Today is the first of March.
Which feels strange to write.
It still feels like winter in many ways, the ground damp, the air cool, the light only just beginning to stretch itself into the evenings. And yet the calendar says we’re moving toward spring and the daffodils are in full bloom.
I notice that something similar is happening in me.
Not a dramatic shift. Not a sudden surge of energy.
Just small moments.
A break in what has felt like weeks of non-stop rain. The warmth of sun on my face when it does appear. That quiet lift in my chest when the light lingers a little longer than it did in January.
It feels like a gentle reawakening.
And at the same time, parts of life still feel heavy.
If you love someone who is struggling with addiction, you’ll know what I mean when I say that every day can feel like a long, dark winter.
You wait for change.
You look for signs.
You brace for the next wobble.
Sometimes it feels like spring will never arrive.
Even when the sun comes out, there’s a part of you that stays guarded.
Hope can feel risky.
I know that rhythm too.
And I’ve been noticing it alongside something else this week, my running.
My usual running pattern has been disrupted this winter. My schedule has changed, and that interruption has made training for the Colchester Half Marathon (next Sunday, 13.1 miles) feel harder than usual.
I know I’ll be slower.
A year ago that would have bothered me. I might have pushed harder. Judged myself. Tried to force momentum.
But this year feels different.
I’m okay with being slower.
I’m okay with meeting myself where I am.
Because loving someone through addiction has taught me something about pace.
You cannot force spring.
You cannot drag someone into recovery.
You cannot sprint your way out of uncertainty.
You cannot force a heart to open.
You learn to breathe, to trust yourself.
And that’s what I’ll be doing next Sunday, affectionate breathing carrying me through those miles. Steady inhale. Steady exhale. Especially in the harder stretches. Yes, in my Blossome bloomers, raising money for Blossome, which feels joyful and slightly ridiculous and deeply meaningful all at once.
I trust I’ll find my running rhythm again.
I trust that consistency will return.
But I don’t need to prove anything on that start line.
And if you’re loving someone in addiction right now, you don’t need to prove anything either.
There’s a subtle pressure that arrives with March.
Time to wake up.
Time to feel lighter.
Time to move forward.
But when you are living alongside addiction, your nervous system does not move according to the calendar.
Some days are still survival days.
Some days are cautious days.
Some days are quietly hopeful days.
Self-compassion begins with mindfulness, simply noticing what is here without demanding it be different.
“This is hard.”
“I feel tired.”
“I feel hopeful.”
“I feel scared to feel hopeful.”
No fixing.
No pretending.
No rushing yourself toward a version of spring you’re not ready for.
Then kindness.
“It makes sense that this feels this way.”
“Of course I’m tired.”
“Of course I’m guarded.”
And then remembering: this is part of being human.
Loving someone through addiction stretches the heart in ways that are both painful and profound. You are not weak for feeling worn down. You are not failing because you are still in winter.
You are human
If you’d like to try something gentle, in those moments when things feel hard:
Place a hand on your heart.
Take one steady breath.
And say quietly:
“This is a moment of difficulty.”
“It makes sense that I feel this way.”
That’s it.
No silver lining required, just validating the emotions you are feeling, naming them.
When you step outside this week, pause for two minutes. Feel the air. Notice the light. Not to optimise the moment. Just to inhabit it.
You are allowed to reawaken slowly.
And if you see someone running through Colchester next Sunday in slightly eccentric bloomers, breathing affectionately and smiling at the sky that will be me.
Not running to outrun winter.
Just moving, listening to my body, steadily, at the pace of self-compassion.
Kim Moore is the Founder of Blossome CIC. She lost her husband Chris to alcoholism in 2017. She faced a difficult journey while raising 2 children alone, with her family living on the opposite side of the world. Kim founded the Blossome Community and The Pathway to Peace healing journey so no one would have to feel alone while enduring the trauma of a loved one’s battle with alcoholism or addiction. She is also on a mission to end the generational cycle of alcoholism and addiction in families.
Kim lost her husband to alcohol dependency in 2017. She created the Blossome Community to help others enduring losing a loved one to alcoholism or addiction find a Pathway to Peace so they can let go of guilt/shame and live with self-compassion and joy.
Every Monday morning, start you week on a positive note with a Wonderful Week of Blossoming.
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