December has a way of slowing things down. The pace shifts, the noise drops, and the quiet settles in. And when life gets quieter, the things we ran past earlier in the year begin to surface. Not to overwhelm us, but to be understood. Reflection in seasons like this is not about dwelling on the past. It is about giving our experiences a place to land so they can shape us rather than follow us.
A Week That Changed December for Me Forever
This time of year will always bring me back to Gatlinburg.
Nine years ago, last week, on November 28, 2016, the firestorm hit. It became one of the costliest wildfires in United States history and the largest assembly of emergency resources Tennessee had ever seen. Fifty counties, more than 225 agencies, more than 450 apparatus, 3,500 responders, and more than 22,000 volunteers came together in the days that followed.
On December 3, the date this newsletter goes out, we were only five days into the incident period with no end in sight. We would continue for six more days, working around the clock. The shelters were full, and search and rescue efforts were still underway as hundreds of people remained missing. The city had been shut down and would remain closed until December 9. Every entrance into Gatlinburg was blocked by Humvees and the National Guard.
Families who had lost everything needed shelter, medication, food, and answers. More than 3,000 people were housed. More than 16,000 meals were served. Volunteers logged over 220,000 hours, providing an estimated 4.95 million dollars in support. More than 12 million dollars in donations poured in as people across the country tried to help families rebuild.
Inside the command post, the pace never slowed. The radio never went quiet. The difficult questions never stopped. For the first 84 hours, I did not sleep. There was no time to change clothes or brush my teeth. There was only the next decision, the next request, the next family who needed help. By the morning of December 3, I might have slept a total of six hours.
Leadership in those days did not look polished. It looked like carrying responsibility across an operation that stretched far beyond the walls of the command post. Thousands of people were depending on us, and the weight of every decision reached further than I could see. Every shelter, every volunteer center, and every operational branch had someone reporting to me. Not everyone I placed in a role was able to handle the stress, and there were moments when I had to pull people aside, release them from their assignment, and move another person in without delay. Those conversations had to happen face-to-face. There were no shortcuts. I had minutes to brief the next person, minutes to stabilize the situation, and then I had to move on to the next problem.
Each night, when I could break away from the command post, I made my way through the shelters. I considered those walks a responsibility, not a break. I talked with families who had lost everything. I checked on people I knew. I listened to the teams working under my direction and tried to catch the details that might fall through the cracks because I knew the cracks were everywhere. Those visits often lasted forty minutes, an hour, sometimes more. People needed updates. They needed reassurance. They needed presence. No matter how long the day had been, I made those walks a priority because the work happening inside those shelters mattered just as much as what was happening on the command floor.
One of the moments that has stayed with me came late one night when I stepped into a small office away from the noise after an operational briefing. I knew that the next morning I would stand at the podium and answer for everything we knew and everything we did not. Lives had been lost. Families were waiting for answers. The community needed clarity that we were still fighting to understand. Standing in that small room, the weight of it became real. It reminded me that leadership is not about having the perfect answers. It is about doing the next right thing with the information you have.
For a long time, I avoided talking about that period. Not because I wanted to forget it, but because I could not explain it. How do you describe what it feels like to be responsible for thousands of people while running on almost no sleep? How do you put that kind of pressure into words? For years, I could not. And truthfully, I did not try. Some experiences are too heavy to revisit until enough time has passed for reflection to replace survival.
It was, and still is, the hardest work I have ever done.
For me, December will never be only a holiday month. It is also an anniversary of loss, service, and a community that chose to stand back up together.
Why the Quiet Season Matters
When a year holds moments that carry real weight, the quiet season becomes more than just rest. It becomes a space to understand what those moments meant. December has always reminded me that reflection is not a luxury. It is part of how we make sense of what we have lived through.
When the world slows down, your mind finally has room to process what it ran past during the busy seasons. Science shows that periods of stillness help the prefrontal cortex consolidate emotional experiences, strengthen long-term learning, and restore clarity. Other studies show that deliberate reflection reduces burnout, improves decision-making, and sharpens emotional regulation.
Stillness creates space for the work your busy schedule often prevents. You cannot lead effectively by moving at full speed forever. The quiet gives you what speed cannot.
The purpose of the quiet season isn't to erase what happened; it's to acknowledge it, learn from it, and honor it. Psychology and leadership research consistently show the same truth: when people intentionally incorporate reflection into their routines, they boost performance, sustain motivation over the long term, and reinforce their self-belief. Learning through action is powerful, but combining action with reflection makes it even more effective.
What We Can Learn From December
December offers something that is easy to overlook. It gives us a moment to step back and see the year with clearer eyes. When the pace slows, insight becomes easier to find. Not because life becomes simple, but because reflection creates room for things we could not see while we were in motion.
Here are three things the quiet season helps reveal:
- What this year taught you: Some lessons come through achievement. Others come through pressure, change, loss, or responsibility. Whatever this year gave you, noticing it is the first step toward carrying it forward.
- What you are still holding: Not everything fades on its own. Some stress, worry, or disappointment stays with us simply because we never paused long enough to face it. December gives you a chance to notice what is still sitting beneath the surface.
- What does not need to follow you into next year: A belief. A habit. A standard. A weight you no longer need. Letting something go is often the most strategic step you can take before the new year begins.
Reflection is not about looking back with regret. It is about looking back with honesty so you can move forward with intention.
Clarity grows in the quiet.
Stay The Course.
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