Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times

As someone who struggles every December with the literal and metaphorical cold, this book felt like a warm blanket. May’s exploration of 'wintering' as a necessary phase of life rather than a problem to be solved is deeply healing. I particularly loved the sections on how nature prepares for the cold—the details about dormice hibernation and honeybee clusters were fascinating. It helped me reframe my own insomnia not as a failure, but as a 'watch,' a sacred space for contemplation. The prose is velvety and profound, especially when she discusses the restorative power of sleep and the need for liminal spaces. I’ve already bought three copies to give as gifts for my more reflective friends. This isn't just a book; it’s an invitation to stop fighting the seasons of our lives and start listening to what they have to teach us. Simply beautiful.

Wow. This book was exactly the meditative experience I needed after a year of non-stop hustle. I picked it up right after the Winter Solstice, and May’s voice was so soothing that it felt like a form of therapy. The way she draws parallels between human suffering and the natural world—like the way trees drop their leaves to survive the frost—is just brilliant. I found the images she created to be so vivid; I can still picture the 'hoof-like black buds' of the ash trees she describes. It’s a book about validation, about allowing yourself to be fallow for a while without feeling guilty. While some might find her lifestyle a bit privileged, I think the underlying message is universal. We all go through winters. We all need to learn how to survive them. This book provides a gentle, poetic framework for doing exactly that. Highly recommended for anyone needing a soul-repair.

Ever wonder why we feel the need to be productive every single second of the year? Katherine May’s 'Wintering' provides a much-needed answer to that question, framed through the lens of nature’s own cycles of retreat and rest. I found the nature-based metaphors—specifically the social structure of honeybees and the deep sleep of dormice—to be incredibly moving. It’s a meditative piece that validates the times in our lives when we simply cannot 'go' anymore. For me, the chapter on St. Lucy’s Day and the importance of ritual during the darkest months was a standout. The writing is almost poetic, creating beautiful images of frosty fields and dark, velvety nights that stayed with me long after I closed the cover. Truth is, this book isn't a roadmap with easy steps; it’s a companion for the seasons of life that feel cold and barren. It reminded me that fallowing is a necessary part of growth.

Finally, a book that validates the feeling of wanting to disappear under the covers for three months! Katherine May’s writing is nearly poetic, and she captures the 'profound and velvety' darkness of winter so well. I loved the way she wove natural history—like the hibernation of dormice—into her own personal story of burnout and recovery. It’s a very soothing read that doesn’t demand anything from the reader other than a bit of reflection. I found it to be incredibly healing, especially the parts about learning to welcome the 'liminal spaces' in our lives. Unlike many self-help books that offer a 10-step plan to happiness, this one just sits with you in the cold. It’s an authentic, honest look at the seasons of the soul. I’ll definitely be revisiting this one every time the leaves start to fall. It’s a new favorite for sure.

After seeing this book all over my social media feed, I finally dipped into 'Wintering' during a particularly gray week. I was immediately struck by May’s ability to find color in the bleakest landscapes—she describes the reds of bracken and rose hips with such precision that you can almost feel the frost. It’s a quiet, insightful read that functions more like a long-form essay than a traditional memoir. While I found some of her personal anecdotes about traveling to Iceland a bit removed from the average person's reality, the core message about leaning into the 'suckiness' of life's transitions is powerful. The writing style is nearly poetic, making it a perfect companion for anyone feeling a bit burnt out. My only real gripe is that it feels a bit stretched out in the middle, as if the author was trying to hit a page count. Still, it’s a beautiful, soothing piece of work that offers a lot of comfort.

Picked this up during a particularly rough patch, and it provided a lot of much-needed comfort. I really appreciated the author's focus on ritual—her description of the St. Lucy’s Day mass was so evocative that I actually looked up local services. There’s something very grounded about the way she discusses mental health and the 'thaw' that eventually follows a period of darkness. To be fair, the book is quite British in its sensibilities, which I personally enjoyed, but I can see how it might feel a bit ethnocentric to some readers. Some of the anecdotes about homeschooling and cold-water swimming felt a bit like fillers, but the overall tone is so gentle that I didn't mind too much. It’s a great read for a cold night with a cup of tea. It reminds you that the light always comes back, even when you can’t see it yet.

Is it a self-help guide or a personal memoir? Katherine May can’t seem to decide, and the result is a somewhat jumbled collection of anecdotes that don't always connect. At times, the book is incredibly powerful—the penultimate section about her 'lost voice' and the disconnect from her own body resonated with me on a very visceral level. However, other parts felt like they were just there to fill space. I found the chapters on her trips to Norway and Iceland to be quite dry, almost like reading someone’s vacation blog. She touches on her autism diagnosis, but it’s so fleetingly mentioned that I felt a bit cheated out of a deeper perspective. The writing itself is technically excellent, with some truly stunning sentences, but the structure is disjointed. It’s a bit of a mixed bag. I liked it, but I didn't love it as much as the hype suggested I would.

To be fair, May writes with an elegance that is rare in the self-help genre, but I’m not entirely sure this book knows what it wants to be. Is it a memoir about her autism diagnosis and medical struggles? Or is it a nature guide? The narrative felt very disjointed, bouncing from Stonehenge to Norway without much connective tissue to hold the themes together. I loved the section 'Song'—her exploration of losing her voice was the most authentic and grounded part of the entire book—but the rest felt a bit like navel-gazing. There’s an undeniable air of privilege here that makes it hard to relate to if you can't afford to take months off for 'introspection.' Still, there are some gems here about the necessity of rest and the beauty of a cold climate. It's a decent read for a snowy afternoon, but don't expect it to change your life if you're looking for practical solutions.

Look, the writing is undeniably gorgeous, but this book felt like a parade of middle-class narcissism. I found it incredibly difficult to sympathize with someone whose response to a minor life hurdle is to preserve radishes in expensive gin or jet off to see the Aurora. Most people who are 'wintering'—dealing with real grief, illness, or job loss—don't have the luxury of swanning around Stonehenge. The author seems almost entirely unconscious of her privilege, which makes her philosophical musings feel hollow and even a bit condescending. The chapter where she tries to interpret Finnish sauna culture was particularly off-putting; it felt like cultural appropriation mixed with a lack of basic research. While she has some astute observations about natural history, the 'self-help' aspect is practically nonexistent for anyone who actually has a mortgage to pay. It’s a beautiful-looking book that ultimately lacks the depth and relatability I was hoping for.

Frankly, I found the author's take on winter almost unrecognizable. As a Canadian who deals with months of sub-zero temperatures and actual survival, I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the 'revelation' that it gets dark early in the afternoon. She makes a massive production out of children playing outside in Finland as if it’s some mystical feat rather than just... Tuesday. The chapter on the sauna in an English leisure center was particularly grating; it felt like a weird, humorless experiment that missed the cultural point entirely. While the prose is technically 'better than average,' the tone reeks of a specific kind of middle-class narcissism that assumes everyone can just quit their job and jet off to Iceland when they feel a bit sad. It’s hard to find the 'wisdom' when the author seems so disconnected from the reality of people who actually have to work through the cold. A jumbled collection of anecdotes that never quite lands.