COLUMN: Don’t Mind the Mess – Emerging from my cave

It’s that awkward in-between season — not quite spring, not quite summer. The days are longer, but the mornings still have bite. I find myself wearing a sweater in the morning and regretting it by noon. My entrance looks like it gave up — a confused mix of mittens, sandals, parkas, and sneakers. And yes, I’m still finding pine needles in my living room. How? I have no answers.

This time of year always makes me a little nostalgic. Maybe it’s the smell of thawing dirt or the way the robins seem to throw joyful backyard parties at sunrise, like they’ve just remembered life is worth celebrating. There’s this hum in the air — a sense that something is shifting. Stretching. Beginning again.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Spring is the season of awkward beginnings. Everything is waking up slowly, a little grumpy, blinking into the light after a long winter nap. Including me.

It’s kind of like crawling out of a cave.

And I mean that both literally and metaphorically. I’ve spent the past few months in a kind of hibernation — not just from the cold, but from people, plans, and the pressure to “be productive.” I’ve been slow, quiet, and tired. I ate soup in my pajamas and wore the same hoodie for six weeks straight. I read affirming books by Elizabeth Gilbert and Brené Brown, and started watching Little House on the Prairie again. I gave myself permission to rest — which was beautiful and necessary — but now comes the tricky part: figuring out how to emerge again.

And unlike bears, who come out leaner after a season of sleeping, we humans often emerge from our caves a little softer, a little snugger in the waistband. And honestly? That feels right, too. We weren’t meant to hustle through winter — we were meant to slow down, to store warmth in every form. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

It’s strange, this feeling of re-entry. You’d think I’d be excited to fling open the windows and jump into life, but instead I find myself hesitating — like a bear sniffing the air at the cave’s entrance, wondering if it’s safe to step out.

And I think that’s okay.

Renewal isn’t a grand, cinematic event. It’s not all sunshine and butterflies and Instagram-worthy hikes. Sometimes it’s slower than we expect. It’s scrubbing the winter crust off your windows and realizing you’ve been living in a fog — literally and emotionally. It’s planting seeds and hoping something takes root, even if you don’t feel particularly hopeful that day. It’s finding a T-shirt you forgot you loved and thinking, “Maybe I’m ready for colour again.”

Spring doesn’t demand perfection. It just invites participation.

You don’t have to bloom overnight. You just have to be willing to come out of hiding, one small step at a time. Open a curtain. Wash your hair. Stop scrolling for a few minutes. Step outside — even if you’re still wearing the hoodie.

And if you’re feeling a little behind, a little mismatched or unsure, take heart. While the tulips seem to spring out of the late snow like warriors, the lilacs like to take their time. And nobody ever complains when they finally bloom.

In the meantime, let the robins sing you awake. Let the breeze remind you that you’re still here. And if you happen to be wearing a sweater with your flip-flops, just call it a transitional phase. After all, we all need a little grace as we emerge from the cave.