Where I grew up in the mountains of Northern California, spring was nothing more than a whisper. The few warm days we had in our tiny lake town were often fleeting, snatched away by late-season blizzards and snow days that pushed our school end-date out by multiple weeks. By the time the last snow did finally melt, summer had swept in for good, warming skin and soil, making us forget how we had ever gotten there.
It wasn’t until my 20s, while living in London, that I began to grasp the importance of spring and its role as a transitional season in both nature and my own life. If you’ve ever visited London in April or May, you’ll notice Cherry Blossoms lining the streets, blooming with abandon and creating pink puddles across the city. They thrive against a dull sky next to Flowering Dogwoods and common Laburnum, also called “gold rain”—my very favorite.
During those spring months while living in London, I noticed I was existing in an in-between moment. Winter wasn’t entirely gone, but its grasp had weakened. The air was sweeter, but still cold. Space opened up for more sun, warmer winds, and fresh perspectives, and what had been put to rest was rising to the surface again. With the promise of spring, everything seemed stronger, and more beautiful.
I noticed I was existing in an in-between moment. Winter wasn’t entirely gone, but its grasp had weakened.
I’ve discovered spring to be a reminder of what is to come but also of what it costs to get there. So much happens in silence and secret during the winter months—seeds burrow beneath the soil, trees go dormant before their next bloom, a layer of ice conceals the water below. But there is a purpose in these passive acts.
“Wintering,” author Katherine May calls it, is an invitation to rest amidst our struggles and sadness. “Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximising scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.”
May goes on to write, “Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through.”
We, too, experience winter as a season of metamorphosis in preparation for spring.
We, too, experience winter as a season of metamorphosis in preparation for spring. Sometimes the metamorphosis is grand and obvious, like the butterfly bursting from its cocoon; other times, the growth is subtle. It can look like tiny posture shifts and we may not even recognize the transformation we’re undergoing. Even still—the rest we’ve taken and the hardships we’ve endured throughout winter have changed us for the better. Spring reveals this. Winter was never the end; rather, it was always leading us here, to this moment and place, to the spring equinox and the first day of a new season. How we arrive is just as important as the arrival itself.
I no longer have the Cherry Blossoms to witness outside my window, but I do have the warm Los Angeles air and the fields of blooms that are especially vibrant after a rainy winter. For the first time in what feels like quite a while, I’m noticing the growth and unfoldings happening in nature and my own life, like how good it feels to have sun on my face and the bird’s song in my ear after months of staying indoors. It’s rejuvenating to open my windows and let the outside in after taking time away—for reflection, for the mourning of losses, and for internal stretching. Likewise, spring reminds me to appreciate who I’ve been in every season, without judgment and without critique.
Spring reminds me to appreciate who I’ve been in every season, without judgment and without critique.
Winter can feel impossible and exhausting. It can also feel restorative as we take the time we need to retreat and turn inward. Wherever you are, and however you find yourself entering this season, may it feel like coming up for air. And may you allow yourself to be welcomed in with a gentle gesture and invitation to take baby steps forward. Even when it’s still cold or dark, even with one last impending blizzard, may this season be the warm reminder we all need:
Everything is always in transition, and nothing lasts forever. For every winter, there is spring.
Kayti Christian (she/her) is the Managing Editor at The Good Trade. She has a Master’s in Nonfiction Writing from the University of London and is the creator of Feelings Not Aside, a newsletter for sensitive people.
