Every year since Mike died, I brace myself for the stretch of weeks between 20th March and 2nd May because they contain so many beautiful-difficult-memorable dates. In the early years after his death, I dreaded their arrival, but no longer—even though I notice every one of them. Every cell in my body remembers.

As I’ve learned more about the Celtic calendar, I’ve realised that my challenging dates all fall between the Spring Equinox and Beltane—a season marking the threshold between light and life. It’s also a corridor of days that changed me forever. Here’s what 2017 was like.

20 March: The day Mike left home for the final time and went into hospice.
27 March: My 50th birthday—celebrated at the hospice with its gloriously tulip-filled garden.
30 March: Julia’s 13th birthday—more cake and courage.
8 April: The day Mike died.
13 April: His funeral. Also our 21st wedding anniversary. Not that our wedding vows had included the words “Till Death Do Us Part.” Still, death did us part.
17 April: Megan’s 16th birthday.
2 May: Ben’s 18th birthday.

These dates—once ordinary—have become sacred markers. Not in the sense of celebration, but in the way a scar becomes part of your skin’s map. A topography of grief. A way to remember that I loved, deeply. That I still do.

For years I dreaded this season and braced myself. Hyper-alert and tense. I noticed that the build-up was often worse than any given date. And over time, I allowed myself to trust that I would feel my way through.

It has been brutal.
For years, I called this time of year “the season of the wrong kind of dates”—a play on the Medjool variety I rather preferred.

But this year something shifted.
I noticed the dates coming up, one after the other.
But I noticed much more of spring too.

The edges of this pain-filled period of the year have softened.
I noticed the glorious blossoms, the smells.
I enjoyed the increased range of vegetables from my local organic farmer.
I breathed more deeply and got out on more walks.
There was more space for beauty this year, alongside the backdrop of sorrow.

Spring has always been about resurrection. I am an Easter baby, after all.
But my resurrection has been far from rapid or triumphant.
Instead, it’s been slow, intentional, rich and earthy.
Composting what was.
Honouring what is.
Trusting that new life can root even in ground once scorched by loss.

I don’t know what this softening means, or whether it will stay.
But I do know that this stretch—from the Spring Equinox to Beltane—will always be a holy passage in my year.
Simply because it is.

And maybe, in naming it, I can meet it a little more gently.
Maybe you can too, if you have your own pinch points of difficult dates in your calendar.

We carry so much, we humans.
We can brace ourselves tightly within our bud, but only for so long.
Eventually, every bud finds its way to bloom.