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I never liked Spring.

I never liked Spring.

In fact, I didn’t understand why others liked it.

When I was younger, I used to think flowers were just a waste of money—they’d die anyway. Or, as the more adult version of me would say: “That’s not an investment, that’s a cost.”

I didn’t like the drizzle, either—to me, it was inconvenient and dirty. “Dancing in the rain is only for the hopeless romantic,” I thought.

For the first four years of my time in Upstate NY, I suffered from hives every Spring while I never experienced such reactions before. I felt ugly and ashamed of myself so much that every time I looked at myself in the mirror, I cried. Thankfully I stopped getting hives since I moved down to NYC, but I’m still dealing with seasonal and skin allergies now and then.

When I learned that historically, Spring was rather depressing as it was associated with the "hungry gap"—a period when winter crops started to run out but the first summer produce wasn’t yet ready—I justified it in my mind as another reason not to like Spring.

I have a pet peeve for anything superficial, and I thought Spring embodied just that: pretty on the outside but harboring darkness within, attempting to assimilate traits from other seasons while projecting itself as a beacon of hope.

But I was wrong. 

Spring isn’t superficial at all. 

It may be freezing one day, stormy another, hot the next, or all at once. Spring is moody, yet as authentic as it can be.

Multifaceted. Unpredictable. Insecure.

I see Spring in me.

In a way, it’s taught me to empathize with how others might feel about me… 

From resenting the rain to relishing walks under it. From scoffing at flowers to surrounding myself with them every day in my apartment. Indeed, Bloom in Crisis was birthed from my soul even before I could grasp the essence of it. 

I couldn’t recognize myself. The season I once loathed the most is now the one I relate to the most. 

Perhaps, radical self-acceptance means creating enough internal space for all the parts of ourselves to coexist despite the contradictions. Perhaps, like a seed before blooming into a beautiful flower, it must be buried in the dark, alone.

And perhaps, it’s time to bloom 🌸


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