The Seasons Within...

The healing journey wasn’t something I sought out—it found me, slowly, like a tree stretching toward the light, growing so quietly that I couldn’t see it at first, but looking back, it feels undeniable. It began sometime between 2006 and 2008, though I didn’t know it back then. That was the era when the ground beneath me began to shift, cracking open just enough to stir old wounds I had buried deep within my soul. I was cast into unfamiliar terrain, facing parts of myself I thought I had long forgotten, parts that had remained hidden beneath layers of survival. In those early days, it felt as though life had unraveled me at the seams, as if I were slowly coming undone. But now, with the gift of hindsight, I can see it clearly—none of it was a coincidence.

Life has a way of shaping us through seasons, whether or not we’re ready to welcome them. For me, the first wave of serious healing began in spring of 2023, bringing with it the first soft stirrings of healing. It wasn’t gentle; it was messy, painful, and yet tender—like fragile new shoots breaking through frozen ground after a long winter. Slowly, I began peeling back layers of narratives I’d carried since childhood, stories woven from both love and fear. I started to see how much of my life had been shaped by the need to survive, to earn acceptance, to keep the peace. I was taught, in ways both subtle and sharp, that love was conditional—that my light was too bright, my feelings too inconvenient. And for years, I believed it. But as those first buds of self-awareness began to bloom, I realized these wounds weren’t flaws; they were waiting for me, offering themselves as the soil for something new to grow.

Soon after, a summer-like season arrived, a time of expansion. For a moment, life felt expansive and light, like stepping into sunlight after living in shadows. In this season, I embraced growth with open arms, leaning into breakthroughs and unexpected moments of joy. I gave myself permission to explore—to try on new ways of being, to nurture the parts of myself that had been ignored for so long. It felt liberating to tend to my wounds like delicate seedlings, not trying to force them to bloom but simply holding space for them to unfold. Yet I learned something important: growth isn’t just about flourishing. It’s also about preparing for what must come next—learning how to carry joy even as we ready ourselves to release what no longer serves us.

And then came autumn, the season of letting go. This was the hardest lesson for me—the art of release. I had to shed identities I thought defined me: the peacekeeper, the people pleaser, the over-functioner, the one who kept everything together no matter the cost. These roles had kept me safe for so long that laying them down felt like standing bare beneath an unfamiliar sky. It was terrifying. But just as trees release their leaves to nourish the soil beneath them, I began to understand that release is not a loss—it’s an offering. Each part of myself I let go of returned to the earth, feeding my roots, making me stronger, even if I couldn’t see it at the time. Letting go wasn’t the end of something; it was the beginning of becoming.

Winter followed, and with it came stillness—the kind of quiet that forces you inward. Winter is where healing took on its truest form for me. There were nights when I wondered if I had made any progress at all, when the weight of unresolved pain felt too heavy to carry. But winter taught me that healing is not always visible. Beneath the surface, where no one could see, my roots were growing deeper, reaching for nourishment in places I hadn’t dared to explore before. This season reminded me that stillness is not stagnation—it is sacred rest. It is the hibernation of the soul, the necessary pause before life begins again. Winter gave me the space to simply be, without needing to prove or perform, and in that space, I found a kind of quiet magic—a resilience that only the dark can teach.

Through these seasons, I came to understand that healing doesn’t follow a straight path; it spirals upward, each cycle bringing me closer to myself. There is no finish line, no moment where everything is suddenly perfect. But with every season, every turn of the spiral, I’ve found myself becoming more whole, more rooted in who I truly am. The wounds I once saw as burdens have become my teachers, leading me back to the parts of myself I abandoned long ago. They have shown me that healing is not about erasing the past—it’s about integrating it, about carrying it with grace as I move forward.

Nothing in my life has been random—every experience, every heartache, every breakthrough has been part of a larger design. Life, in all its complexity, has been weaving me into the person I was always meant to become. Each challenge I’ve faced has been like a storm, shaking the branches of my being but feeding the roots beneath. And the deeper those roots grow, the stronger I become. My transformation hasn’t been about learning to bloom again; it’s been about understanding that even the harshest winters serve a purpose. Every season, every moment, plays a vital role in shaping who I am becoming.

What I’ve learned, above all, is that healing is about coming home to myself. It’s about reclaiming the scattered fragments of who I was, embracing both my light and shadow with compassion.

There is no part of me that needs to be hidden or fixed. I am not a problem to solve—I am a living, breathing soul, evolving through the seasons of my life. And that, I now know, is enough.

As I stand on the edge of a new season, I feel both the weight and the wonder of everything I’ve been through. The tree I’ve become is not defined by its blossoms or its bare branches, but by the strength of its roots. Every moment—whether joyful or painful—has woven itself into the fabric of who I am, making me whole in ways I could never have imagined.

The seasons will continue to turn, and I will turn with them. But I no longer fear the winter, nor do I cling to the summer. I trust the rhythm of it all—the blooming, the shedding, the resting, and the rising again. Healing has taught me that life isn’t about reaching some perfect destination. It’s about learning to flow with the seasons, knowing that every moment, every experience, is exactly as it needs to be.

And so, I will keep growing. I will keep rooting myself deeper into the soil of my being, knowing that no matter what storms may come, I will endure. Because healing isn’t about becoming someone new—it’s about remembering who I’ve always been, from the moment I took my first breath. And in that remembering, I find my strength, my peace, and the unshakeable knowing that I am, and have always been, a beautiful light meant to shine in this world.