The Winter Solstice — Surviving the Longest Night
Before Hogmanay.
Before resolutions.
Before the noise of a new year.
There is the Winter Solstice.
The longest night of the year.
For thousands of years, people marked this moment because reaching it meant one undeniable thing: you survived the darkness. After the solstice, the days begin to lengthen—slowly, almost imperceptibly—but the balance has shifted. The light is returning.
As a domestic violence survivor, this is not metaphorical for me.
Surviving the darkest night does not mean the light reappears immediately. There is no sudden sunrise. No instant warmth. Healing cannot be rushed. It unfolds in time, as it is meant to.
The solstice does not promise instant joy.
It promises direction.
Even when the days are still cold and heavy, something fundamental has changed. The worst of the darkness is behind you.
That matters.
What Hogmanay Is — and Why It Matters
Hogmanay is the Scottish name for December 31st, the night the old year turns into the new one. In Scotland, it has never been just a date. It is a threshold. A reckoning. A deliberate ending before a beginning.
Historically, Hogmanay mattered more than Christmas. It was practical. Grounded. Honest. You didn’t rush the year out—you closed it properly.
That distinction matters deeply to me now.
The Work Before the Bells
Hogmanay begins long before midnight.
he entire house was cleaned, thoroughly. Not styled. Not curated. Cleaned.
Floors scrubbed.
Hearths cleared of old ash.
Windows washed to let the returning light in.
Cupboards emptied and reset.
But it went further than that.
- Broken items were repaired or thrown out. Nothing damaged was allowed to cross into the new year.
- Borrowed items were returned. What wasn’t yours was sent back where it belonged.
- Debts were settled where possible—financial and otherwise.
- People wronged were acknowledged. Apologies made if they could be. Words spoken that should not be carried forward unsaid.
This was not about being perfect.
It was about being clear.
This wasn’t about tidiness.
It was about intention.
The belief was simple and uncompromising:
you do not carry unfinished business into the new year.
Evergreens—pine, holly, ivy—were brought indoors as symbols of endurance. Candles and lamps were lit deliberately. Light wasn’t decorative; it was protective. The hearth fire was kept burning through the night as a sign of continuity and safety.
In some homes, doors were opened just before midnight to let the old year out—then closed firmly, so it could not follow.
Only then did the bells ring.
First-Footing: Choosing What Comes In
After midnight came first-footing—the belief that the first person to cross your threshold sets the tone for the year ahead. Traditionally, they brought coal for warmth, bread for sustenance, whisky for cheer.
Survival gifts. Practical gifts.
But more than the objects, it was the person who mattered.
First-footing was never random.
It was intentional.
This year, my first footers will bring priceless gifts—the kind you cannot buy, earn, or manufacture.
They bring unconditional love, without explanation or expectation.
They bring joy that is light and genuine.
They bring peace that allows my body to rest.
They make me feel important, worthy, and seen.
I am deeply, profoundly blessed to have people like this in my life. Their presence is abundance.
Not a Party — Something Truer
This will not be a party of friends and acquaintances who gather once a year to drink and chat.
It will not be a surface gathering to show how good my house looks or how impressive my life appears.
There will be no performance.
It will be low key.
Quiet.
Intentional.
And it will mean far more—because it is real.
There is a different kind of richness in not having to impress. In being able to sit in a room where nothing needs to be proven and nothing needs to be hidden.
Truth does not require spectacle.
Safety does not need an audience.
What Cleaning Looks Like for Me
As a domestic violence survivor, “cleaning the house” isn’t symbolic. It’s lived.
There are personal items in my home that no longer belong to me. They are sorted, boxed, and placed in a single room—ready for my ex to collect. They no longer occupy my shelves or ambush me in quiet moments.
They are acknowledged.
Contained.
Waiting to leave.
I have cleaned the house—room by room. Intentionally.
I still have more to do.
The basement and garage will have to wait. Snow, winter, and renovations mean I simply do not have the physical space to sort those areas yet. They are clearly marked for spring cleaning, when light, room, and energy return.
Hogmanay is about honesty, not perfection.
I’ve gone through my clothes and donated everything that no longer fits—physically or emotionally. Versions of myself I no longer am. Released to be useful somewhere else.
Cleaning Beyond the Physical
This year, cleaning didn’t stop at cupboards.
I went through my social media contacts and removed people who remain connected to my ex-husband-to-be. This was not done in anger. It was done in clarity.
Remaining friends with someone facing two separate criminal trials, ten criminal charges, and currently being prosecuted for eight of them is a choice.
If they choose that connection, they are choosing not to remain connected to me.
That isn’t punishment.
It is boundary.
As trial approaches, I am guarding those boundaries more closely than ever—and I will continue to do so afterward.
This is not bitterness.
It is self-preservation.
Cleaning the Mind
The hardest work has been internal.
I am working to clear my thoughts—the looping fears, the borrowed shame, the feelings of guilt and failure, the negativity that weighs more than any physical object ever could. Not by denying what happened, but by refusing to let it dictate what comes next.
Surviving the darkest night does not mean you are suddenly ready for daylight.
It means the direction has changed—and now time must do its work.
Healing unfolds.
It cannot be rushed.
Why I Am Letting Christmas Go
I need to say this plainly: I hate Christmas.
For many domestic violence survivors, Christmas is a trigger—especially for those who must still co-parent or support children who are also traumatised by Christmases past. The forced cheer. The expectations. The noise. The pressure to perform happiness.
I have tried to change it.
I really have.
But Christmas carries too much history in my body.
This isn’t rejection for the sake of rejection.
It’s honesty about what hurts—and what doesn’t heal.
This Is Not About Religion
I want to be very clear: this is not about religion.
This is not about belief systems or doctrine.
This is about lived experience—and about shaping a future where holidays can hold meaning and joy, not pressure and pain.
I am not rejecting celebration.
I am redefining it.
Because I want future holidays that feel safe.
That carry meaning without memory traps.
That allow joy to arrive naturally—when it is ready.
Returning to Yuletide and Hogmanay
So I am returning to my heritage roots—Yuletide, the Winter Solstice, and Hogmanay.
My ex was never interested in Hogmanay. There are no memories there. No triggers. No rehearsed roles. No ghosts hidden in the calendar.
Hogmanay gives me neutral ground. A season I can shape without bracing myself. A threshold I can cross without my nervous system remembering danger.
I am reclaiming it—fully, deliberately, and without apology.
Real Life, Real Cleaning
I still have a lot to clean.
And I still have a few days to get it done.
Which means—realistically—Starlink may have to go down for a few hours so my kids can help me.
Not as punishment.
As participation.
Homes don’t reset themselves. Endings take effort. Doing something together matters more than doing it perfectly.
A few hours offline won’t hurt anyone.
What will last is the shared sense of progress.
Looking Ahead — Steady, Grounded, Ready
As this year comes to a close, I know the start of the new year will still be hard.
There is no pretending otherwise.
But I also know this:
I have got this.
In a few weeks’ time, the trial will be over. And when it is, a chapter will finally close. Not everything will be magically resolved—but something will loosen. Space will open.
And then, truly, I will be able to look forward to what comes next.
This next chapter will not be built on survival alone.
It will be built on intention.
On peace.
On meaning.
The light is returning.
Slowly. Honestly. In its own time.
And this time, I am ready.
