The Other Side of Nice

There’s a morning every spring where I get up for my daily walk and there’s a noticeable difference in the air, today was that day. 

There is usually still snow piled along the driveway, although most of it has melted here on the east coast where I live. Mornings still bite a little when you step outside. Winter hasn’t fully packed its bags yet and honestly, neither have I.

Some seasons change you and they’re not always about weather.

Sometimes it’s exhaustion that settled into your bones months ago. Conversations you replayed long after everyone else moved on. Learning to hold boundaries that felt impossible at first but necessary for survival.

And then one morning you hear it.

Birdsong.

Loud. Confident. Completely unbothered by the fact that spring hasn’t officially arrived.

The first time I hear it every year, I stop. There’s something that awakens inside of me when I hear them.

Those tiny creatures don’t wait for certainty. They don’t check the forecast or worry if another storm might come. They return anyway. They land on bare branches and start singing like warmth is already guaranteed.

I think that’s what gets me, hope and healing showing up early.

It doesn’t wait until everything is fixed or resolved. It sneaks in quietly. A moment when someone says something that used to upset you — and it doesn’t land the same anymore. The first time you choose silence instead of defending yourself. The realization that peace feels better than being understood.

Small moments, but they add up.

I’ve learned that life can pull you far away from yourself without you even noticing. You become who everyone else needs; dependable, strong, the fixer, the emotional anchor holding everything steady while storms pass through other people’s lives.

Often you forget what it feels like to just be you.

The birds never forget where home is.

They travel thousands of miles through storms and uncertainty guided by something inside them that simply knows where they belong.

I understand that more now.

Coming back to yourself can feel just as long of a journey.

Returning to boundaries after losing them. Returning to laughter after months where everything felt heavy. Returning to the version of yourself that existed before survival mode became normal.

There’s a grief in realizing how much of yourself you gave away just trying to keep things together.

But there’s also freedom in taking it back.

I watch the birds gather twigs every spring. One at a time. No rushing. No comparing nests with the one next door. Just steady work building something safe.

That feels familiar.

Rebuilding a life — or even just rebuilding peace — happens the same way.

One honest conversation, an uncomfortable “no.”

One morning where you choose rest instead of pushing through exhaustion because that’s what you’ve always done.

What I admire most is how unapologetic they are.

They sing loudly at sunrise whether anyone appreciates it or not. They claim space. They protect what matters. They don’t shrink themselves to make the world comfortable.

Have you ever stopped and thought that many of us learned to do the opposite.

We soften our voices. We explain too much. We tolerate things longer than we should because keeping peace feels easier than creating change.

The birds arrive every year as if to say otherwise.

Take up space.

Protect your peace.