Hello, Spring!

Let me set the scene.

 

It’s a bright, beautiful day. The sun isn’t warm by Southern standards, but it’s the quintessential spring day: ablaze with color, the earth in mid-bloom, birdsong, and copious amounts of pollen dusting the world below.

 

I’ve been outside enjoying the elements, soaking my face in the new sun and feeding my body some much-needed vitamin D. I’ve cleared away the pollen, washed clean a small space for me, my laptop, and my mug of tea. As I squinted at my keyboard, I found myself distracted by the new season of bees and butterflies feeding on dandelions. After what has felt like a particularly long winter, my garden is alive again. And so am I.

 

It feels good to be writing again. I haven’t written in months—something that’s cost me both financially and emotionally. When I don’t write, especially for this long, I feel invisible. My words aren’t just acts of resistance, calls to action, or paid opinions; they’re my way of existing out loud. It’s where everything I carry—thoughts, emotions, memories—finds somewhere to land. Without it, I feel untethered. With it, I understand who I am.

 

I haven’t written for a myriad of reasons, but the most crucial is that I’ve been grieving my aunt’s passing. This is probably where I should write about my grief, detailing the relationship we shared and the lessons she left behind. But I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to spend a perfectly good day on grief—not when it has already taken so many from me. Instead, I’ll say this: celebrating the life of someone we love is a gift, and I’m grateful I loved someone remarkable enough to leave such an imprint on all of our hearts.

 

Coming through the fog—appropriately, in a season of rebirth, renewal, and transformation, marked by Nowruz, Ostara, the Spring Equinox, and Mothering Sunday—I, too, am ready to reinvent myself. To revive the parts of me that center on play, health, happiness, rest, and new creative pursuits. I’ve been living in survival mode for long enough.

 

There’s a strange balance in being aware of how heavy the world feels while still choosing to enjoy the parts of life that remain beautiful. I have to make time for that. Not out of ignorance, but out of necessity—because life is still happening, even now.

 

So here I am, sitting in my garden of rejuvenation, existing alongside a world in rebirth. And like the opening buds on my plants and trees, I, too, am reawakening.