Where Spring Struggles to Take Root

Where Spring Struggles to Take Root

There’s a strange kind of stillness here—one that doesn’t match the calendar.

While others wake to pastel rituals and promises of resurrection, I’m waking to a different kind of tension. The ground is still cold. Snow lingers in corners of the yard. And yet, nature is trying. Little green shoots press through frostbitten soil. Birds call out into gray skies. Life is pushing forward, even when winter refuses to fully let go.

Just a few weeks ago, on the first day of spring, I stood on the coast and felt the season arrive. Real spring. The kind that sings in birdsong and soft breezes, where buds unfurl without hesitation. I had traveled to meet it—to remember what it felt like. And then, I came back.

Back to what feels like a slightly greener winter. Still snowing. Still cold with brief tantalizing moments of sun. Still caught in that in-between where the body says go but the land says wait. Where part of me begins to wake, and another part remembers how long I’ve been frozen here.

There is a red-headed finch’s nest on my back porch. The eggs were laid the day I returned—and they hatched just yesterday.

But it wasn’t in a tree or a thicket. She built her nest inside a wreath made and hung by human hands, sheltered by a windbreak we installed for ourselves. It’s unnatural, but it’s the place she survives more easily—tucked close to the hum of human life and farther from natural processes. That’s what it takes here. Extra effort. Extra adaptation. Survival is tough, and only the lucky—or slightly stronger—make it.

That’s what I’ve been struggling against inside of me all these years.

I came here with an ex-husband, following his dreams of graduate school. Once he reached his goal, he decided he didn’t need me anymore. And I was left in a place I never chose, stuck by limited means and a soul that felt too lost to move.

I tried to make the best of it. Scratched out a minimal existence. Thought I was finally heading in the right direction when I remarried—but sixteen years later, I find myself still here. Still struggling to belong. Still caught in the in-between.

He’s a local. Born and raised. Generational, and proud of his roots. What right do I have to ask him to recognize my roots?

Mine? They run elsewhere. Deeper, wilder, wetter. They reach toward rainforests and ocean air. Toward moss-covered stillness, misty ferns, and the steady breath of old growth trees. That’s where I’ve always felt most alive. Where I grew up, in abundance, exploration, and adventure. That’s where I need to return.

Two days ago, I watched a family of crows swarm a tree where more finches had nested. They’ve nested there every year, but this year, they weren’t lucky. It was a stoic reminder—life doesn’t wait for safety. It risks, it breaks, it begins again.

The finch on my porch didn’t wait for the weather to be perfect. She built anyway. And her hatchlings opened their eyes to a world not fully ready—but waking nonetheless.

Others look to religious symbolism to resurrect them today. But I’ve come to see the ancient wisdom and truth of something quieter. It’s reminding me that I need to resurrect me. Not as a god, not as a prophet, not as a savior. But as someone who remembers herself in her most peaceful state. As someone reclaiming her breath, her movement, her knowing.

After yet another argument with my husband today, I’m even more aware of my need to stop just surviving in a situation where I’m not considered. Where my needs are dismissed, delayed, or seen as inconvenient. I’ve bent myself too many times for someone else’s comfort. And I’m done folding.

I don’t want to survive anymore. I want to live.

If I’m lucky, I have another 20 to 30 years ahead of me—and why would I choose to spend them in a place where I can’t fully experience life? Where the wildness I crave is always just out of reach, and my voice feels small.

And I’m not waiting for permission.

Not from the weather. Not from this place. Not from a man who promised change and never made it last.

The boxes are packed. The furniture’s going. I’m not staying just to make it easier on anyone but me.

No more waiting for June to explore the mountains.

No more excuses. No more shrinking.

I’m moving toward the horizon where I know the blossoms are already blooming.

Where life is fuller, greener, and more in rhythm with my breath.

So yes—I’m still here. But only for a moment longer.

Still thawing. Still watching.

But now—moving.

Decisively. Boldly. Fully.

Toward the spring I know is mine to claim.

And this May, I will not be here.

For too long, May held both my birthday and my silence.

Held the ache of a barren womb in a world that ties worth to motherhood.

Held the weight of a mother who didn’t want us to celebrate the day she gave life—so I was asked to dim mine too.

Often left to wait ten extra days to share my “special day” with my sister, as if my arrival didn’t deserve its own light.

And over the years… I stopped expecting anything at all.

Even in love, I waited.

I remarried with hope, with faith, with a shared dream.

He made promises—that we’d grow together, that we’d explore, that he would meet me in my longing for something more.

But promises mean nothing without movement.

And while I rose and reached and wandered toward life, he stayed rooted in comfort, in sameness, in the town that raised him.

He doesn’t see that my roots have always stretched toward wetter forests, toward wild places he never felt called to follow.

So this year, I will not spend another birthday waiting to be remembered.

I will not sit quietly in the shadows of someone else’s stillness.

I will not fold myself around another man’s inability to move.

I will celebrate me.

Not because I am to be worshipped, but because I finally understand I need to choose myself.

I will be somewhere new. Somewhere green. Somewhere alive.

I will rise with the sun and bless my own life with joy and comfort.

Not for a holiday.

Not for permission.

Not for validation.

But because I am here.

Because I survived.

Because I remembered.

It took me 50 years to recognize my worth, and no one thought to celebrate it.

But it’s not too late.

I’m blooming now.

And this time, the celebration is mine.

As always, the forest grows, the journey continues, adventure awaits—and you’re never truly alone.

I’ve always known I had a different perspective. Now I hope you can too.

Those who know, call me Niki. Once you know, you can too.