Yesterday in Manchester was a glimpse of the spring that waits just beyond the horizon. The air held that quiet promise, the kind that stirs something deep inside—a reminder that life is always renewing itself. With my camping chair in one hand and my umbrella in the other (because, well, Manchester), I set off to my favourite spot in the church garden.
As I arrived, I was met by a delicate carpet of snowdrops and crocuses, their fragile beauty standing in quiet defiance against the lingering chill. Last year, I hadn’t yet found this place in early spring. I had only started sitting here around April, by which time these tiny miracles had already come and gone, unnoticed by the person I was then. But they had always been here—waiting, just beneath the surface—just as I had been, waiting for my own season of renewal to begin. I felt profoundly blessed to sit among them now, fully awake to their presence, and to my own.
I watched as the snowdrops swayed in the breeze, their delicate white heads nodding in unison, as if whispering their quiet agreement that spring had finally arrived. Scattered among them, the crocuses stood like bursts of joy—golden yellow and deep purple, radiant against the sea of white. It felt like a celebration of light, a fanfare welcoming the warmth to come. And in that moment, I felt whole. I needed nothing else. I was simply there, present, and at peace.
A year ago, my mind was restless, always searching, always chasing. I believed happiness was something to be bought, something to be earned, something just out of reach. Money was my measure of security, yet it brought only fear—never enough, and when I had it, the anxiety of losing it gnawed at me. It slipped through my fingers like sand, spent on fleeting highs, drowned in alcohol, numbing the very pain it created. The cycle was endless, exhausting, and suffocating.
But today, I am free. It is a few days before payday, and I have just enough to feed myself and my family. And yet, I am rich beyond measure. Because today, happiness is not something I seek—it is something I carry within me. I see my God in the snowdrops and the crocuses, in the breeze that moves them, in the stillness that fills me as I sit in their company. Sobriety has given me the gift of presence, of truly seeing, of truly living. I am no longer merely surviving; I am part of the world, connected to its beauty, and held by the love and friendship that surround me.
And for that, I am deeply, endlessly grateful.
