We haven’t had snow this winter. Yet. Just cold, frosty mornings that soften by noon.

I used to think I needed snow to feel like I’d really had a winter. The visible proof and dramatic shift. But I don’t go up the mountains anymore. No more skiing or snowshoeing. At some point, I realized I don’t actually need the expected markers to know what season I’m in. I feel it underneath in the quality of the light. And in what the ground’s doing. In the way my body moves differently through the day.

I think that’s true for bigger shifts too. 

We wait for the dramatic announcement and unmistakable sign that everything has changed. But usually, transformation doesn’t look the way we expect. It’s quieter. You don’t always notice you’ve crossed into something new until you’re already standing in it.

Here’s what’s moving

This week, something begins for real this time. Not the preview or the rehearsal. The actual new era.

You probably won’t feel it as a lightning bolt. It might just feel like… now. Standing in a room you didn’t notice you’d walked into. But the energy has shifted. And what’s being asked of you has shifted, too.

I’ve been doing this work long enough to know when something significant is moving. I can feel it, not in my head, but in my body, my bones. Like the way you suddenly notice the light has changed and realize you’ve been standing in a new season without knowing when it started. 

There’s intensity this week. Transformation meeting action as old structures, inner and outer, are ready to dissolve and be reborn. That means shadow material may surface, and you might feel a surge of clarity about what you actually want. Or maybe a confrontation with what’s been standing in the way.

But under all of it, a clearing is happening. 

This isn’t the week to wait for clearer instructions. The instructions are: begin.

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

“Once the change happens, the hard part is over.”

I understand why we believe this. We imagine transformation as the thing we push through, and then feel relief. The after. The arrival.

But that’s the fantasy version.

The change isn’t the thing you survive so you can rest. The change is the thing you learn to live inside. 

The hard part isn’t before the shift. It’s the integration that comes after. It’s learning to stay in the new shape and letting the old identity fall away without grabbing it back out of habit.

The after isn’t ease. It’s more…being present, and showing up, again and again, as the version of yourself you just became before you’ve fully learned how to be that person.

So, if you’re waiting for the transformation to finish so you can finally exhale, you might be waiting for the wrong moment. The exhale comes when you stop bracing and start living in it.

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

This moment, when everything feels like it’s accelerating, and you can sense something big landing even if you can’t put words to it, is exactly when people most need someone to witness the crossing. To hold the bigness of what’s happening without flinching, and help you see what you’re becoming when you can’t see it yourself.

I’ve been feeling the pull lately to something I want to offer. It’s a way to meet this moment with people who are ready for it. I’m not announcing anything yet, just saying I feel it. And I’m paying attention to what’s being asked for.

In the meantime, if you’re standing at the edge of something and you don’t want to cross it alone, that’s what my Unlimited practice is for. The people I work with don’t have weekly or monthly phone sessions. They reach out when they need me with a text before a hard conversation, an email after a strange dream, or when something’s changing and they can’t see it clearly yet. Unlimited is real-time interpretation, pattern recognition, and meaning-making in motion.

Jonni

P.S. Jack met a deer this week.

You heard me. Not chased. Not stalked. Met.

They stood nose to nose in the yard. Two completely different creatures from completely different worlds, and just… sniffed. 

It looked like a Disney movie. Blake and I watched, iPhones recording, holding our breath.

Maybe that’s what new eras actually look like. They’re not the dramatic arrival we imagined, but unexpected encounters. Small crossings. The world rearranging itself quietly while you’re standing in the yard, wondering what happens next.