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With the start of spring comes a new season—and often, a push toward growth. New ideas, new feelings, the desire to connect and shift—these are themes I notice both within myself and in the world around me.
Living on the west coast of Canada, the blooming of cherry blossoms always signals this seasonal shift.
Budding green starts to peek out from branches that have stood bare for months, adding new depth to the landscape and hinting at what’s to come.
It sometimes feels like it happens overnight: longer days, a little more light, and suddenly, the pink blossoms appear. It’s like a wake-up call—an invitation to notice.
I often ask myself, Did I miss them opening? Or did it really just happen overnight? It makes me wonder about my awareness of the present moment and how quickly things can change.
There’s a contrast I feel during this time: the momentum of growth and forward motion paired with a quiet pull to slow down and be present. There’s the joy of emergence and also the reminder to stop and truly see—or literally smell the roses.
This spring was the first time we celebrated my grandmother’s birthday without her. I had known the first year would be hard. It was the same with my father’s first birthday after he passed. These days, marked by traditions and memories, carry a lot of weight.
This year, there was a new kind of spring. A spring without her.
I found myself moving through a haze—surrounded by signs of growth, yet holding grief. My mom, my brother, and I honoured her birthday by sharing memories. Even though we were in different places and countries, we were together in spirit.
It felt fitting to remember her among the cherry blossoms. She loved nature, being outdoors, and spending time with family. I honoured her in my own quiet way.
I write more about honouring life's natural cycles in Seasons, Cycles, and Anchors in Life.
Grief is non-linear and unpredictable. I wasn’t expecting to tear up at the sight of new blossoms, but life’s cycles continue—no matter how much we try to slow them down or cling to what once was. The present still arrives.
That day, I had a somatic therapy session and gave myself permission to simply be. I let things emerge as they needed to.
One thing I’ve realized is that I never quite know how to process grief—or when it will rise up. We read about grief, see it in films, hear about it from others—but living it is something entirely different.
There’s a quiet shift when someone goes from being here to no longer being here.
Then comes the reality of next steps: talking to medical professionals, planning memorial, making phone calls, and writing messages. In all that practical doing, we begin to move forward. It’s often only after the whirlwind of logistics that the being settles in.
I was with my grandmother when she passed—surrounded by family, all trying to ease one another’s pain. When my father died, I was in another city. I couldn’t do anything, so I was left with just being. And that was hard.
Without distractions, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Do I cry? Read? Paint? Watch TV? Call someone? Sleep? Eat? Clean? I felt confused and unsure.
Grief lives in the body as much as it lives in the mind. You might notice it as heaviness in your chest, a lump in your throat, or an exhaustion that sleep does not resolve. In somatic therapy, we work with these physical experiences of grief gently and at your own pace. Rather than asking you to talk through every detail of your loss, somatic approaches invite you to notice what your body is carrying and to let it move through naturally. This can feel like a relief for people who feel talked out or who find that words do not capture what they are experiencing.
This is the tricky part of grief—there’s no “right” way to do it. No timeline, no script. Every loss, every person, every circumstance brings a different experience.
Grief is like the cherry blossoms. We don’t always notice the days leading up to their bloom. And we don’t always notice when they begin to fall, making room for green leaves to take their place. Each stage blends into the next. It all takes time.
If you’re moving through your own grief, consider gently asking yourself:
Grief is tender, layered, and deeply personal. If you are looking for a space to be with what you are feeling — without pressure to explain or perform — I am here. Book a free consultation and we can talk about what support might look like for you.
Until next time,
Bethany
Disclaimer: This blog is for educational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional therapy or medical advice. If you need support, please consult a licensed mental health professional.
