The Seasons of Healing: Finding Beauty in Every Chapter of Change
Seasons have a way of reminding us that change is not just
inevitable — it’s essential.
Each one arrives with its own rhythm, its own lessons, and its own quiet
invitation to grow.
As we recently welcomed fall and bid farewell to summer, many of us breathed a sigh of relief. This past summer’s heat was relentless — the kind that drives you indoors and tests your patience with even the simplest outdoor joys. Some people flourish in that kind of intensity; I’m not one of them. I welcomed autumn with open arms, ready for the crisp air, the golden leaves, and maybe a pumpkin spice latte or two. But I also know how quickly it will pass. Winter is never far behind — waiting quietly, just beyond the glow of the holidays and the whispers of “Black Friday savings.”
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how life after a brain
injury feels a lot like the turning of the seasons. Each stage carries its own
weather, its own beauty, and its own kind of pain.
The injury itself — that first impact — is winter.
It’s cold and isolating. Everything familiar feels buried beneath layers of
confusion, exhaustion, and loss. You cling to whatever warmth you can find,
fighting simply to survive. Every small victory feels monumental because, in
the midst of the storm, survival is monumental.
But slowly— winter softens. The ice begins to melt.
And spring arrives.
Spring is fragile but full of promise. You start to relearn,
to rediscover, to rebuild. The tiniest signs of progress become symbols of
hope. You may still tread carefully, but the world begins to look a little
brighter again.
Then comes summer — the season of strength.
You find your rhythm. You begin to trust yourself again. You make new
connections, explore new possibilities, and uncover parts of yourself you never
knew existed. Joy returns. Confidence blooms. You start to feel alive again.
And finally, autumn.
The season of reflection.
You look back — not with regret, but with gratitude. You see the distance
you’ve traveled, the storms you’ve survived, and the growth that’s taken root
in your soul. You begin to share your story, helping others prepare for their
own winters.
Because that’s what healing truly is — a cycle of endings and beginnings, losses and renewals.