I don't typically dwell on the shortest-day-of-the-year as a literal or metaphorical turning point. It's just another day to be savored. If I lived higher in latitude I might feel very differently.
But I don't. So the shortest day of the year tends to feel a lot like the days that surround it--give or take a month.
What ends up being significant about the day is not the amount of visible daylight, but what we choose to do under it's influence. Or after that influence has departed. Fang and I went to the alpine for a ride on snow, watched day turn to night, then kept on riding. There was nothing exceptional or significant about the day. We were happy to be out in it, happy to get done when we did, and happy to get back home.
Happy. Just like every other day.