Every year, the daffodils return.

Where I live, on Muskogee/Creek land in Georgia, they are among the first to bloom—bright and defiant—even when winter still lingers in the air. They are harbingers of spring, whispering of what’s to come. Their return aligns with Imbolc, that ancient threshold between winter’s stillness and the first stirrings of life.

The world is waking up.

Beneath the surface, in the belly of the earth, there is a quickening. Seeds are turning, roots are stretching, and unseen miracles are already underway. The tea olive, the Lenten roses, the snowdrops, the tender green shoots—all of them responding to an invitation we cannot see but can somehow feel.

I have been asking my students this week: What is waking up within you?

The answers have been as varied as spring’s early blooms. Some speak of passions they didn’t know were buried. Some describe unexpected longings. Others have found clarity in places they never thought to look.

And it makes me think of how sometimes, when we move to a new place at a certain time of year, we don’t know what’s hidden beneath the soil. The yard seems quiet, ordinary. Then spring arrives, and suddenly—oh, you’re here. This is here.

Isn’t that just like us?

We know ourselves better than anyone else ever could, and yet, there are still parts of us lying dormant, waiting for the right conditions to bloom. There are seeds within us—of strength, of tenderness, of knowing—that we don’t even realize exist until something stirs them awake.

It is a miraculous thing, this alchemy of life.

The Fluidity of Becoming

This reminds me of the feminine—of how one of its great qualities is fluidity, the ability to change. We are not fixed. We are not meant to be.

We enter seasons of life expecting one thing and discovering another. A parent imagines they will be easygoing, only to find themselves craving structure. Or they expect to be regimented, only to fall into the rhythms of flow. Someone returns to a job they love only to realize they no longer belong there. Someone else finds a new voice—more assertive, more certain—rising within them.

New aspects of our identity are always waiting to blossom.

And yet, just like the daffodils, some parts of us go dormant.

For a long time, I lived through a season where a part of me—the part tied to mothering, to deep connection with my eldest daughter—felt quiet, distant. Not gone, but beneath the surface. There are years when the daffodils don’t bloom. A late frost, a cutting back too soon, a season of loss.

And still, spring returns.

This year, I am celebrating a reawakening. My daughter is coming home. We are stepping into a new season of togetherness, of dreaming a beautiful future. It is a return, a renewal, and I am profoundly grateful.

The daffodils remind me: even when something feels lost, even when it has been dormant for longer than we ever expected—life returns.

Spring always comes.

What is Waking Up in You?

As we step into this season of quiet emergence, I invite you to ask yourself: What is waking up within me?

Perhaps there is something stirring beneath the surface, something you hadn’t expected. Maybe it’s an old dream resurfacing, or a part of yourself you had forgotten. Maybe it’s a new kind of knowing, one that feels both unfamiliar and entirely right.

Whatever it is, trust that it is coming at the perfect time.

Spring always returns. And so do we.