The
Quiet Struggle
Have
you experienced an especially harsh season? A stormy spring, a heated summer, a
dry fall that makes you question everything. This winter was especially harsh.
There were two major snowstorms and days of single digits that hardened the
snow into solid mounds of dark, covered ice. The wind was harsh, biting, and
relentless. The heat where I worked was on and off, and it seemed the cold was
inescapable.
Locking
myself away for the winter seemed sensible. I coveted sunny days and any warmth
the sun could provide. But things were breaking and dying all around me. My
usually hardy pothos plants, which could go without water for days and revive
with a good soaking, were withering. The leaves turned yellow and dropped off.
Then my recently flowering Christmas cacti drooped and died. I helped them as
best I could. Searched for answers, nurtured clippings. It all seemed hopeless
until recently, when I was watering them, I found delicate green shoots in the
barren places.
The
Gray In Between
The
season hasn't fully turned yet — the sky is still dull, and the air is still
heavy. There is a day of balmy weather, then the chill comes back, with winds
that tear at you.
Right
now, Earth is approaching the March equinox, which is the precise moment when
the planet is not tilted toward or away from the Sun. During this event, day
and night are nearly equal across the globe, marking a clear threshold between
seasons. Globally, we are in a liminal season — poised at the equinox, where
Earth collectively stands between what has been and what is becoming.
We're
living in that space where nothing looks different, but something feels
different. This mirrors an emotional truth: change often begins long before it
becomes visible. Even as the wind howls through available crevices, the
anticipation of something new can be felt.
The
Small, Unexpected Sign
While
doing the same routine you've done for months, you notice it: tiny new growth
on the plants you'd quietly written off. The geese flying in V formation,
honking out instructions. You hear them before you see them — this is a sure
sign of something coming. This is a hinge moment — the shift from resignation
to possibility. From ice to warmth, and death to growth.
What
That Moment Teaches
Growth
doesn't always announce itself. Like seeds buried in the fall, waiting for the
moment to push up from the deep to seek light and warmth. It happens in the
cold, in the dark, in unseen places. You may have put in your best effort. For
such a long time. Only to be thwarted at every turn.
The
effort wasn't wasted; it was simply working underground.
I
am often surprised. Especially when I couldn't understand why my efforts
weren't paying off, why plants were dying. Plans for the future collapsed, and
then a small shift — a phone call I waited three years to receive — comes in,
and everything shifts. A new place. A new town. People I am unsure I want to
meet. Leaving a loved place, with familiar faces, to wander into something
different. I am unsure whether this change will meet my needs. Has that
happened to you? Have you yearned for love or a new job, only to feel an
unexpected terror at the change it will bring?
The
Broader Truth About New Beginnings
New
beginnings rarely arrive as clean slates. They show up as tiny green shoots in
the middle of a gray season, built on the decay of what has gone before. They
ask for patience, not perfection, reminding you that life renews itself even
when you're tired, even when you're unsure. Even when a dream presents itself,
it brings dread — the fear of leaving the known for the unknown. New beginnings
ask for bravery.
The
Invitation to the Reader
Maybe
you, too, are in a season that looks lifeless on the surface. Barren and
hopeless. Have you been tending something — a hope, a habit, a healing — with
no sign of progress?
Consider
this: the universe is tending to things for you. Preparing the way for dreams
to come true in an unexpected turn. Maybe this fruition is a stepping stone to
something even better.
Are
You?
I
was sad that my once robust, healthy plants were dying, and I couldn't stop it.
I tended to the decay, accepting that everything has its season, only to
discover the tiniest fresh growth — the sweetest bright green shoot emerging
from what had been dead.
You
may still be in the liminal season, expecting something but not there yet.
Anticipation
is ripe for the moment.
This essay was originally published at Soulfulliving. Here is a direct link to the article: https://