Your Soft Guide to Gifting Season

Or: What to Give When You Want to Cry, Need A Hug, and Resist Capitalism All at Once

There’s a particular kind of weight to this season.

Not just the dark at 4:30.
Not just the salt stains and the eternal hunt for matching mittens.
But the emotional weight. The pressure.
To show up. To do enough. To give well.

We talk about joy, generosity, connection.
But somewhere between inbox chaos and shipping cutoffs, it all starts to feel… like a checklist. A performance. A wallet hemorrhage wrapped in glitter tape.

And for years, I went along with it.
Until I didn’t.

I don’t remember every gift I’ve given.
But I remember the ones that made people (or me) cry.
The ones they held to their chest with a quiet “you remembered.”

The baby blanket I knit before a name had been chosen.
Random muffins because I thought of you.
A sketch of the pub I missed so hard it hurt, after moving cities.
A photo of my daughter, reimagined into an illustration by my mom.
A donation in someone’s name, because they didn’t want “stuff,” they wanted to make a dent in the world.

None of those were about things.
They were about remembering.
Seeing someone as they are — or were — and offering something that says:
I see you still.

I keep a list.
Not in my phone.
In my planner — where it belongs.

It lives there all year long.
Tucked between March to-dos and July grocery lists.
Not with urgency, but with care.

It has entries like:
“Knits when stressed — new yarn?”
“Burned out mom — make her soup + babysit 2 hours”
“Always cold — maybe best wool socks ever?”
“Cries when thanked — write her a letter.”

It’s not about perfection.
It’s about presence.

And if you're going to give something material…

Let it mean something.

Go to a craft fair.
Support an artisan directly.
Put your money into the hands that made the thing — the ones who stayed up late stitching, binding, carving, printing, dreaming.

These aren’t just “local goods.”
They’re acts of care wrapped in paper.
They feed families. They spark conversations.
They keep your community breathing.

If you're going to spend, let it circulate through people you can one day thank in person.
That’s not just a transaction — it’s a contribution.

So here’s what I’d love us all to remember this year:

• You don’t need to give something expensive.
• You don’t need to give something material.
• You don’t need to give everyone something.

But what you do give?
Let it count.

Write the letter.
Drop off soup.
Offer time, service, care.
Make a donation to someone’s favourite cause.

Wrap something imperfectly and add a note that says:
“This reminded me of you.”

Do it on solstice. Or in February. Or whenever it makes sense.

And if you are looking for something quiet, thoughtful, and slow...

Here’s what I’ve made for this season — and every season.

The Ephemeris — A seasonal planner for the person who wants to walk through 2026 gently, with room for reflection, rituals, and rest.

Maison Lente — A workbook for the homemaker at heart. The one who makes their space feel like a hug, and wants to do it with more kindness and less chaos.

Matrescence — A journal for the becoming. The mother or soon-to-be-mother. The tender one transforming. Not a baby book — a self-book.

They’re made slowly.
Assembled by hand, usually while my daughter naps or after she’s fallen asleep on my shoulder.
They carry my heart — and maybe, hopefully, they’ll carry someone else’s too.

If it feels like something someone in your life might need — I hope you’ll offer it.
If it feels like something you need — you don’t need an occasion to gift it to yourself.

Gifting isn’t just about giving.
It’s about choosing how we want to show up for one another.
With slowness. With softness. With intention.

Let’s gift like it matters — because it does.

With a planner in one hand and a soup ladle in the other,
Sarah B.
Founder, Atelier scriptural Writuals