March Is a Strange Little Animal
Day 120 – March 23, 2026
March is a strange little animal.
Too restless to be winter. Too erratic to be spring. One day it’s soft and almost flirtatious, and the next it’s throwing cold wind at your face like it found your optimism personally offensive.
Relatable, honestly. I think that’s why I don’t mind it.
March has range.
It doesn’t pretend to be one thing. It doesn’t arrive all clean and resolved. It’s moody. Contradictory. Half thawed. Slightly feral. It wants tenderness and drama in the same week. It starts budding and then immediately panics. It is, in many ways, the most emotionally honest month.
And today I felt weirdly aligned with it.
Because I’m in that kind of season too. Not fully in the cold, not fully in the clear. Still carrying winter in my body in certain places. Still feeling flashes of anger sharp enough to rearrange my breathing. Still disappointed in ways that ache lower than anger. Still furious that I am expected to continue building a life while a man who harmed me keeps enjoying the humiliating luxury of freedom.
That part does not get prettier because the weather shifts.
It remains real. It remains ugly. It remains one of the deepest insults in the room.
And yet.
There are also moments where I can feel something softer moving in. Curiosity. Appetite. Beauty catching my attention again in ways that feel less like effort and more like instinct. A little more room in my head. A little more room in my life. A little more of that dangerous internal electricity that says I’m not done becoming someone even more difficult to forget.
March understands that. It understands contradiction. It understands what it means to be in between. To be unfinished, thawing, unstable, beautiful in places, and deeply not interested in tidying itself up for anyone else’s comfort.
That’s a kind of intelligence, I think.
Not all truth comes polished. Some truth arrives with windblown hair, mud on its hem, and absolutely no intention of explaining why it feels five different things before lunch. Again, deeply relatable.
Roger spent part of the day in a full existential conflict with a gust the wind, which somehow offended him on a moral level. He stood there, chest out, ears alert, looking like a neighborhood sheriff who had just discovered weather was operating without a permit.
Incredible.
And maybe that’s part of what I love about him and, if I’m being honest, about myself too. The refusal to sleepwalk. The refusal to be neutral about things just because they’re common. The willingness to have a reaction. To make meaning. To look at life and say, “No actually, I do have opinions about this breeze, this silence, this person, this room, this season, this entire ridiculous species.”
That is aliveness. And I want more of it.
Not a calmer personality. Not a neater heart. Not some airy detached wisdom that leaves no fingerprints anywhere. I want the real thing. The kind that thinks and feels and notices and stays awake and laughs at the strange little theater of being a person in a body on a planet with weather and trauma and beauty and dogs and coffee and desire and all this absurd emotional weather we insist on calling a life.
March is a strange little animal. So am I.
Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.
And both of us, somehow, making the in between look better than it has any right to.
