Spring Is a Decision

I used to rank the seasons like a man who believed he was in charge of things.

Fall was number one. Obviously.

Because fall understands drama.
Fall arrives like it has a soundtrack. Crisp air. Leaves turning colors that feel almost inappropriate for nature—like trees are showing off before they leave the party. There’s something deeply comforting about watching the world wind down with dignity.

And, of course, fall also brings the annual tradition of watching the New York Jets gently and consistently ruin my emotional stability in new and creative ways.

It’s ritual. It’s community. It’s character development.

Spring, on the other hand, used to feel… suspicious.

Too optimistic.
Too eager.
Like a motivational speaker that hadn’t lived enough life yet.

Winter was at least honest. Winter doesn’t pretend. Winter says, “Everything is dead. Let’s sit with that.” I respected that.

But spring?

Spring felt like it was trying to sell me something.

And then… I had a winter.

Not the kind you measure in inches of snow.
The kind you measure in silence.

The kind where things don’t just slow down… they stop.
Where the version of you that you built—carefully, publicly, convincingly—doesn’t survive the season.

Where you sit in the quiet long enough to realize that you don’t actually know who you are without all the noise.

It turns out winter isn’t the opposite of life.

It’s the place where life gets rebuilt… underground… without applause.

And now?

Now I understand spring in a way I never did before. Now I notice the purple crocuses pushing through the ground like they’ve decided fear is no longer a personality trait.

I see the trees—bare just weeks ago—quietly trying again. No announcement. No press release. Just… buds.

The birds come back like nothing ever happened. Singing at 6 a.m. with the confidence of creatures who have never once checked their email for validation.

Even my chickens—who, for the record, are deeply committed to the agricultural sciences—start laying more eggs like, “Yeah… we needed sunlight. That’s on you.”

Turns out… not an urban legend.

Just biology. And maybe a little grace.

The days stretch out again. Light lingers a little longer, like it’s not in such a rush to leave anymore.

And somewhere in all of that, I realized something I missed my whole life:

Spring isn’t naïve. Spring is brave.

Because spring shows up after everything has died…
and chooses to begin again anyway.

This is the first year spring feels like it belongs to me.

Not because my life is perfect.
Not because everything is fixed.

But because something in me… is different.

I’m rebuilding.
As a man.
As a father.
As someone learning—slowly, imperfectly—what it means to live with faith instead of control.

I care less about appearances.
More about presence.

Less about outcomes.
More about alignment.

Less about who I was supposed to be.
More about who I’m becoming.

And here’s the part I wish someone had told me earlier: You don’t need a catastrophic moment to begin again. You don’t need to lose everything to choose something better.

Yes… sometimes winter finds you whether you’re ready or not.

But spring?

Spring is a decision.

A quiet one.

A small one.

The kind that looks like getting up… trying again… choosing differently… even when no one is watching.

So if you’re standing in your own version of winter right now…

Or maybe just at the edge of it…

Wondering if anything new is still possible—

It is.

Not because the conditions are perfect.

But because that’s what spring does.

It doesn’t wait for permission.

It just begins