I Did Not Rush the Thaw

February did not roar. It did not explode into transformation. It thawed. This was the month I stopped gripping.

At the beginning of the month, I was still inside the tight container of work stress — rotating through understaffed shifts, holding more than was mine, carrying payroll problems on my nervous system like they were a moral failing. And then something subtle shifted.

I began separating what was mine from what was not.

There was a day when I felt the anger fully — the hot, justified kind — and instead of swallowing it, I named it. That anger wasn’t volatility. It was a boundary, forming bones. And then came relief. Not fireworks relief...Body relief. The kind where your shoulders drop without you telling them to.

I chose to resign. I chose to step out of consensus and into alignment. An oracle message echoed all month: 

“Don’t worry about the effects of going against the grain. When we are who we are in truth, we attract the support, protection, and energy we need to thrive. My power comes from aligning my outward self with my inner truth, not with general consensus.”

I did not rush the thaw. I let it happen at my own pace. There were quieter miracles, too. A morning in the backyard — soft pink and gray light — wrens waking the cardinals. Coffee in hand. The sun returning whether I felt ready or not. Resilience does not shout. It chirps. 

There was medical clarity about stress-related heartburn — and the deep exhale that came with realizing my body was not broken. It was responding appropriately to pressure. There were shared meals without symptoms. Creative scraps turned into spirograph cards. Lunch dates. Coffee dates. Balanced home rhythms. Believing before seeing. 

And then — Texas. We left 2.28 and returned today. I held my new granddaughter. She is smaller than my fear and larger than my future. There is something holy about holding the next generation while standing inside your own reinvention. I did not arrive braced. I arrived open.  February was the month I chose alignment. March began with arms full of what comes next. Her fingers curled around mine as if to say: keep going.

And then there was “Sustenance, But Make It Loud.” Heavy metal — Disturbed and Shinedown — unapologetic and pulsing. Pajamas. An improvised noodle bowl drawn from whatever was in the fridge. Survival dressed up as celebration. I did not collapse this month. I nourished myself loudly.

There was also something tender and unspoken: senioritis. The quiet recognition between my wife and me that we are both ready for a new chapter. That we are allowed to want less stress. That stability can look different than endurance. 

And underneath it all, my book, whispering. A memoir about discovering that “broken” was a story told by other people. February proved that thesis. I left home as a child, really. I survived a catastrophic accident in 2010. Cancer in 2019. Multiple, simultaneous, and sudden tears in the inner lining of several key arteries in 2023. Of course I can redraw my life at 58.

Broken was never the truth. It was mislabeling. 

This month I learned: Relief can be physical. Anger can be sacred. Stress symptoms are information, not failure. Quitting can be an act of devotion. I am allowed to build income streams that match my nervous system.

The thaw does not ask winter for permission. As Imbolc energy moved through the month, I felt it in real time: I did not rush the thaw. I did not force the bloom. I trusted the return of the sun. And in trusting it, I trusted myself.

March will not be a leap. It will be a continuation. I am aligning my outward life with my inner truth.

And that is power.