When I was in my early 40s, I told many of my friends and acquaintances that I was having a midlife crisis. They all assured me that I was too young, but I knew something was shifting. I just didn’t have the language for it. I was in the process of examining my life: Motherhood. Work. Divorce. Relocation. The things I had chosen for myself.

Then the other things: Aging parents. Racism. Sexism. Capitalism. The things that were chosen for me.

I felt like I was in a pressure cooker with all those elements pressing against me. Motherhood was a job I could never have truly prepared for. The hours were long and the pay was counterintuitive—I had to spend my own money to do the job well. It was spicy. Working at big brokerage houses felt misaligned like sugar in a roux; it just didn’t quite work. Divorce was empowering but lonely, like a jalapeno pepper that everyone loves to have around but nobody wants to bite into. Relocation made me question what I thought I knew—like one of those exotic vegetables no one is quite sure of. Is it a purple yam or a lotus root?

Then sprinkle in the aging parents I read about in magazines but never thought would break me into so many pieces when it was my turn to grieve. The racism I always knew was there but thought I could handle unscathed. The sexism I didn’t want to see, even though it clearly saw me. The capitalism I pledged allegiance to that turned out to be a terrible friend. 

Combined, they were the cup of salt dumped into the pot with neither finesse nor caution. As I sat with a curious, oversalted life, I got still. Really still. And there were answers in the stillness.

I grew up with Molly Ringwald coming-of-age romances, Cinderella fantasies and Barbie dreams. I was taught that springtime happened in youth when innocence, idealism and passions ran high. I thought I would have Ken, the dreamhouse and the convertible. And, at times, I did.

What I didn’t know was that there was another spring that takes place in the now. It’s in the rosebuds and tree sprouts. The way grass turns from wheat-beige to lime green. Spring happened when I came fully into myself with all my gifts and imperfections. And it renews its contract every year if I allow it to.

Now spring for me looks like leading a yoga retreat that warms my heart, delivering a keynote that inspires me or learning to belly dance in a way that feels like sheer freedom. It shows up as a new haircut, hot pink pants or purple nail polish. It’s the pressure cooker when the steam is released and all that’s left is a delicious stew.

Years ago, I asked my best friend what her favorite age was. She didn’t miss a beat. “It’s the age I am now.” That’s what my “springtime awakening” taught me. Much like when Winnie the Pooh asked Piglet, “What day is it?” and Piglet squeaked, “It’s today.” To which Pooh replied, “My favorite day.” 

Each day, I wake up with the realization that today is my favorite day.

With more than a decade between me and the first time an acquaintance assured me I was “too young for a midlife crisis,” I have grown deep roots—in wisdom, honesty and authenticity. As a mother, writer, lifelong student and sacred storyteller.

I’ve graduated from being uncertain, to speaking from my belly. From feeling misaligned to a gentle knowing from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. From being heavily guarded to leading with an open heart.

I’m not the only one. I’ve seen it with my friends, too. The ones who changed careers to follow their passions. The ones who left long-term relationships to Eat. Pray. Love. their way back to themselves. Who spent their first few decades circumventing their souls’ desires before finally making their way back home.

It took me 40 years to find my way to springtime. A place where spring is forever in season, and today is always my favorite day. ❧

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Trish Ahjel Roberts is a transformational coach, wellbeing strategist, retreat leader, and author of four books, including her latest, The Anger Myth: Understanding and Overcoming the Mental Habits That Steal Your Joy. Learn more at TrishAhjelRoberts.com.