Spring Looks Different This Year

For as long as I can remember, living with Lynch syndrome meant a constant awareness of my body and the risks it carries. The threat of cancer, always looming, was something I lived with — something I knew was part of my reality. Every scan and scope felt like a reminder that life is fragile and unpredictable. But nothing, nothing prepared me for the kind of fragility that would be thrown into sharp focus when I lost Catherine.

Last July, I lost Catherine, my best friend of thirty years.

Catherine wasn't just someone I talked to every day — she was the person I spoke to multiple times a day. She was woven into the fabric of my life. Catherine taught me everything I know about cooking, plants and moving through the world with gentleness and grace. She was the first person I called with good, bad or when I had no news. We did the New York Times puzzles together every morning at 5 a.m., without fail, and made a concerted effort to eat together once a week.

She was my person. And now, she's gone.

Grief doesn't come with instructions. It doesn't follow a straight path or obey any schedule. Some days, it crashes in like a wave, overwhelming everything in its path. On other days, it hums quietly in the background, always waiting. I still reach for my phone to text or send her a silly meme, only to be hit by the stark reality that there's no one on the other end. The silence where her laughter used to fill the space is the loudest sound I know. It's like someone ripped out the soundtrack to my life, leaving me in the quiet, frantically searching for something that isn't there anymore.

Catherine used to tell me that no one made her laugh like I did. I carry that with me now, like a keepsake. I think of it when the days feel exceptionally long or lonely. I hear her voice often — sometimes guiding, teasing, always present. She's not here, but I still listen.

Spring returns to life everywhere I look and reminds me of her — tulips, cyclamens and hellebores. And with them, memories of her. She loved everything about this time of year — except the time change. She loved how the world woke up after winter, how color returned from the gray. I feel her in the sun's warmth and see her in the smallest blooms. She loved the rain. Catherine wants to know she's still part of the season she loved most.

Losing Catherine didn’t teach me something new about the fragility of life — it simply made it impossible to ignore. I've always known that life is fragile; loss has been a constant companion. But the day I found her, everything within me shifted. Seeing her body — lifeless, still, and unrecognizable — changed something deep within me. It was as if the ground beneath me cracked open, and the world I thought I understood was forever altered. At that moment, my Lynch syndrome diagnosis no longer felt like something distant or abstract — it became real, palpable and urgent. Her death forced me to face what I had always known but never entirely accepted: life is fragile, uncertain, heartbreakingly short, and life as you know it can change in an instant. Don't take life and those for granted. Do for them and tell them you love them every opportunity you get.

This spring, I'm learning to begin again. Not in a grand or performative way.

Quietly. Gently.

In a way that honors her and makes space for me. I water my plants. I go for walks. I still do the New York Times puzzles, now on my own, but I hear her in the clues — words like "rococo" or "cancan” or "lantana" bring her back in an instant. I build new rituals to keep myself grounded, especially when I feel like drifting.

Grief and healing aren't opposites. They happen together. Living with Lynch syndrome means living with constant awareness — of scans, scopes and risks I can't entirely outrun. But losing Catherine gave me a different kind of awareness. It reminded me that while I can't control what my genes carry, I can control how I care for myself, how I show up for this life and how I create meaning.

This season, I'm planting new life. My small balcony will be full of Greek oregano, petunias, and other bits I know she'd approve of. She believed in the healing power of plants. I do, too. She'd smile, knowing I was out there with my watering can, tending to my plants how she tended to those she loved.

I'm cooking more — not because I love it, but because she used to nag me to cook for myself more often. I could live off Greek yogurt and green smoothies if left to my devices. But now, making an authentic meal feels like a way to keep her close. It's an act of memory, of love, of self-care.

Spring is often described as a season of hope. But for those of us grieving, that hope can feel hard to hold. Renewal doesn't mean forgetting. It doesn't mean moving on. It means learning to let something new grow alongside the loss. It means letting the pain have its place — without letting it take up all the space.

This spring, I'm living on purpose.

I'm tending to my body with screenings and food that supports my gut and immune health. I'm tending to my spirit with sleep, music, crossword puzzles and laughter when it comes. I'm choosing joy — not because everything's OK, but because joy helps me survive when it's not.

I'm still grieving. I always will. But I'm still here. I'm still growing.

If you're in the middle of grief — whether from death, a diagnosis or something more challenging to name — I hope you'll allow yourself a new beginning — even the smallest one: a single flower on your windowsill, a moment in the sun, a deep breath that reminds you: you're alive.

Healing doesn't mean the pain disappears. It means we learn to carry it — while making room to keep living.

Catherine is, too — in every bloom, every breeze, every raindrop and every laugh that slips out unexpectedly. She may be gone, but she's not gone from me. We live on through the souls we touch. And hers is with me, always. She is missed every nanosecond of the day.

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