Last night, long after Rafi was put to bed and the last pan was washed, I found myself wandering into Allie’s room. Her space still holds her energy, the softness, the quiet wisdom she carries, the way her presence has always felt like a gentle anchor in my life.
The house was completely still.
Everyone asleep.
Only the sound of rain.
I curled up on her bed and watched the drops slide down the window, each one catching the streetlight just enough to shimmer before disappearing. There’s something about rain at night that feels like a reset, the world rinsing itself clean.
And sitting there, in her room, I felt this wave of gratitude rise through me.
Gratitude for my life as it is right no… imperfect, evolving, stretching me in ways I didn’t always see coming, but somehow becoming more beautiful because of it.
Gratitude for this slower season, where the days get shorter and the nights invite us inward.
Gratitude for the way things soften when we let them.
But mostly, gratitude for connection.
I’ve been feeling this so deeply lately in the connection with all of you.
Not just as students, but as friends.
As a community.
As people navigating life, growth, healing, and homecoming side by side.
This past year has shifted something in me.
The studio feels less like a place where classes happen
and more like a place where lives unfold.
Where conversations linger.
Where nervous systems settle.
Where we breathe together, not just to move but to be human.
And with the rain tapping on the window, I thought about Allie.
She’ll be home this weekend, a little pocket of joy I’ve been counting down to.
I can already picture her dirty laundry dropped in the entryway, her laugh in the kitchen, the way she curls into me like she’s still half her size.
Moments that remind me that time doesn’t slow down, but we can.
And maybe that’s why I’m so looking forward to our Winter Solstice Mini Retreat.
There’s something sacred about gathering on the longest night of the year —
painting, sharing favorite things, bathing in sound,
and giving ourselves permission to pause.
To feel.
To exhale deeply.
To remember that the light always returns … inside and around us.
As I sat in that quiet room last night, listening to the rain, I realized how much I needed that stillness.
How much it mattered to stop, even for a moment, and feel grateful for the life I’ve lived into.
And how much I’m ready to share that same spaciousness with you this weekend
in class, in community, and at our retreat next month.
So as the rain continues and we slide into this cozy weekend, I hope you find a little pocket of stillness too.
A moment to pause.
A breath that feels deeper.
A reminder that you’re held, you’re supported, and you’re never walking this path alone.
I can’t wait to see you on your mat, at the studio, and for everything this season brings.
Stay warm. Stay soft. Stay close to yourself.
Love,
Julianne
