The deaths of one season is the rebirth of the next

There’s something cruel and holy about the way life ends to begin again.

How everything has to die just a little — or sometimes all at once — before it has permission to bloom.

And I’m learning that healing is seasonal too. That sometimes, the only way to grow is to first grieve what no longer fits.

I used to beg for peace, pray for a life that felt soft and slow. But I didn’t realize how many parts of me would have to die to get there.

Because peace costs you something.

It costs you the version of you who thought chaos was normal.

It costs you the friendships that only thrived in drama.

It costs you the relationship that hurt more than it held.

It costs you the high you got from being needed — even if it meant bleeding for people who never once tried to stop the bleeding.

I had to be buried under silence before I could understand stillness.

And I hated it at first. The quiet was too loud. The loneliness was too sharp.

But buried things don’t stay buried forever.

That’s what seeds taught me.

That’s what fall taught me.

That’s what I am trying to teach myself now.

Death is not the end. It’s the inhale before the return.

Letting go is holy work.

I shed relationships.

I shed versions of myself that were built entirely out of survival.

I shed the dream I thought would save me, and now I’m standing barefoot in the wreckage with nothing but a pen, a soft heart, and this whisper in my chest:

Start again. Even now. Even here. Especially here.

What the Death of One Season Taught Me:

• That some losses don’t break you. They build the altar where your next chapter begins.

• That grief isn’t always loud sobs on the bathroom floor. Sometimes it’s deleting a number. Sometimes it’s not texting first. Sometimes it’s surviving a whole day without mentioning their name.

• That you can mourn and still move forward. That you can ache and still arrive.

• That staying soft in a world that keeps asking you to harden is its own quiet revolution.

⸻

And Now, The Rebirth:

I’m starting to want things again.

Books feel sacred.

Mornings feel like a promise.

I can drink my coffee slowly and not rush off to prove anything.

I can say “no” and not panic about being abandoned.

I can sit in my room at night and not feel haunted by the silence.

I’m falling in love with the quiet.

And even though I’m still learning how to trust it,

I know this is what rebirth feels like.

Not sudden. Not flashy.

Just… steady.

Just… soft.

Just… mine.