Shop All Solstice Here
Once a year, the planet hits that deep, strange moment where the day is as short as it’s going to get and the night stretches forever. Calendars call it winter solstice, but most of us just call it Wow, it’s dark already?!” In the Northern Hemisphere, December 21st is the longest night of the year; the point where the light is at its lowest and then, very quietly, begins to return. The Earth tilts, the sun shifts, and the days start getting a little bit longer, almost too slowly to notice.
Emotionally, this moment has always mattered to people. For thousands of years, in a hundred different ways, humans have met this long night with the same instinct: “Okay, that’s enough darkness. Light a fire.”
Human beings are built to push back against the dark. Even before electricity and central heating, people didn’t just sit in the dark and hope for the best. Winter was dangerous: cold, storms, less food, more uncertainty. So we did what humans do best: we gathered closer, we lit fires, lamps, and candles, anything that glowed. We told stories and shared food. In small, stubborn ways, we tried to make the night less scary. Different cultures developed alternate traditions, but the pattern stayed the same: when the world got darker, we answered with warmth, light, and each other. That instinct is still in us, even if our “hearth” is now a space heater and a string of fairy lights we refuse to take down.
Light at this time of year is more than just something that helps us avoid walking into furniture. Around the solstice, “light” becomes a feeling as much as a physical thing. It shows up in the soft glow of a candle when the day has been too much, in the single cozy window shining on a dark street, and in the message that says, “I know this time of year is hard. I’m thinking of you.” Light becomes a way of feeling like you’re not alone.
Even if our survival no longer depends on the harvest, we still go through our own kinds of winters: grief, burnout, loneliness, anxiety, and plain old exhaustion. The sun setting at 4 p.m. doesn’t help. So we keep doing what our ancestors did, but in new forms. We cook something warm and share it, we turn on more lamps than strictly necessary, we invite someone over, we send a card or a text, or we share a ridiculous meme that makes someone laugh a little too hard. All of these are small acts of brightness against the big, complicated dark.
Solstice is the year’s plot twist in slow motion. Nothing magically fixes itself on that day. The weather doesn’t suddenly improve. Our lives don’t immediately untangle. But there is this one honest, comforting fact: this is the darkest point, and from here, the light returns. That’s it.
There's no particular way you have to celebrate to let that idea in. Take a moment to acknowledge yourself and everything you’ve carried through this season and this year, and remind yourself that just being here still counts. You can mark solstice simply by noticing it, then choosing one small thing that feels like light.
You might light a candle or turn on a little lamp for someone you love and send a card that simply says, “I lit a little light for you tonight.” Maybe you'd write a single sentence to yourself or someone else, something like, “The light is coming back, even if I can’t feel it yet,” and put it somewhere you’ll see, at a time you need it most (like when January is doing its slightly rude January things.) You might make something warm to eat and share it with someone, including yourself. You could write down one thing you want to leave in the dark and one tiny thing you hope the returning light will grow. It doesn’t have to be elaborate, just gentle and real.
Since we’re a greeting card company, I’ll come out and say it: a card is basically a tiny paper lantern. It doesn’t fix the dark or change the season, but it can say, “I know this time is heavy,” or, “You matter to me,” or, “You are not going through this winter unnoticed.” Then it sits on a fridge, a desk, or a nightstand, quietly glowing in ink and color long after the solstice itself has passed.
So this solstice, whether you are lighting candles, turning on every cozy lamp you own, or simply surviving one more long night, consider this your gentle reminder: you’ve made it through a lot of dark already.
You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to need warmth, softness, and other people. And even when it doesn’t feel like it, the light is slowly, steadily, on its way back.
Warm Solstice Wishes,
Sam & Team Allport