Not Quite Spring

I’m sitting here this morning in my heavy robe and slippers, sipping coffee that I’ve had to warm twice, and I can feel myself waiting for something that has not fully arrived. The calendar insists it is spring, but the air still bites, the ground still hesitates, and the world feels caught between what has been and what is coming. So I sit, longing for a change I can’t control.

I seem to be caught in that in-between space again. It is not quite winter, but it is not fully spring either… many days hint at rebirth, and then pull it back. I feel unsettled, and when I pay attention, I can see that the landscape outside is mirroring something within me.

When I think about the spring of our lives, I picture a kind of growth that feels almost effortless. When we are young, we move forward without overthinking every step. In my case, I often rushed ahead with no thought at all. We try things. We fail. We try again. There is a natural stretching toward what is next, rarely stopping to question whether we are ready.

I see that so clearly in the people around me right now. I have the privilege of watching others step into their own becoming. I feel a sense of awe as I witness someone begin and find myself noticing what I thought was natural born confidence is often just a willingness to move.

I love that I get to work with people close enough to notice that kind of growth. It reminds me that becoming doesn’t require perfection… it requires trust, followed by movement.

It is part of why I am drawn to the work I do. Sitting with writers as they begin, or begin again, feels a lot like standing at the edge of spring with them. Many come unsure of what they have to say or whether it matters. They carry stories that feel unfinished, or too tender to share, but still they know the words need to be written.

I have learned that writing is rarely about having everything figured out. For me, it’s about being willing to notice what is stirring and giving it a place to land. It is about trusting that meaning will come as we stay with the words long enough to see what they are trying to reveal.

That kind of work requires patience, honesty, and a willingness to grow in public as we grow on the page.

I am aware that I am standing in that same kind of season myself.

This is not the first time I have started something new, but it is a new beginning all the same. Thankfully, I carry the memory of other seasons, both the ones that felt full of life and the ones that felt long and heavy. This spring feels different because of that.

There is excitement here, but there is also a quiet steadiness. I feel a sense of possibility, but it is grounded in a deeper understanding of what matters. I’m clearing out the doubt that I have nothing to offer and nurturing the voice that reminds me that my dreams come from everything that has shaped me up to this point.

There are ideas that are asking for more room and stories that are ready to be told with greater clarity. Thankfully, there is also a growing desire to write again as I work to help others bring their words into the world. Winter calls for drafts that stay tucked away, but spring means finished work that reaches the people it was meant for.

I can feel that shift happening, even if I’m still in the early stages of naming it. In many ways, it feels like the beginning of something I have been moving toward for a long time. This could be the natural extension of the work I already love. There is nothing more fulfilling than walking with writers as they move from remembering, to reflecting, to writing, and then into refining and revealing.

Something about this season keeps nudging me to think beyond the last page. It has me considering what it looks like to not only guide the writing process, but to stand with someone as they take the next step of sharing it. I already help bring their words into form, but the desire is growing to help them hold something finished in their hands.

It feels like a seed right now… small, but very alive. Thankfully, I know better than to rush it.

Just as spring has never allowed me to force its growth, this new seed has only asked me to pay attention, to tend what is in front of me, and to trust that what is meant to grow will do so in its time.

So I am going to sit here a little longer and try not to skip ahead. I think I’ll go warm up my coffee and continue to notice what is beginning to bloom.

Perhaps that is what this season is offering.

And for now, that feels like enough.

Be happy 🧡