The Month That Belonged to Everyone Before It Belonged to Any of Us
There are moments in life when you can feel a threshold forming under your feet before you ever cross it. Early this morning, as the calendar shifted to December 1st, I felt that unmistakable shift. This past week carried me through a whirlwind of endings, pivots, and surprising alignments. I let go of one storefront and moved toward another. I shifted timelines without a safety net. I trusted an instinct I could not logically justify but felt in every part of my body. And then on Saturday night, on the very edge of November, I stepped outside and found Saturn sitting beside the Moon, a quiet, cosmic confirmation that sometimes the structure comes after the surrender, not before it.
It reminded me that releasing something doesn’t always mean it was wrong; sometimes it simply means a truer path has appeared. Sometimes a choice isn’t a detour but a correction. And with that awareness, I stepped into this new month with a sense of reverence, curiosity, and the feeling that December has arrived carrying far more meaning than a place on the calendar.
Because this letter isn’t only about my pivot. It’s about all of us stepping into a month that has always carried a deeper current, one we often feel before we understand it. December is one of the rare seasons that belongs to everyone. Across cultures, across centuries, before religion existed and before dates had names, people could feel this time of year in their bones. They sensed the light fading earlier each day. They felt the dark deepen and lengthen. And long before anyone called this month “December,” humanity instinctively knew this was the threshold between the old year and the coming one.
Our earliest ancestors watched the sky to understand this time. They saw the sun drift lower and the nights grow impossibly long. They didn’t know the scientific explanation, but they understood the spiritual weight: the world was tilting into its darkest passage, and something inside them responded. They lit fires, gathered, told stories, and held rituals meant to protect the spark of hope until the sun returned. Even then, without doctrine or dogma, they understood the sacred rhythm of this season.
The winter solstice eventually became the anchor of December, its still point, its deepest night. Ancient communities created Yule from this moment, honoring rebirth at the height of darkness. Evergreen boughs symbolized life surviving winter. Candles and hearth fires were lit to guide the sun home. Feasts celebrated the promise that warmth and light would soon return. It was not superstition; it was humanity learning to trust the cycles of the Earth long before calendars kept track of them.
In Rome, this season took a different yet connected shape through Saturnalia, a festival that honored Saturn, the god of time, structure, and turning points. For a brief period, rules loosened, roles reversed, homes filled with greenery, gifts were exchanged, work paused, laughter returned, and society turned itself upside down to shake off the old year. It was joy and release woven together, another expression of the ancient pulse of renewal.
In Jewish tradition, Hanukkah emerged from a story of resilience in the face of overwhelming darkness. One day’s oil burned for eight, a miracle of endurance, liberation, and unwavering faith. Each night, another candle was lit, a ritual that brought more light into the world as the solstice approached. The message was the same: even when the world seems drained, hope can burn longer than it should.
After centuries of these midwinter rituals, Christianity placed the story of Christ’s birth into this very season. While the exact historical birthday of Jesus is not confirmed, early Christian communities chose December 25 in part because it aligned with the symbolism already present in Saturnalia and the winter solstice, the return of the sun in the natural world and the arrival of the Son in the spiritual one. Christmas absorbed many symbols that already belonged to December: evergreens that outlast the cold, candles that defy the darkness, stars guiding travelers through long nights. At its heart, Christmas became another expression of the ancient truth that light returns even in the midst of the deepest dark.
Advent deepened this truth through the slow ritual of waiting, four weeks of candles, reflection, softening, and anticipation. It teaches that light grows gradually, that we ready our hearts in stages, and that hope often arrives quietly before we recognize it.
When you look at these traditions together, spanning time, place, belief, and culture, the pattern becomes impossible to miss. December has never belonged to one faith. It is, and has always been, an interfaith season. Not because many holidays happen to coexist, but because every one of them grew from the same human instinct: to honor the darkness, to seek the light, to gather close, to remember, and to believe in what’s coming next.
December is the month of remembering who we are, what we’ve survived, what we’re carrying, and what we’re finally ready to lay down. It is the month of endings that prepare us for beginnings. The month that asks us to reflect on the year behind us and imagine the one ahead. It is the month that teaches us that rest is holy, that hope is cyclical, and that the light always returns, even when we’ve forgotten how much we needed it.
And for me personally, this December arrives with its own symbolic rebirth. A pivot I never planned for led me to the exact right place. A new lease waits on the horizon. My first book is preparing to step into the world. My foundation, both personally and professionally, is shifting into a truer alignment than I ever thought possible. I am ending a year in which I have been remade. I am stepping into a month that already feels like preparation for everything that comes next.
As we enter these final weeks of the year, I invite you to consider what this season is asking of you. What are you laying to rest? What are you ready to welcome? What light are you calling back into your life? What truth has been rising quietly in the dark, waiting for your acknowledgment?
December does not ask for perfection, performance, or pressure. It asks for remembrance. Remember your resilience. Remember your joy. Remember the way the light has returned to you again and again, even when you doubted it would. Remember that you are allowed to stand between what has been and what will be and breathe deeply before taking your next step.
We are all walking each other through the longest nights. And sooner than we think, light will return.
With love and gratitude,
Kelley