The Yule Log Is a Lie (And Other Comforting Truths About Winter Solstice)

Let's get something out of the way: Most of what you've read about "ancient Yule traditions" is Victorian nonsense layered on top of Christian appropriation layered on top of best guesses about what our pagan ancestors actually did.

The Yule log? Probably a thing, but not the Pinterest version.

Decorating trees? A relatively recent tradition that got grafted onto older practices.

That thing about staying up all night to "keep the sun alive"? Honestly, our ancestors were probably just trying to stay warm and not die. Sometimes survival looks like magic because it kind of is.

Here's what we actually know: The winter solstice is the longest night of the year. After this, the light returns. Every culture that's ever survived winter has marked this moment somehow, because humans need hope and we need rituals to carry us through the dark.

That's it. That's the whole thing.

You don't need a fireplace to honor Yule. You don't need a coven or a specific set of words or the "right" decorations. You don't need to stay up all night (please sleep, you're exhausted, the sun will come back whether you witness it or not).

You just need to acknowledge: It's dark. It's been dark for a while. And soon, it will get lighter.

Here's my Yule practice, refined over years of trial and error and one memorable disaster involving a "fire-safe" candle that was not, in fact, fire-safe:

At sundown on the solstice:

I light one candle. Just one. Nothing fancy. Whatever I have.

I sit with it for a few minutes—or an hour, depending on how much I need the quiet.

I think about what I want to release into the dark. Not in a "goal-setting" way. In a "what am I tired of carrying" way.

Then I think about what I want to call back with the light. Again, not goals. More like... qualities. Feelings. States of being.

Last year I released: the belief that rest is laziness, the habit of apologizing for existing, and a relationship that had been dead for months but I was too scared to bury.

Last year I called back: the ability to enjoy things without guilt, trust in my own decisions, and the audacity to take up space.

I don't write it down. I don't do a spell. I just... think it. Feel it. Let the candle burn while I sit in the dark and trust that the light is coming back.

Then I go to bed.

That's it. That's the whole ritual.

The Wheel of the Year doesn't need your elaborate rituals. It just needs you to notice it turning. To pause, even briefly, and say: I'm still here. The dark hasn't taken me. And tomorrow, there will be a little more light.

That's the real magic of Yule. Not the decorations or the gifts or the historically inaccurate practices we've all inherited.

Just this: You survived the dark. And the light is coming back.

It always does.