I’m not going to lie or even attempt to sugarcoat things. It’s been a rough few months for me. Starting in early November, it has felt like a dark cloud decided to park itself right over my life and has been raining and storming down on me ever since.

I’ve been brought me to my knees several times since then and my biggest fears have risen to the surface. I’ve been faced head on with death (over and over again), illness, grief, sadness, panic, defeatedness, powerlessness, deflation, and anger. Each of the emotions that usually hang out in the back of my consciousness has been brought to the front lines, which has been extremely unsettling for me.

I kept calling it “The Longest Winter,” and I longed for spring to come and replace this dark cloud of despair with sunshine and hope. And yet, spring came. And the clouds remained (both literally and figuratively). In fact, even as I type this, it’s pouring and storming. The sun seems to have gone missing. The flowers in our yard that were in full bloom at this time last year haven’t even started to blossom.

After an intense storm last week that was worse than any we had been through before, we carefully ventured outside the next day to assess the damage. Part of our gutter had blown all the way across our yard. Our patio furniture ended up face down in the middle of the grass – a good 20 feet from where it started. Small branches were scattered along our path, but thankfully all of the trees remained tall and strong – a miracle given the intensity of the winds.

When all of this darkness began, I noticed that right outside of my office window a tiny leaf was growing through a crack in a large tree stump. Seeing this symbolized hope for me. Even in the midst of sadness (the tree no longer being tall and thriving), life and rebirth were still possible. And so, throughout the months, when the darkness seemed to thicken around me, I always looked out at that leaf, which somehow gave me strength.

So, as we were walking around the yard, I was almost afraid to see if the leaf was still there – if it had made it through the storm. I could feel my entire body tensing up as I walked around the corner to check – knowing that this was not just about a leaf, knowing how much it symbolized for me. I was so happy and relieved to see that it had made it! While it appeared to be a bit weathered, it even seemed to be growing taller! I was even more surprised to find a beautiful gift sitting right next to it on the stump: a tiny white seashell. It must’ve traveled in the wind and ended up right where I needed to see it.

Seashells are so special to me. When we first moved to the beach, I would pick one up each time I went as a way to remind myself of this magical life that I had created. And then, somewhere along the way, I stopped picking them up. I stopped noticing them. I stopped being open to magic.

Having the seashell appear in such a sacred spot was a great wake-up call for me. Yes, it’s raining. Yes, it still feels like winter. Yes, I’m grieving the losses of several loved ones. Yes, things don’t seem to be going how I had hoped they would in so many ways. All of this is true. But what this little leaf and this little seashell reminded me of is that there is still hope, there is still life, and there is still so, so much to be grateful for. If I allow myself to be open to it all.

I’m grateful for the message, which I lovingly receive. The darkness won’t last forever. I know that. And, in the meantime, I can give myself permission to be where I am – to feel the sadness and anger and grief. And I can also give myself permission to focus on all of the things that are still going right in my world, that have never stopped bringing me joy: Dan (my everything), our cats (who thankfully are happy and healthy), our home that we love so much, my loving support system, all of the freedom that I have in my life, giving back to others in a way that feeds my soul, and the ability to dream and hope for the future – knowing that it will be here soon enough.

So, thank you to the leaf. And thank you to the seashell. And thank you for the storm that led me, in its own way, to both of them.

Hugs,