“You were a pleasure to work with,” my counsellor said, her face warm and round like a pumpkin. Her tone was buttery smooth, light as a feather and full of hope for my future. “And that soft space that you found here—I truly hope you maintain it for yourself when you land back home.” 

Almost as if I were wincing, I smiled back, testing out her compliment on my teeth. There was a beat of silence before I thanked her. I suppose I didn’t truly know what to say. I had started counselling on a whim—what was meant to be a one-time session spiralled into bimonthly, hour-long meetings about boundaries, traumas, and everything in my childhood that I had meant to keep tightly shut, snug as a bug. I started in late February. Now, it was April—the apex of spring.

Outside, the clock tower chimed, a newly familiar tune. We had decided to cut my session short to leave room between spilling my guts to a stranger and my final chemistry exam. Truthfully, I was going to skip my appointment—I had woken up begging for a few more minutes of unconscious bliss. However, the thought of my counsellor mindlessly checking her emails while waiting for me to walk in made me feel so small, making me push my body out of bed before I could mentally say no. I didn’t want to waste her time, not after she witnessed those parts of me.

 So, when I entered, it was all smiles and goodbyes; a tame last session. We chatted about light things—the weather (slowly warming), the movement of time (only shallowly), the future (a change from the topic of the past), excitement (mine and hers), the potential (of everything) and the effect of counselling on my soul. I tried explaining it to her:

“I feel softer here,” I said, almost mumbling, “as if I can be simpler here.”

“That soft feeling,” she replied, “what does that feel like?” I muttered poor attempts at grasping a dream-like, hazy feeling. She looked upon me with patient eyes. I stared at my hands. It was just too complicated for me to explain—truthfully, it still is. 

On a separate note, occasionally, when I undress, I do it in front of my full-length mirror. I think of it as ritualistic—my naked body, bare and plain, reflected under dim light, in almost complete darkness. I kneel as if I am about to pray and then take the time to study my image: the scars painted on my thighs, my tattoos inked into my skin, my limbs resting against my curves, the heavy weight of time on my body, presenting in blemished skin and tired eyes. I try not to move about. I simply stay still and observe myself, as if I were watching a fish in a tank, my face pressed up against the clear glass. 

Counselling is the same. Every Wednesday, after classes, I enter her room and sit in the lime green armchairs placed across from each other in a daunting yet welcoming manner. Gingerly, I unwrap my voice from its muted form as we dive into the week’s latest adventures. I become raw, as if I were stripped down to the core of my being. Detaching from my mind with almost ironic amusement, we revisit my core experiences from the perspective of a stranger, with heavy, pitiful eyes and worn, outstretched hands. Through the lens of hindsight, I am hopelessly gentle with my past self, cupping my soul with a type of love I had never possessed until entering the room. Even more so, I am soft, unfocused at the edges and blinding from the inside out, as if there was a whole sun hiding in my ribs, settled patiently underneath my lungs and in front of my heart. It leaves me so kind. In this room, there are explosions of pity, weariness, anger, grief, and recognition, but above all, a blooming desire to keep this newfound self-love close, forever.  

The meeting ended on a hopeful note. She sent me on my way with links to counselling groups, patterns I should watch out for, and most importantly, the softest smile I have ever seen on a middle-aged lady.

Once I walked out of that grey building, there was an overwhelming softness building up inside of me, sweeping through all the corners of my body. It felt tender and genuine, as if someone had scooped the sun into a bottle and poured me a drink. The sky was so bright and clear. Sparrows and songbirds in the trees were tweeting spring’s tune. In the ground, the smallest lime green sprouts poked up. Through the dainty, downy wind, I found cherry blossoms mixed with exhaust, evergreens, and the notes of something I couldn’t decipher. I didn’t try to understand. I simply held it. 

Thus was the beginning of my spring.