I’ve always believed that spring is the gentlest of the seasons—the one that arrives tiptoeing, almost apologetic, with soft hands and soft colors and soft promises and scents.
But after losing all four of our sons, even soft things felt sharp.
There were years when spring felt like an intrusion. A season meant for blooming felt strange when my heart was learning the opposite—how to live with absence, how to breathe through ache, how to be a mother with empty arms and a still-full soul.
It’s a strange thing to admit, but I’ll say it anyway:
For a long time, spring made me feel behind.
Behind in healing.
Behind in hope.
Behind in becoming whatever version of myself would survive all of this.
I didn’t resent spring. I just didn’t know how to meet her.
But grief has a way of remaking a person from the inside out, peeling back everything that isn’t true. And what I’ve learned, slowly, tenderly, imperfectly is that spring doesn’t ask us to be ready.
She simply arrives.
She sits on the porch steps with muddy shoes and a knowing smile.
She waits while you gather yourself.
She doesn’t rush you, or cheerlead you, or drag you into the sunshine.
She just whispers, “I’m here when you’re ready.”
This year, I wrote something deeply personal about that feeling. About that awkward, honest tug-of-war between wanting to stay safe in winter and wanting to believe in spring again. It’s a conversation about change, about becoming, about the tiny ways healing shows up even when you’re convinced it won’t.
And I wanted to share the heartbeat behind it here.
When you’ve buried children — all of them — you live in seasons most people never have to understand.
The winters are harsher.
The springs are quieter.
The light feels different on your skin.
But grief and growth have one thing in common:
Neither asks your permission. They just change you.
I’m learning that becoming isn’t something we do once.
It’s something we do forever.
Petal by petal.
Breath by breath.
Memory by memory.
If you’re someone who’s standing in your own in-between season—grieving, rebuilding, reimagining, or just trying to remember who you are—you are SO not alone.
There is a version of you 
still becoming.
There is a spring that will wait for you.
And when you’re ready, even a little…
she’ll knock.
And you won’t have to pretend you’re not home.
With My Love,
Connie
