Spring Forward

On winter fatigue, small acts of order, and the biology of hope.

On Sunday, the sun came out.

Yes, it was still 28 degrees. But it felt ah-mazing.

I went for a no-pressure jog and challenged myself to leave my AirPods at home (ear pods? Air buds? No, that’s a ’90s dog). The goal: just “enjoy the moment.”

Sigh.

Reader, I actually did.

I wove along my favorite stretch of the creek, sunlight flickering through bare branches. Every runner and walker I passed wore the same expression: friendly, slightly dazed, tinged with glee. As if we couldn’t quite believe the gift of it. As if we were collectively thinking, Oh. Right. The sun still exists.

This weekend we’ll “spring forward” — a phrase I repeat to myself twice a year because I truly cannot remember which direction the clock moves and why we still adhere to this Victorian-era torture device that robs us of sleep and asks parents of young children to endure yet another entirely unnecessary disruption.

Objectively, we gain very little.
Psychologically, we gain something enormous.

Hope.

That subtle shift from we’re surviving to we might have made it through.
From this is endless to perhaps it’s not foolish to feel hopeful.

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Spring is coming

In Minnesota, we expect winter blues. But this one has felt heavier.

A harsh season for snow lovers.
A harsh season for democracy supporters.
A harsh season for those who came to this country hoping to build something better.

The fever pitch of protest in late January has sagged. The exhaustion of resistance is real. There are still organized events, grocery donations piled high, Signal chats humming with plans and strategy.

But people are tired.

I get it.

In my own house, it’s been pulling teeth to get my kids energized for the basics: brush your teeth, eat dinner, go to school. At first, I try to model positivity.

But I’m tired, too.

So lately, my main parenting goal has been: don’t yell.

So ambitious, I know.

As I wrote last week: match your goals to your capacity.
And right now? No one has a lot to give.

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After my Sunday jog, I lingered outside.

Our yard looked like a crime scene. Evidence of last fall’s craft project lay wind-beaten and mushy under melting snow. A steak knife had somehow migrated into our neighbor’s side yard (sorry to scare you, Jerry). A lonely sock stuck out from beneath the deck.

So I got to work.

I took down the Christmas lights. Gathered the once-fragrant cedar swag. Scooped some poop to regain a semblance of order and personal responsibility.

Nothing glamorous.

But I felt better.

I felt the tangible passing of time. Forward motion. A subtle reclaiming of agency.

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The Psychology of Sunlight and Small Wins

Here’s the psychology tidbit:
When we experience prolonged stress or helplessness, our nervous system can shift into a kind of conservation mode. Energy narrows. Motivation dips. Even basic tasks feel monumental.

But small, visible acts of order — especially outdoors, especially in sunlight — can interrupt that pattern.

Research on behavioral activation shows that modest, values-aligned actions can precede and create shifts in mood, rather than the other way around. We don’t wait to feel better to act; sometimes we act in order to feel better.

Sunlight itself helps regulate circadian rhythms and boosts serotonin production. That friendly, slightly giddy expression on the creek path? Not just poetic. Neurochemical.

Hope is not purely philosophical.
It’s biological.

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As I gathered debris and coiled extension cords, I felt something subtle but real: my capacity stretching.

Not because the stress is gone. Not because the need to organize, resist, or parent with intention has evaporated.

But because something inside me whispered:

You are moving forward.

Not into a stress-free era.
Not into a conflict-free season.

But into one where energy might slowly return. Where the hardest moments might give way to something softer. Where hope feels less foolish.

Sometimes the revolution is keeping your voice steady.
Sometimes it’s showing up to a protest.
And sometimes it’s picking up a sock from under the deck.