I’m not a big fan of transitions.
I’m so bad at them that three different therapists diagnosed me with adjustment disorder over the course of two years. Adjustment disorder is characterized by “extreme” emotional and behavioral reactions to a stressful event or to life’s transitions.
Transitions trigger a lot of anxiety in me. I hate not knowing my next move or where I’m going next. As a result, I tend to act out, force myself to work when I should be resting, or start something new to avoid idling. Even in language, I rely on awkward section breaks, abrupt shifts, or repetitive use of transitional phrases to go from one idea to the next.
When I finish anything, I panic.
What do I say next?
What do I do next?
How do I fill the void?
The stillness causes extreme anxiety because there are so many unknowns, and I’m not a spontaneous creature. My plans have plans. That’s why this time of the year is so hard for me. Not only is winter (slowly) transitioning into spring, but I’m having to transition to a new place and transition from one writing project to the next.
I’ve taken to looking out my living room window. When we moved here, it was cold; the trees bare and lifeless. It was so cold that my houseplants froze (I didn’t know that was possible). I was heartbroken. For non-houseplant owners, it can take months for one leaf to grow. With some plants losing most—or in the case of my alocasia polly, all—of the leaves, it’s devastating. I was looking at plants that I’ve had for five years trying to salvage as many leaves as I could, but in the end, a lot of them died anyway.
Growing up in Mississippi, I used to marvel at spring. It was like one minute everything was bare and dying and the next it was a living lush wonderland, but the truth was, I wasn’t paying attention.
Looking at the trees everyday for the past month, I’ve seen leaves turn from bright green buds and darkening to fill out the canopy it is now. I’ve noticed all the birds fluttering from tree to tree, even the red cardinals from my girlhood that Mama encouraged me to tell my wishes to. My houseplants have shot out tender new leaves, and I saw the greenest lizard I’ve ever laid eyes on sunning on my window. I’ve sneezed and sneezed from tons of pollen, but I’ve also witnessed the beauty in the slow unfurling of spring.
Forcing myself to slow down after the release of my book has shown me all the people who have reached out, bought a copy, invited me to talk about the book on their platforms, and otherwise shown up for me—something that would’ve been easy to dismiss if I immediately flung myself into my next project.
Like my frozen plants, like the trees coming out of winter, I needed time to acclimate to this new season of my life. Yes it’s annoying and scary and sometimes feels like a setback, but there’s magic in transitions, if we only take the time to look.
Until next time,
Leah
(my alocasia polly slowly growing back with a little seedling on the side)