Mark: Okay, Michelle. Wintering by Katherine May. Review it in exactly five words. Michelle: Hmm. "Sadness is a superpower. Maybe." Mark: I like that! Mine is: "Permission to hibernate, finally granted." Michelle: See, that's where we differ. I'm all for hibernation, but who's paying the bills? We'll get into that. Mark: We definitely will. And we are talking about Wintering: How I Learned to Flourish When Life Became Frozen by Katherine May. This book became a quiet bestseller, resonating deeply with people, especially since it was published right before the world went into its own collective winter in 2020. Michelle: The timing was uncanny. And what's fascinating about Katherine May is that this wasn't just a philosophical exercise for her. The book was born from a brutal period in her own life around her 40th birthday—her husband's appendix burst, she was diagnosed with a serious illness, and she had to quit her job. This book is her field notes from that personal ice age. Mark: And that's the heart of her first big idea—that these 'winters' aren't random tragedies. They're a season.

Michelle: Okay, let's start there. What exactly does she mean by "wintering"? Because it sounds a lot cozier than what she actually went through. Mark: That’s the brilliant reframing she does right from the start. She defines wintering as a fallow period in life. It's when you feel cut off from the world, sidelined, or blocked from progress. It can be caused by anything—illness, a job loss, the death of a loved one, a breakup, or even just a period of burnout. Michelle: A fallow period. Like a field left to rest. Mark: Exactly. And she opens with this incredibly powerful story that shows how winter can arrive completely out of the blue. She uses this beautiful, haunting line: "Some winters happen in the sun." Michelle: That gives me chills. Mark: She describes this perfect late-summer day. It's her fortieth birthday week, she's on the beach with her husband, H, and their son, Bert. It's idyllic—pastel beach huts, turquoise sea, friends laughing. And in the middle of this perfect day, her husband starts to feel sick. They dismiss it as a stomach bug. Michelle: Oh, I know that feeling. The denial. You just want the day to stay perfect. Mark: They go on with their day, but he gets worse. He's vomiting. By the evening, he insists on going to the hospital. And what follows is this nightmare of waiting, of being ignored. His appendix bursts while he's in the waiting room, in agony. Katherine has to become this fierce advocate, fighting a failing system just to get him treated. Michelle: That is terrifying. To go from a sunny beach to that kind of life-or-death chaos in a matter of hours. Mark: And that’s her point. Winter isn't something you can schedule or control. It descends. And what's worse, she argues that our society makes it so much harder because we stigmatize it. We're taught that these periods of struggle are a personal failure. Michelle: Right. You're supposed to put on a brave face, hustle harder, and never, ever admit you're not coping. You see it all over social media—this relentless pressure for positivity. If you're sad or struggling, you're doing something wrong. Mark: Precisely. May says we're encouraged to hide our winters. We become isolated, ashamed. We don't have a shared language for it. And this is where the book got some criticism, with some readers pointing out that her ability to take time off and retreat is a form of privilege. Michelle: I was just about to ask that. It's a beautiful idea, but who can actually afford to just... stop? To go to Iceland or take up new hobbies when you're in a crisis? For many people, a winter just means more stress and more work. Mark: And she acknowledges that. But her argument isn't necessarily about taking a literal vacation. It's about a shift in mindset. It's about giving yourself permission to stop fighting the feeling. She's not saying the crisis is pleasant. She's saying the resistance to the crisis, the shame we layer on top of it, is what causes so much extra suffering. The reframing is about seeing it as a natural, cyclical part of life, just like the seasons. Michelle: So it’s not about romanticizing the crisis, but about naturalizing it. Taking the shame out of it. Mark: Exactly. It’s permission to be in a fallow state. To recognize that you are not a machine that can be productive 365 days a year. You are a living organism that needs periods of dormancy to recover and grow. And once you accept that, you can start to ask a different question. Michelle: Which is? Mark: Not "How do I fix this immediately?" but "How do I winter well?"

