Spring's Lessons

    Today is the last day of school with students. Tomorrow, I work a half day. Usually, this is the stretch of time when my mind officially shifts from spring to summer, a seasonal turning point that always invites reflection.

    This year, spring taught me some of my most important lessons.

    I learned that joy and grief can exist at the same time.

    This is a lesson I spent years chasing. I had heard people say it. I wanted to believe it. Still, I struggled to understand how joy could survive alongside deep sorrow.

    As I mentioned in my blog about what my grandma taught me, grief used to be all-consuming. It was all I could feel, all I could breathe. It shaped what I noticed in the world and how I moved through it.

    But I am not the same person I once was.

    This spring, I lost my grandma. Tomorrow, Lois will be joining her. At the same time, I am learning how to make being childfree after infertility the least interesting thing about me. The grief has been heavy. Truthfully, it has been heavy for much longer than just this season.

    And yet, despite the grief, something unexpected has been happening.

    I’ve noticed that I smile more. I laugh sometimes. Not polite, surface-level laughter, but laughter with my whole being. Warmth spreads through my chest when I come home, and my dogs run to greet me. Lately, there have been moments when grief sits heavily beside me, and somehow, at the very same time, I feel an urge to dance with joy.

    Life can be hard. It can be hard for everyone. But I’ve realized that my life is still deeply full and profoundly beautiful.

    Despite the many changes unfolding around me, I have been thriving in a way I never have before. Not because life became easier, but because joy quietly began taking up more space.

    I’ve returned to this blog more often. I started a new book and have already written a significant amount of it. My creative life feels alive. My days feel steadier.

    I’ve learned that I can endure far more than I once believed. I’ve also learned that renewal can happen so quietly that you don’t even realize it’s taking place.

    With Lois’ declining health, I’ve been caring not only for her but for our other pets as well. The love I feel for them does not erase my grief, but it outweighs it. It gives me something sturdy to stand on when everything else feels fragile.

    Spring also taught me that softness is not weakness.

    I remember a very wise woman telling me in high school that it takes courage to cry. At the time, I thought she was completely wrong. I had been taught to stop crying, smile, and carry on, no matter what pain I was carrying. I was labeled “emotional,” and the word was used as criticism.

    But being emotional is not a flaw.

    Wanting warmth, whimsy, prayer, cozy moments at home, and reasons to celebrate is not weakness or silliness. It reflects the kind of life I want to build. The kind of person I want to be.

    Spring taught me to trust small beginnings.

    For a long time, I expected growth to arrive dramatically...loud, obvious, undeniable. But not every season of growth announces itself.

    Sometimes growth looks like becoming softer without surrendering. Sometimes it looks like healing so quietly you only recognize it when you glance backward.

    There is a season for everything.

    Celebrations, friendships, jobs, homes, dreams, and even the pets who share our lives. All of them belong to seasons. I’m learning that it’s okay when seasons end. Even the seasons I expected to happen but never did. Or seasons I never expected to end, but have.

    I’m entering a new season now.

    I’m entering the literal season of summer, yes, but I think I’m also stepping into my own personal summer: a season of warmth, flourishing, steadiness, and becoming.

    Overall, spring was good to me. It taught me more than I expected.

    And while I’m grateful for everything this season held, I’m deeply excited to step into what comes next and to see who I become there.