It’s Been a Minute

It’s Been a Minute

Life has been… life-ing. My brain has been so overloaded lately that even the thought of sitting down to write felt impossible. But honestly, that seems to be the way it goes, right? Life keeps moving. It doesn’t care if you’re thriving, barely hanging on, or somewhere floating in between. The sun rises, the sun sets, and whether you’re ready or not — it’s time to do it all over again.

What life doesn’t do is hit pause for grief. There’s no separate timetable, no disclaimer stamped onto the calendar saying, “Grief Season — all other obligations temporarily suspended. (I wish.)”  The early days stretch out like years, every hour heavy and thick with sadness, exhaustion, too many decisions and loneliness. But then somehow, weeks pass. Months blur. Years go by. And one day, you stop and look back — and you realize:

I made it through things I was sure would break me.

During those early days, it felt like nothing would ever feel normal again. That I’d be stuck in this cycle of numbness and ache forever. But here’s what I’ve learned — and it’s something science backs up, too. Grief literally rewires your brain. Neuroimaging studies show that areas of the brain connected to emotional regulation, memory, and stress management light up differently in people experiencing acute grief. It’s no wonder those first days, weeks, and months feel so overwhelming.

It’s a storm. And storms don’t ask for permission. But eventually, the skies clear — not all at once, not forever, but in little slivers of light.

It’s easy to hold onto that strength when life feels good. When the sun’s out, and your coffee hits just right, and everything feels manageable. But when life feels like an endless downpour? That’s when it’s work. That’s when I have to cling to the reminder that rain is what grows the flowers.

The poet Rumi wrote: “Don’t get lost in your pain, know that one day your pain will become your cure.”And while it’s beautiful in theory, it’s so much harder to believe when you’re in the trenches of it.

One of the biggest, hardest, most necessary lessons I’ve learned is this: you have to take care of yourself — whatever that looks like. And it won’t always look like bubble baths and gratitude journals. Sometimes, it’s not answering the phone. Not replying to texts. Not leaving your house (guilty, 10000000% — very few things have gotten me out of my house the last several months.)

As a recovering people pleaser, I used to run myself ragged trying to be everything to everyone. Living based on other people’s needs, moods, and expectations. And when the burnout hit, it wasn’t a gentle fade. It was a crash. A total collapse. Now? I have no problem saying no. Not because I’m angry, not because I’m shutting people out, but because I know what my soul can and can’t handle. It's no longer an "if I want to" or "If I can" thing. It's a capacity thing. And I'm no longer afraid to admit when I've hit my limit.

And any version of it is okay. Your grief doesn’t have to look like mine. Your self-care doesn’t need to fit an Instagrammable template. The only rule is that you honor where you are. Rest when you need it. Choose yourself, unapologetically.

I’m just now — finally — feeling like I’m coming out of my winter funk. I don’t know if it was just this particular winter, or if I’m getting better at actually listening to myself, but it was heavy. Not devastating, just… foggy. I did my normal things: worked, worked out, made sure I ate decently, read some books, etc. I had good days, and laughs, and even happy moments. But there was this lingering meh. No energy. No motivation. A quiet desire to disappear into my couch and re-emerge sometime in April. Maybe May.

And I’ve learned — I’m not alone. Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) impacts about 5% of adults in the U.S. every year, according to the American Psychiatric Association. And millions more experience milder seasonal dips in energy, mood, and motivation. It’s natural. It’s biological. Our bodies are connected to light, warmth, and rhythm more than we realize.

That’s why spring feels like such a gift. I’m not a winter girl — never have been, never will be. If I could hibernate from November to April, I would. But as the sun stays out longer, the world starts blooming, and the air softens, it’s like some small part of me wakes up too.

There’s this collective lie we’re sold about January 1st being the time to change everything. But honestly? January feels like survival mode. Cold, dark, heavy.

Spring is where the real new year begins. When nature starts over, so do we. It’s not a coincidence — studies show that increased daylight triggers our brains to release more serotonin, the “feel-good” hormone. No wonder we start to crave connection, movement, and newness.

I love this quote by Rainer Maria Rilke:“ And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been.” But what if your new year starts in April? Or May? Or October? Growth isn’t seasonal in a calendar sense — it’s personal. It comes in its own time.

If you’re just now starting to feel a spark again — a tiny flicker of lightness, of curiosity, of maybe I could do something different — that’s enough. Lean into it. The earth is waking up, and you’re allowed to wake up, too.

Your timing is perfect. Your rhythm is right. And you’re not behind.

If this met you right where you are — drop a comment, share it with a friend, or just silently nod along while wrapped in your favorite blanket.

We’re all in this, one sunrise at a time.