Spring has always been my favorite season—but living in New England, you earn your love for it. You wait all winter, pushing through the cold, the gray, the heaviness that seems like it will never lift. It can feel brutal, like the world is stuck. Like you’re stuck.

For me, winter isn’t just a season—it’s something deeper. I live with seasonal affective disorder, which means the lack of sunlight can impact my mood, my energy, even my sense of hope. It’s not just “winter blues.” It’s a real heaviness that can settle in your mind and body. I’ve had to learn ways to manage it—one of them being a light therapy lamp that helps mimic sunlight on those darker days. It’s a small thing, but it makes a difference. Sometimes healing starts with the smallest shifts.

And then… spring comes.

Slowly at first. You notice it if you’re paying attention. The trees begin to bud, almost cautiously. The grass starts pushing through again. Flowers bloom like quiet reminders that life always finds a way back. I find myself actually watching it happen now, not rushing past it. Taking it in.

There’s something sacred about that kind of renewal.

I don’t have a big garden, but I have a yard surrounded by woods, and being out there feels like therapy to me. My hands in the dirt, planting flowers, bringing beauty back to life—it does something to my soul. I didn’t always notice these things. I didn’t always slow down enough to appreciate them. But now I do. And I think that’s part of life…learning to find happiness in simple, honest moments.

Spring feels personal to me now.

This is my second spring since everything shifted in my life—since my bipolar episode, since the unraveling and the rebuilding that followed. I’m still healing. And I’ve learned to tell myself that it’s okay to take as long as I need. Healing isn’t a race.

Part of that healing has been facing hard truths. Accepting that during that time, I hurt people I love. That I crossed boundaries. That some relationships didn’t survive it. That’s not easy to sit with—but I do. I understand now that people have limits, thresholds. And sometimes when things become too heavy, those thresholds break.

I broke some.

And while it hurts—deeply—I’ve learned that I can’t stay stuck in that pain. I’ve had to let go, even when I didn’t want to. Even when I thought certain people would always be there. Letting go is not weakness—it’s trust. Trust that not everyone is meant to stay.

Some people pass through your life to show you who you are.

They see your kindness, your softness, your willingness to love—and sometimes they take from it without knowing how to give it back. That realization is painful, but it’s also clarifying. I’m learning now to choose people who choose me. Who stay. Who show up. And above all, I keep God at the center of that.

Because I truly believe this:
When the wrong people are removed, space is being made for the right kind of love to find you.

That’s what spring feels like to me.

It’s watching the harshness fade. The cold, the bitterness, the heaviness—all replaced with something softer, something alive again. It’s renewal. It’s grace. It’s a second chance.

I’ve been on what I call my “apology tour,” and it’s not finished yet. But I believe a healthy woman reflects. She takes accountability. She owns the ways she’s hurt others and tries to grow from it. That’s what I’m doing. That’s who I’m becoming.

And just like the world around me, I am still blooming.

Still learning.
Still healing.
Still becoming.

This is my spring too.

Love, Fran xo