Beneath the Surface: What Spring Teaches Us About Healing

Spring arrives with subtle shifts—no grand declarations, but quiet moments that mark change. The light lingers a little longer, the air softens, and the earth, once frozen and unyielding, begins to stir. As the days stretch longer, we see nature preparing for its inevitable renewal.

I’ve never been a winter person. There’s an irony in that, considering Woodhaven is surrounded by mountains that hold onto the cold longer than I’d like. But spring always feels like a promise fulfilled—a reminder that no matter how long the winter, warmth and growth will return.

Last weekend, as I walked the grounds at Woodhaven, I eagerly searched for the wildflowers I planted last fall. I had mixed the seeds with sand from my favorite beach on Long Island—blending a piece of home with the promises we’re nurturing at Woodhaven. I’d read that mixing sand with wildflowers helps to distribute them more evenly, and as I scattered the mix, I trusted that the method would work, even though I couldn’t see the result right away.

But as I looked out, disappointment set in. No wildflowers had bloomed yet. There was a part of me that wanted to rush things—to hurry the process along, just as I sometimes wish I could speed up the recovery journey. I felt frustrated by the waiting, the feeling that something was supposed to happen, but hadn’t. In that moment, I was reminded that life, like recovery, doesn’t work on our timetable.

Spring doesn’t rush, and neither does healing. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, we can't speed up the seasons. Growth takes its own time, often hidden beneath the surface, out of sight and unseen. And recovery, too, happens in quiet ways—small, imperceptible shifts that build up over time, even when we can’t always see the immediate changes.

For families navigating recovery, this season can feel both hopeful and uncertain. You’ve weathered storms, endured barren stretches of waiting, and longed for signs of change. Recovery, like spring, doesn’t unfold all at once. Warm days are followed by unexpected chills. Progress comes in quiet, sometimes imperceptible ways. But just because growth isn’t always visible doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

Healing happens in the steady, unseen work of showing up, offering support, and believing in change before you can see it. Early recovery requires care and patience. Your loved one is learning new ways of being—rediscovering parts of themselves that were buried under substance use. These first steps need nurturing, protection, and a space to grow without fear.

At Woodhaven, we strive to create an environment where growth isn’t forced but encouraged, where setbacks don’t erase progress. As parents and loved ones, you provide that same environment. It’s not about controlling the outcome but offering steady support, knowing that transformation takes time.

Not everything blooms at once. Some plants emerge early; others take longer. Recovery follows its own rhythm. One day may bring progress, the next a setback. But the overall movement is forward.

This time of year holds special meaning for me. My twins were born on the autumn equinox—September 21st—and we’ve always marked their "half-birthday" on March 21st, just as spring begins. It’s a reminder that life moves in cycles, much like the recovery journey. Growth doesn’t happen all at once, but in meaningful increments that build upon each other. In recovery, as with my children’s development, there are moments that seem ordinary but are actually profound shifts. Just as we celebrate the small but significant step of their half-year, families in recovery learn to recognize and honor the quiet victories that might seem invisible to others but are essential markers of progress. Every milestone, no matter how subtle, is part of a larger, beautiful process of renewal.

So wherever you are on this journey, know this: Renewal is possible. Growth is happening, even if you can’t see it yet. And just as spring returns each year, bringing life to what once seemed barren, hope is within reach.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be watching the landscape at Woodhaven, waiting to see where the wildflowers appear. Hopefully, some will bloom exactly where I planted them; others will surprise me, carried by the wind to unexpected places. That’s how recovery works, too. Growth happens in ways we don’t always anticipate—but when it does, it’s all the more beautiful for the waiting.