By Latrice Brent

December is not loud for me anymore.

It used to be. Deadlines. End-of-year pushes. Metrics. Proving. Performing. But somewhere along the way, December became quieter. Not because life slowed down, but because it demanded a different kind of attention.

This is usually the season for reflection. The time when we pause, look back, make sense of what we’ve learned, and imagine what’s next. But this year, reflection hasn’t come easily. Holding space for deep thought has felt like an act of endurance in itself.

It’s been a heavy year. Socially. Politically. Culturally. Even when those conversations stay outside the workplace, their weight does not. People carry uncertainty, division, and fatigue into meetings, into learning spaces, into their homes. I’ve felt it in myself and I’ve seen it in the leaders and teams I support.

A few mornings ago, that weight softened.

I was out for a slow morning walk with my son, home from the military for the holidays. No agenda. No rush. Just movement, quiet conversation, and the steady comfort of being together. There was something grounding in the slowness of it. In the absence of urgency. In the quietness of shared presence.

It reminded me of a quote often attributed to John Dewey:
“We do not learn from experience… we learn from reflecting on experience.”

That moment made the quote feel less academic and more lived.

Because reflection is not something that happens automatically. Especially not in years like this one. Sometimes it requires stillness we have to intentionally create. Sometimes it requires safety. Sometimes it requires a pause long enough to actually feel what has been happening beneath the surface.

At the same time, life keeps moving. Family responsibilities don’t pause for strategic planning cycles. There are relationships to tend to, milestones to honor, and quiet worries you don’t always have language for. Balancing meaningful work with family life has required intention, honesty, and more grace than I’m used to giving myself.

This year also asked me to slow down physically in ways I didn’t anticipate. To listen more carefully. To respect limits. That kind of awareness reshapes how you see everything. It changes how you define productivity. It changes how you lead. It reminds you that sustainability is not just an organizational goal, but a personal one.

In learning and development, we talk a lot about transformation. New systems. New frameworks. New capabilities. But what we rarely name is the invisible season that makes transformation possible. The season where progress looks less like momentum and more like patience. Where growth is happening quietly, even when it doesn’t feel impressive.

I’ve spent these months building, rebuilding, and sometimes unlearning. Designing learning experiences that prioritize clarity and confidence, not just speed. Coaching leaders through ambiguity they were never trained for. Watching high performers question themselves. Watching new hires try to find stability in systems that are still evolving. Watching myself do the same.

What I keep coming back to is this: learning does not begin with content. It begins with capacity.

Capacity to reflect.
Capacity to adapt.
Capacity to care for the human doing the work.

The future of leadership will not belong to the loudest voice in the room or the person with the most polished answers. It will belong to those who understand pacing. Those who know when to push and when to pause. Those who recognize that resilience is not about powering through, but about making thoughtful choices that allow people to continue.

As L&D leaders, our role is shifting. We are no longer just designers of curriculum. We are stewards of readiness. We are supporting humans navigating rapid change, blurred boundaries, and constant cognitive load. That requires empathy paired with strategy. Data paired with discernment. Structure paired with humanity.

This December, I’m thinking less about closing the year strong and more about closing it honestly. About honoring what it took to get here. About recognizing that reflection itself can be difficult when you are still in the middle of carrying so much.

Sometimes the most meaningful learning moment is not a workshop or a framework. It’s a quiet walk. A shared silence. A moment of presence that allows experience to finally settle into understanding.

And maybe that’s what this season is really for.

Not perfection.
Not performance.
But the quiet work of becoming.