry that same childhood trauma. I don’t yet know how to walk this road with them, how to share truth without burden, but I pray for guidance. Spirit, please show me the way.

And somehow, even in the fear, I can see the healing unfolding. The healing of my eight-year-old self. I see myself so clearly in Riley.

Today was unexpectedly beautiful.

I danced with Asher, soaking in his pure joy and laughter as we twirled around the woodstove room. He kept signaling for “uppies,” his whole body asking to be held. With Wyatt, I sang Silent Night until he drifted off to sleep, then whispered into his ear how deeply loved he is, how incredible he is.

Later, I sat on Riley’s bed and we just talked. I told her stories about the boys I dated, the crushes I had growing up. We laughed. We sat quietly for a while. And then we listened as Kyle sang to Asher, rocking him to sleep. My heart cracked open in that moment. It was so full I began to cry.

I was exhausted. I wanted to clean the downstairs, check the boxes, get to bed.

But I didn’t.

I chose presence.

I chose to be with the people I love the most.

So what am I really afraid of?

I’m afraid of leaving everyone behind. I’m afraid that all my sacrifices—choosing to stay home, choosing to raise my children outside a system I worked so hard to break free from—would disappear in an instant if I were gone. That my kids would be absorbed back into something I fought to protect them from.

But as I let that fear sink deeper into my soul, something shifts.

I know they would be okay.

I know this because my children carry me within them.

And Kyle—he has done the work. Over the past few years, I’ve watched him grow into a completely different man. A grounded, loving, present man. An amazing partner. I am so deeply grateful to share this life with him.

So I turn inward and ask:

Self, what do you need to hear from me right now?

You’re doing a good job. I’m proud of you. Even on the hard days, you’re still here. You always return. You always reconnect.

Speak to yourself the way you speak to your children when you come back together after rupture.

Soften.

On the darkest day of the year, I am reminded that even here—especially here—there is light.

In Peace, Love and Service,
Rebecca