As the Winter Solstice approaches, I find myself preparing for a practice that is both deeply meaningful and, to be honest, a little unnerving. This ritual of writing intentions, releasing them to the universe, and trusting in what remains has stirred something within me—a mix of excitement and nervousness that is hard to put into words.
For most of my life, I’ve lived in survival mode. From a young age, I learned to rely on myself for everything. Trusting that things would work out—just letting go—never felt safe. My instinct has always been to grip tightly, to control what I could because the unknown was too uncertain, too threatening. Moving over 20 times in the last 10 years has only reinforced this mindset. I’ve had to be my own safety net, my own wings, and my own branch.
Now, for the first time in my adult life, I’m in a place where I feel secure. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one spot, both physically and emotionally. It’s a strange and beautiful shift, but it’s also terrifying. It’s like that saying about the bird trusting its wings rather than the branch it’s perched on. Letting go of control and leaning into trust—trust in the universe, in abundance, in myself—feels like stepping off the branch for the first time.
I’ve realized that survival has been my constant companion. It’s been the quiet, insistent whisper that tells me to keep moving, keep planning, keep fighting. And now, in the stillness of this new chapter, I can hear a different voice. It’s softer, less certain, and it asks: What if you didn’t have to fight anymore? What if you could just... be?
As I sit down to write my intentions, I feel the weight of this shift. Each piece of paper carries not only my dreams but also my fears—fears of failure, of disappointment, of not being enough. My hands shake slightly as I fold each one, as if the act of writing and folding is an admission of vulnerability. Burning these intentions, releasing them, feels like I’m letting go of a piece of myself, a piece that has clung so tightly to control. What if I let go and nothing catches me? What if I’ve been wrong to trust?
But there’s also something else. A flicker of hope. A voice that says: Maybe you’re not falling. Maybe you’re learning to fly.
There’s a raw vulnerability in this process, but there’s also a spark of hope, of excitement. I’m starting to believe that maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to hold on so tightly. Maybe I can trust that the universe will catch me.
To help me through this process, I’ve adopted a new mantra: “I am more than the sum of my experiences.” These words remind me that while my past has shaped me, it does not define me. They remind me that I am capable of growth, of transformation, of stepping into a future that is not dictated by the survival instincts of my past.
This Winter Solstice ritual is more than just a practice; it’s a declaration. It’s my way of saying, “I trust. I release. I am ready.” As the flames consume each intention, I’m reminded that letting go is not losing control; it’s creating space for something greater. It’s opening myself to possibilities I can’t yet see but that I’m starting to believe are waiting for me.
The Winter Solstice Intention-Burning Ritual
When to Start: Begin on the Winter Solstice (December 21) and continue nightly until New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. Adjust the timeline if needed to fit your schedule.
What You’ll Need:
Small pieces of paper
A pen or pencil
A fire-safe bowl or container
Matches or a lighter
A quiet, sacred space
How It Works:
Reflect on your hopes, dreams, and goals for the new year.
Write each intention on a small piece of paper, one intention per slip.
Fold the slips and place them in a special jar or bowl, symbolizing your trust in the universe.
Each night, take one folded slip at random without peeking. Safely burn it in your fire-safe bowl, saying: “I release this intention to the universe. May it unfold in perfect timing and harmony.”
Watch the smoke rise, visualizing your intention being carried to the cosmos.
Continue nightly until only one slip remains. This final intention is what the universe is asking you to focus on in the coming year.
Miss a Night? If you miss a night or two, simply adjust by burning extra slips the following night or extending the ritual by a few days. The meaning behind the practice is more important than perfection.
This Winter Solstice, I’m choosing to trust the universe, to trust abundance, and, most importantly, to trust myself. May this season of stillness bring clarity, renewal, and the courage to let go.