I went on a walk this afternoon, wrapped head to toe against the cold, but no amount of layers could soften the bite of the wind. The sky hung low and gray, pressing down on the landscape. The earth beneath my feet was half-frozen mud—dark, dank, unwilling to decide between solid and slush. The grass, long stripped of its color, lay beaten down in pale, limp strands of yellow.

Autumn’s fallen leaves had fully surrendered to winter’s weight, their once-fiery hues now dulled into shades of grayish brown. Wet and mushed from the rounds of snow that had come and gone, they clung to the path, remnants of a season long past. Even the snow, what little was left, had lost its luster—no longer the crisp white blanket of high winter, but instead a weary, dirt-streaked icy gray.

Everything was still. Silent. Dead. Only the breeze moved, sharp and relentless, cutting through the stillness, reminding me that winter has overstayed its welcome. I trudged along our usual loop ‘behind the creek,’ trying to be present in the moment, to absorb what deep winter truly is. This is the time after all the holidays, after the soft glow of twinkling lights and the warmth of celebrations. Even the romance of Galentine’s and Valentine’s Day has quickly faded. There is nothing festive left in this winter—only the long, slow trudge toward spring.

And spring still feels impossibly far away.

This is why I begin my spring Seasons of Hygge practice on March 1. By then, I am sick of winter—tired of its gray, worn down by its weight. I crave the green sprouts of spring, the promise of longer days, the gentle return of warmth. The transition to spring is always the hardest seasonal shift for me. Here in Colorado, it arrives on its own time, hesitant and teasing, retreating back into cold just when you think it has finally taken hold.

As I walked, I let my mind drift forward, searching for something to hold onto. I began to imagine spring, to conjure its colors, its textures, its symbols—anything to remind myself that change is coming. I thought of fresh herbs and blossoming branches, of birds returning to build their nests, of soft rain on awakening earth. I thought of lightness, of renewal, of the slow stretch out of winter’s deep sleep.

And for the first time on this walk, I felt my mood shift.

Spring isn’t here yet, but I can begin to summon it. I can start to make space for it, to plant the seeds—literally and figuratively—that will bloom when the season finally arrives.

Until then, I will try to embrace the gloom before the bloom.