Last week, we brought home a cat.

His name is Jack. He’s a two-year-old Bengal mix rescued from Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, where he’d been living on the streets. I looked at him and just knew. That’s a Jack.

It’s been two years since we had cats. Ours died of old age, and somewhere in the grief and the gap, we hatched Indian Runner ducks. Tilly, Wensley, and Blue now patrol the property like they own it. (They do.)

So now we have a formerly homeless cat settling into a home with a cozy fireplace, the perfect cat stand, and a bed wedged between Blake’s head and mine at night. And three ducks who don’t yet know he exists.

We’re taking it slow. Jack’s been indoors getting to know us. He’s got all that two-year-old Bengal energy mixed with a lover’s heart, and settling right in. But it’s way too early to introduce him to the outside. And too early to know how this whole cat-and-duck situation is going to work. We need to think things through carefully.

And that feels like the assignment for all of us right now.

Here’s what’s moving.

This is the week after the solstice. The longest night has passed, and something is slowly turning toward light again. But slowly. Don’t expect fireworks.

The energy right now is about reconstructing. Taking things apart so you can put them back together better. Think of it as still adjusting and sorting out what you’re bringing into the new year and what you’re leaving behind.

There’s also a drive returning. You might feel it starting to stir, but it’s a steady, methodical energy. The kind that builds foundations, not the kind that sprints out of the gate. Definitely a long game. What actually matters. Think: who and what do I want to commit to, for real?

Relationships are asking for seriousness this week. Not heavy but definitely real seriousness. Where you stop hedging and start choosing. Ask yourself what you’re actually building with the people in your life, and whether it’s going to hold.

Here’s the belief that won’t survive this week.

“New beginnings should feel exciting.”

Sometimes they do. But more often, they feel tentative, uncertain, and careful.

Like a rescue cat learning to trust a new home. Like winter itself. Everything looks dormant, but underneath, something is reorganizing.

We’ve been sold this idea that fresh starts come with clarity and momentum and that unmistakable feeling of yes, this is it. But real beginnings, especially the ones that actually last, usually feel more like, I think this might be right, but I’m going to need to move slowly and see.

Jack isn’t bounding around the property yet. He’s learning where the warm spots are. Figuring out the rhythms of the house and testing whether this place is really safe.

That’s how trust gets built.

If your new beginning feels more like careful exploration than confident arrival, you’re doing it right.

Here’s the part that’s hard to see on your own.

What I know about beginnings is that the ones that stick, almost never look like the stories we tell about them after.

Later, we say, I knew right away. It all clicked into place. I just had this feeling.

But in the moment, it’s usually more like, I think this might be something. I’m not sure. I’m going to keep going and see.

The problem is, when you’re inside that uncertainty, it can feel like something’s wrong. Like you should be more sure, and everyone else has a clearer path.

They don’t. They’re just further along in the story, telling it backward.

Having someone who can remind you that your careful, tentative, not-yet-certain beginning is actually exactly how it’s supposed to look is not a small thing. Often it’s the difference between trusting the process and abandoning it too soon.

Jack doesn’t know yet that this is his home. But we do. And we’ll keep showing him until he believes it.

That’s what good beginnings need. Someone who can hold the knowing until you can hold it yourself.

Jonni

P.S. The ducks remain unbriefed on the new family member. We’re taking it one careful step at a time. I’ll keep you posted. Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and may your week hold exactly the right amount of quiet.