Spring Time: The Space Between Inner Renewal and Outer Growth

In previous articles, we’ve already explored the idea of new beginnings—and the fact that the “start of the year” does not coincide with January 1st in all cultures (nor for all people today). Time is not experienced the same way everywhere. And change rarely follows a linear calendar.

Personally, I have a rather ambivalent relationship with the idea of new beginnings. For me, they are not a clean cut, not a symbolic reset button, but a process unfolding in several stages. My year doesn’t begin with light—it begins with descent. With Samhain, the transition into the dark season in late October, early November.

Because I live closely connected to nature, this beginning never feels like a fixed date. And often not even like a clearly defined lunar phase. It begins when something shifts. When the atmosphere changes. When the world grows quieter and a very specific feeling sets in: withdrawal. Density. Inner gathering.

But after this beginning, nothing bursts into bloom right away. Quite the opposite. The beginning is quiet. It is shaped by self-reflection, shadow work, and an honest turning inward. This phase carries me through the dark months—until around late January, early February, close to the Wheel of the Year festival of Imbolc.

With Imbolc, the first subtle signs of movement appear. Snowdrops. Crocuses—still tentative, still delicate. The new becomes visible without demanding attention. And it is precisely here that, for me, the part of the year begins in which life slowly starts pressing outward again.

What was previously sorted, questioned, and realigned internally now seeks expression in the world. Step by step. Until this process flows seamlessly into the light half of the year—across the equinox around March 21st and onward toward Beltane. Growth becomes tangible. Energy turns forward-facing. And what ripened in the dark is gradually allowed to bloom.

Spring, then, is not an abrupt awakening, but a liminal space: between inner reordering and outer growth. Between what was, and what wants to become.

Perhaps January is less a moment for bold new beginnings than we like to tell ourselves. While calendars, marketing messages, and New Year’s resolutions suggest that everything must now start fresh, clear, and full of energy, nature is still working beneath the surface. The earth is cold. The days are short. Growth is not visible—and yet something essential is happening in secret. January resembles winter soil: seemingly empty, quiet, withdrawn. And yet this is where strength gathers. Nutrients condense. Roots regenerate. Preparation does not happen through activity, but through rest.

Our bodies, too, are often still tired at this time of year. They are refuelling. Processing. Adapting to darkness and cold. Not because we lack discipline or haven’t “come far enough”—but because we function cyclically and biologically.

Perhaps this is one of the great misunderstandings of our time: the belief that new beginnings must be loud, visible, and immediately productive. That inner processes hold no value unless they quickly translate into outward results.

But spring reminds us of something else.That growth takes time.That not everything is ready at once.And that what eventually blooms almost always begins where things first remain quiet. Spring is not a starting gun.It is a threshold. Between inner reordering and outer growth. And perhaps the new begins exactly where we stop rushing.