Michelle: Okay, so if we accept we're in a winter, what do we do? Just sit around being sad and watching Netflix? Mark: That's the fascinating part. It's not passive at all. May develops a whole toolkit for 'wintering well,' and it's surprisingly physical and active. It's about engaging with the world in a different way. Michelle: More than just thinking your way out of it. Mark: Much more. She explores these two seemingly opposite poles of self-care. On one hand, there's this intense, almost shocking engagement with the elements. And on the other, there are these quiet, grounding, domestic rituals. Michelle: Let's start with the shocking one. That sounds more fun. Mark: It's cold water. She becomes obsessed with the idea of cold water swimming. At first, it's just a New Year's Day stunt—she over-prepares with a wetsuit, three towels, a flask of tea, even a pre-mixed Bloody Mary. She runs in, screams, and runs out in 15 seconds, mostly for the bragging rights. Michelle: I can relate to that. I've done the polar plunge. The aftermath is way better than the actual plunge. Mark: But later, when she's really in her winter, she commits to it. She and a friend start swimming in the sea off the English coast in the dead of winter. And it's brutal. But it's also transformative. She talks about how the intense cold forces you into the present moment. You can't worry about your mortgage or your anxieties when your body is screaming at you to just breathe. Michelle: It’s like a hard reset for the nervous system. Mark: It is. And there's science to back it up. Studies show that immersion in cold water can increase dopamine levels by 250%. It's a natural high. She tells the incredible story of a Danish woman named Dorte Lyager, who used cold water swimming to manage her bipolar disorder and eventually go off medication entirely. For her, the cold water was the only thing that could quiet the "porridge in her brain." Michelle: Wow. So it's not just a quirky hobby; it's a legitimate therapeutic practice. By doing a resilient thing, you feel more resilient. Mark: That's the exact phrase May uses! "By doing a resilient thing, we felt more resilient." But then there's the other side of her toolkit, which is just as important. It's the quiet, domestic stuff. Michelle: The cozy side of wintering. Mark: Yes. When she's signed off from work, sick and overwhelmed, she starts baking. She tells this hilarious story about trying to make bagels, and her mixer breaks, and the dough doesn't rise, and only after they're baked into inedible rocks does she realize the yeast expired five years ago. Michelle: Been there. The baking fail is a rite of passage. Mark: But she says the point wasn't to make perfect bagels. The point was, and I quote, "to keep my hands moving." It was about filling the void, having a small, manageable task to focus on. It's the same with preserving. A friend gives her a bag of quinces, and she decides to make membrillo. This act connects her to her mother and grandmother, to this lineage of women who knew how to prepare for lean times. Michelle: I love that. So it's about both shocking the system and soothing the system. One is this intense, primal experience of cold water, and the other is this quiet, grounding act of making something with your hands. It's like you need both the wild and the hearth. Mark: That's a perfect way to put it. And it's also about ritual. She realizes that modern life has stripped away so many of our rituals for marking time. So she seeks them out. She goes to Stonehenge to watch the sunrise on the winter solstice. It's awkward and crowded and a bit "wacky," as she says, but it's also deeply moving. She feels connected to thousands of years of humans who have stood on that spot, waiting for the light to return. Michelle: It's about finding meaning when everything feels meaningless. Creating your own anchors. Mark: Exactly. She and her friends start their own ritual: a bonfire on the beach after the solstice. They watch the sunset and say, "We have turned the year." It's this small act of seizing control, of acknowledging the darkness but also celebrating the turning point.

Mark: And these practices, this acceptance, they don't just help you survive. They change you. The thaw, when it comes, isn't about going back to who you were before the winter. Michelle: That’s a huge point. The goal isn't to 'get back to normal.' It's to emerge as someone new. Mark: Someone who has learned something. And for May, one of the most powerful symbols of this transformation is her own voice. She tells this incredibly vulnerable story about how, in the year after her son was born, she literally lost her voice. It became thin, weak, and unreliable. She felt invisible. Michelle: Oh, that's such a potent metaphor for new motherhood. The feeling of losing yourself, of your identity being subsumed. Mark: It was both metaphorical and literal. Doctors couldn't find anything wrong. So she finally goes to a singing tutor. And through these lessons, she starts to rebuild her voice from the ground up. She learns to breathe again, to engage her muscles, to project. She realizes that singing isn't about being perfect; it's about the right to take up space, to demand to be heard. Michelle: It’s about reclaiming her power. And I imagine that connects to the idea of community she talks about, too. You need a voice to connect with others. Mark: Absolutely. She says that once you've wintered, you have a responsibility to share that wisdom. It's not something to hoard. She lives this out when her son, Bert, develops severe anxiety about school. He's miserable, and the system just wants to force him to conform. Michelle: That must have been heartbreaking. Mark: It was. And in a moment of clarity, she pulls him out of school. It's a radical decision that goes against everything she's been told. But she finds this incredible support network of other parents who have been through the same thing. They share stories, offer advice, and validate her choice. She calls it an "exchange of gifts." Michelle: "Wisdom resides in those who have wintered." That's one of her key quotes, isn't it? Mark: It is. And it completely reframes how we should view people who are struggling. She revisits the old Aesop's fable of the Ant and the Grasshopper. The ant works all summer, and the grasshopper sings. When winter comes, the ant tells the grasshopper to "dance supperless to bed." Michelle: The classic tale of prudence versus frivolity. Mark: But May flips it. She says the ants are cruel. The grasshopper was doing what it was born to do: make music. And life isn't that simple. Sometimes you're the ant, and sometimes you're the grasshopper. The real flaw isn't needing help; it's judging those who do. Wintering teaches you compassion.

Michelle: So what's the one big takeaway here? If life is cyclical, as she says, are we just doomed to repeat these winters forever? It sounds a bit bleak. Mark: I think the hope in the book is that you don't repeat them in the same way. The point isn't to avoid winter. It's to learn its landscape. May's ultimate message is that by embracing these fallow periods, we build a kind of emotional and spiritual resilience. Michelle: You learn where to find the firewood. Mark: You learn where to find the firewood, you learn who will help you build the fire, and you learn to trust that the sun will, eventually, return. She says unhappiness has a function: it's a signal that something needs to change, that we need to adapt. If we just numb it or push through it, we miss the cue. Michelle: So the goal isn't a life without winter. It's a life where we know how to put on a good coat. Mark: A life where we know how to light a fire, find our community, and wait for the thaw, knowing we'll be different, and maybe even stronger, when it comes. It’s about accepting that you are not a machine, but a part of the natural world, with all its cycles of growth, decay, and rebirth. Michelle: It makes you wonder what small 'wintering' practices we're already doing without realizing it. That quiet cup of tea in the morning, a walk in the park, calling a friend. We'd love to hear from our listeners—what's one small thing that helps you through a tough time? Let us know on our socials. Mark: This is Aibrary, signing off.