Chapter Two: The Beauty of Cocooning

Spring is usually thought of as a time of reawakening — the earth stirring back to life after the long, cold slumber of winter. But last spring was different for me. Instead of blossoming, I was retreating. It was the beginning of my own winter — a season not of blooming, but of cocooning. A time for stillness, for rest, for slow and quiet recovery.

In those first few weeks of my medical leave, I slept more than I had in years. I wrapped myself in warmth — soft blankets, soothing baths, the quiet safety of my home. It was a full retreat, a hibernation of the soul. Yet, even in the depths of that winter, small sparks of connection kept me tethered. My sister and I messaged every day, our words becoming lifelines strung across the cold. My partner’s love was a steady presence, like a fire burning quietly through the night. Their warmth reminded me that I was not alone. That even in the harshest winters, there are embers that refuse to go out.

Encouraged by their unwavering presence, I opened up further — to my closest friends, to those who truly saw me. The love and acceptance they offered was like the first thaw, overwhelming in its depth yet profoundly healing. My psychologist became a guide through the snowbound landscape of my mind, walking beside me with patience and kindness. She held space for my grief, gently teaching me self-compassion, reminding me that healing is not a destination but a journey. She helped me unearth the small joys I had forgotten — the things that once made me feel alive.

It was more than a month before I felt ready to step outside my cocoon. My soul, still fragile, had begun to mend. The world, once too sharp and overwhelming, started calling me back. Slowly, cautiously, I emerged. I took my first tentative steps outdoors, feeling the cool spring air on my skin, the damp earth beneath my feet. I sat in the grass, watching birds flit from branch to branch. I let the sun kiss my face, warming places within me that had felt frozen for so long.

Before long, I found my way back to the mountains. I hiked through wildflower-strewn trails, pausing often to take photos, capturing glimpses of renewal all around me.

I sat by a rushing waterfall, letting the mist settle over my skin like a baptism. I breathed deeply. I healed.

But just as the buds of new growth were beginning to unfurl, the looming shadow of my old life returned. The thought of going back to work crept in — not as a whisper, but as a heavy weight of expectations, pressure, and stress. My short-term disability was running out.

Conversations about my return began, and with them came the weight of old fears. Anxiety surged. Insomnia clawed its way back. My body, still weary from the long winter, collapsed again under the pressure.

It was then that I finally saw a psychiatrist. The assessments were thorough, the verdict swift — major depression, burnout, an anxiety disorder, complex PTSD, and more assessments to come once I was stable. I was in no shape to return to work and would need at least six months, maybe a year, before I was ready. I was stunned. I had thought spring was edging in, yet winter had not fully released its hold on me.

I re-cocooned, trying to nurture and protect my fragile existence. The fear and uncertainty were suffocating. I didn’t know how long I would be away from work, and though the whisper of another path had begun to trickle in, I couldn’t yet grasp it. The truth eluded me, buried beneath layers of fear.

But seasons change, even when we don’t feel ready for them. And so, another season of transformation began. This time, it was not just about healing, but about self-discovery, about imagining something new. What did I need to truly thrive?

The burnout still lingered, but as summer stretched across the horizon, I felt the shift within me. My winter was melting into spring. My roots, once buried in frozen ground, began to reach toward something new — something warmer, something more alive. Renewal was coming. And I began to see that in time, I would be ready.