This winter has been the longest I’ve ever known. And it didn’t start in November—it started last June, when the sun was still hot, when the days should have been bright. But instead, a shadow fell over everything. The days grew dark, and then even darker, as I felt a loss deeper than anything I’d ever known.
Grief is a winter of its own kind. It settles in like frost on the soul, quiet and unrelenting. It strips the color from the world, leaving only gray. The cold of it lingers, seeping into places you never knew could feel empty. And for months, that’s where I lived—in the longest, coldest winter of my life.
But now, the season is shifting.
I can feel it in the warmth stretching across the mornings, in the golden persistence of the sun fighting to reclaim the sky. I see it in the brave little flowers pushing their way through the thawing earth, in the birds returning to feast on the generosity of spring. The world is waking up. And somehow, so am I.
For the first time in a long time, I can feel the sun on my face again.
Grief doesn’t vanish with the changing seasons. I know that. There will still be cold days, quiet moments where the weight of loss settles back in. But spring is here to remind me that even the longest winters end. That life, even after everything, finds a way to return.
And maybe—just maybe—I am coming back to life, too.
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