The air is changing. You can smell it. That weird, metallic scent of melting snow hitting dry pavement is starting to drift through the vents. Usually, this is the part where everyone starts talking about "new beginnings" and "blooming flowers," but honestly? For a lot of people right now, the vibe is heavy. There is this collective realization that a spring without you is coming, and that "you" could be anyone. A partner who left. A parent who passed. A version of yourself that didn't make it through the winter.
It's a specific kind of grief.
Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) usually gets all the press during the dark months of December and January. We talk about light lamps and Vitamin D. But there’s a lesser-known phenomenon—sometimes called "reverse SAD" or just plain old spring grief—that hits when the world starts waking up while you’re still stuck in the frost. It’s the contrast that kills you. When the literal sun is shining but your internal clock is still stuck in a blizzard, the disconnect feels like a physical weight.
The psychology of the seasonal shift
Why does it hurt more when the weather gets nice?
Psychologists often point to the "broken promise" of spring. During winter, it’s socially acceptable to be a hermit. You wrap yourself in blankets, eat carbs, and hide. Everyone else is doing it too. But then the first 60-degree day hits. Suddenly, there is social pressure to be out. To be happy. To be active. If you are facing the reality that a spring without you is coming, the sight of couples sitting on park benches or families cleaning out their garages feels like a personal affront.
Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score, talks extensively about how our bodies store trauma and memory. Our biological systems are deeply tied to the light cycles of the earth. When the days lengthen, our bodies gear up for action, but if the mind is mourning, you get this frantic, jittery anxiety. It’s a physiological mismatch.
Think about the biological markers. Serotonin levels fluctuate with sunlight. Melatonin production shifts. For someone in the middle of a loss, these chemical swings don't feel like "energy." They feel like a panic attack.
When the calendar becomes the enemy
We live our lives in cycles. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. But spring is the biggest cycle of all. It’s the literal rebirth of the planet.
If you lost someone last summer or fall, you’ve already survived the "firsts" of the winter. You got through the first Thanksgiving. You survived the New Year. You might have thought you were in the clear. But then the daffodils start poking up. You remember that they loved gardening. Or you remember that this was the time of year you always started planning that road trip.
The realization that a spring without you is coming hits differently because it represents the world moving on without the person you lost. In winter, everything is dead. It feels like the world is mourning with you. In spring, the world stops mourning. It puts on a bright green dress and starts dancing, and you’re left standing in the corner in your heavy coat.
Realities of social media "Spring Cleaning"
Then there’s the digital aspect. Honestly, social media makes this transition ten times harder.
Your feed is about to be flooded with "spring resets" and "cleaning hacks." People are "clearing out the clutter." But how do you clear out the clutter when the clutter is a box of clothes belonging to someone who isn't coming back? How do you do a "life refresh" when you’re just trying to figure out how to make coffee for one?
The "clean girl aesthetic" or the "productivity bro" vlogs that peak in March and April create a toxic standard for people who are grieving. They imply that if you aren't evolving, you're failing. But grief isn't a project to be managed. It’s a landscape to be walked through. Sometimes, "spring cleaning" just means finally washing the sheets. That’s it. That’s the win.
The physical toll of the "Green Grief"
It’s not just in your head. It’s in your joints. It’s in your gut.
The transition into a new season causes a spike in cortisol for many people. The changing barometric pressure and the increase in allergens don't just affect your sinuses; they trigger inflammatory responses in the body. When you add the stress of knowing a spring without you is coming, your immune system takes a hit.
You might find yourself:
- Waking up at 4:00 AM as the sun rises earlier, feeling a sense of dread.
- Feeling physically exhausted despite doing nothing.
- Experiencing "brain fog" that makes simple decisions—like what to buy at the grocery store—feel impossible.
- Having a total lack of interest in the hobbies you usually love this time of year.
This is a real, documented state. It’s often referred to as "anniversary reaction," even if it’s not the exact date of a loss. The season itself acts as the trigger.
How to actually handle the coming months
So, what do you do? You can't stop the earth from tilting on its axis. You can't stop the flowers from blooming.
First, stop trying to match the energy of the season. If the world is at a 10 and you’re at a 2, stay at a 2. Forcing yourself to go to a cherry blossom festival or a spring hike because you "should" will only make you feel more isolated.
Instead of a "Spring Reset," try a Spring Buffer.
Create a buffer between you and the expectations of the world. This might mean staying off Instagram for the month of April. It might mean telling your friends, "Hey, I'm struggling with the season change, so I might skip the patio drinks for a few weeks."
Small, tactile shifts
Since the body is so involved in this, use the body to manage it.
- Weighted blankets: Even as it gets warmer, the pressure can help ground the nervous system when it feels "flighty" from the spring air.
- Controlled light: Use blackout curtains if the early morning sun is triggering your anxiety. Control your environment.
- Low-stakes nature: You don't have to go on a 5-mile trek. Just sit on a porch. Look at a tree. You don't have to "interact" with the beauty. You can just observe it from a distance.
The myth of "Moving On"
There is a huge misconception that grief is a linear path that ends in "closure." That’s nonsense.
The psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, who gave us the five stages of grief, actually regretted how people interpreted her work. She never meant for them to be a neat 1-2-3-4-5 checklist. Grief is more like a spiral. You pass the same points over and over, just from a different height.
Knowing that a spring without you is coming means acknowledging that you are at a specific point in that spiral. You’ve been here before, or you’ll be here again. The goal isn't to get over it. The goal is to integrate it.
🔗 Read more: Why silly jokes to cheer someone up actually work when life feels heavy
The "you" in your life—whether they are gone physically or just gone from your daily routine—left a footprint. Spring is a time when those footprints become more visible because the snow has melted. It’s okay to look at them. It’s okay to cry over them. It’s okay to be angry that the sun has the audacity to shine when your heart is still in December.
Actionable steps for the transition
If you’re feeling the weight of the upcoming season, here are a few ways to navigate the next few weeks without losing your mind.
Audit your triggers. Look at your calendar. Are there events coming up—weddings, graduations, spring breaks—that feel like landmines? Mark them. Decide now which ones you are going to skip. Giving yourself permission to opt out months in advance removes the "should I go?" anxiety.
Lower the bar for "productivity." The world is going to tell you to start a garden, paint your house, and run a 5k. Ignore it. If your biggest accomplishment this spring is keeping yourself fed and hydrated while you miss someone, you are doing enough.
Find your "Winter People." There are others who feel exactly like you do. Find the people who aren't obsessed with the "spring glow-up." Talk to the friends who understand that life is sometimes just a series of seasons we have to endure.
Redefine the season. If "Spring" carries too much baggage, don't call it spring. Call it "The Transition" or "The Interlude." Give it a name that feels less demanding.
Ultimately, the season will pass. The harsh neon green of early May will eventually mellow into the deep shade of summer. The intensity of the "first spring without" will eventually become the "second" and the "third." It doesn't necessarily get easier, but you get better at carrying it. You learn where the handholds are.
Take a breath. The birds are going to be loud. The sun is going to be bright. You don't have to like it. You just have to exist through it. That is more than enough.