Winter, the Open Chest, and Learning Not to Escape the Dark

December and January felt endless where I live. As a Portuguese in the Netherlands, winter hits differently: darkness until 5pm, a grey morning that only properly shows up after 8am. Light becomes scarce, and with it, so does ease.

These months invite introspection. Sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully. The body slows down, the cold settles in, and the mind follows. Or maybe it’s the other way around. (More on that another time.)

What I do know is this: stillness feels most of the time grounded and magical but it can also feel uncomfortable. When there’s less external stimulation, the mind gets restless. It wants distraction. It wants to escape. Because if it stays still long enough, it might actually feel what’s underneath (especially when we compare ourselves with others).

So instead of avoiding that discomfort, I chose movement.

I leaned into my practice, and over time I noticed something unexpected: being more gentle in heart-opening yoga postures and being more curious about how to get into the pose didn’t just expand my body; they changed how I related to the darkness, too. Backbends asked me to breathe through resistance instead of bracing against it. That it is okay to feel this resistance and still breathe. This gave me, for the first time, a sense of calm.

“Bring it on,” I remember thinking.
“What will be, should be.”

Slowly, something shifted.

Physically, this is new territory for me. My chest has never felt this open. I started to understand the anatomy behind it: the small stabilizing muscles along the spine, the engagement between the shoulder blades, the strength of the glutes and quads lifting the hips, creating space in the front body without collapsing the lower back.

I stopped forcing shapes and started inhabiting them.

For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of the posture. I could communicate with my body; command specific muscles, feel support, feel agency. And when I came out of the pose, the breath felt expansive. Clean. Almost hopeful.

It’s easy to get lost in the dance between positivity and negativity, especially in winter. Dualities show up loudly. Darkness can feel heavy, almost hypnotic. Like a sleeping beauty spell, where we’re awake but not really alive.

And then, suddenly, a bright pink winter sky appears over Amsterdam.
A morning light breaks through.
Consciousness returns.

You feel it while sipping coffee at your favorite café, greeting familiar faces, noticing warmth. External and internal. Something simple, yet deeply regulating.

And I asked myself:
Why wasn’t I offering myself this same gentleness during the darker months?
Why did December and January feel like something to survive, instead of something to listen to?

Especially January, when hope is supposed to be high, when resolutions promise renewal but energy is often at its lowest.

Now, as the light slowly returns, I notice it everywhere. In myself. In others. People feel softer, more open, more forward-facing. And instead of judging the months before, I’m starting to see them as necessary groundwork.

This reflection is why I’m sharing this.

For anyone who feels overwhelmed in a wheel pose. In the winter season. In their own chest. This is a small offering of encouragement. A reminder that vulnerability is not weakness; it’s a doorway.

Movement taught me that opening doesn’t mean collapsing. Breathing into discomfort doesn’t mean drowning in it. And darkness, when met with awareness, can quietly prepare us for light. I want to bring this into my teaching, into my writing, into my relationships. More breath. More honesty. More trust in the body’s intelligence.

Because moving forward in life doesn’t always mean pushing ahead. Sometimes, it means opening - exactly where we’re most guarded.