There is a moment — brief, fleeting, balanced — where the world stands still. The spring equinox. A day when light and dark hold equal sway, a momentary pause before the tipping begins again. It’s easy to think balance is something we should strive for, that it’s a permanent state we can reach with enough effort. But nature reminds us otherwise.
Balance is not a place where we live. It is a place we pass through.
The world does not remain in perfect equilibrium; it only visits. And so, why should we expect ourselves to be any different? We hold both light and dark. We contain tenderness and fury, weariness and wonder. There are seasons when we stretch toward the sun and seasons when we fold into ourselves, roots deep in the soil, waiting. This, too, is natural. This, too, is holy.
And yet, the world right now feels like it is made of jagged edges. Grief pressing against grief. Injustice sharp against the skin. Everywhere, the sharpness of survival, of division, of despair. It is no wonder we crave something softer, something that does not scrape or wound.
In the rough terrain of now, I keep returning to what flows. Water smoothing stone. Breath settling the body. Music stretching time. The medicines of softness do not erase the world’s edges, but they help us move through them. They remind us that we do not have to meet harshness with more of the same. Instead, we can learn from the way rivers bend, from the way the wind finds a path through even the smallest space. We can learn from what yields and, in yielding, still endures.
Here are five medicines that teach us how to move, how to soften, how to smooth the jagged places without losing ourselves:
The Medicine of Water
Water does not resist; it adapts. It finds a way around, over, through. It shapes even the hardest rock, not by force but by persistence. What if we let ourselves be more like water? What if we allowed movement instead of rigidity? In recovery, we learn this lesson again and again. The more we try to control, the more we fight, the more exhausted we become. But when we let go — when we trust the current — we find ourselves carried. Water reminds us: you do not have to break against the hard things. You can flow through them.
The Medicine of Comfortable Silence
Not all silence is emptiness. Some silence is fullness — a space of rest, of knowing. We don’t always have to fill the air with words, explanations, justifications. We don’t always have to make ourselves palatable or understandable to be worthy of belonging. There is a different kind of connection that happens in silence, when we sit together without expectation, without performance. It is a reminder that presence is enough. That we are enough. That in the quiet, something sacred is always speaking.
The Medicine of Looking to the Trees
The trees know things we have forgotten. They stand steady, but they are never rigid. They bend in the wind. They let go when it is time. They rest when they must. And underneath it all, their roots hold onto one another, unseen but connected. We are also connected in ways beyond our seeing. Recovery is not an isolated act. Healing is not a solo journey. We are meant to reach toward each other, to lean into the unseen network of care that exists beneath the surface of things. The trees teach us: You are held, even when you cannot see it. You belong, even when you feel untethered.
The Medicine of Music
Music moves where words cannot. It stretches across time, carrying us backward and forward at once. It holds memory, feeling, longing, joy. There are songs that know us better than we know ourselves, melodies that carve out space in the soul where grief and hope meet. When we dance, we remind our bodies of their own aliveness. When we sing, we reclaim something unbreakable inside us. Music is proof that we are not alone. That rhythm and harmony exist, even in chaos. That joy is still ours to hold.
The Medicine of Collective Care
We do not heal alone. The myth of individualism is just that — a myth. Healing happens in the spaces between us, in the hands we reach for, in the meals we share, in the laughter that reminds us we are still here. There is something radical in choosing each other, in refusing to go it alone. Sobriety, too, is a communal act. We are not simply walking away from something; we are walking toward one another. Toward care. Toward love. Toward the kind of softness that strengthens rather than weakens. The kind of softness that makes room.
As we step into the light of the spring equinox, may we remember: balance is a passing moment, not a permanent destination. And that’s okay. We are meant to move, to shift, to stretch and contract. To hold both the sharpness and the softness, the grief and the joy. To let the world mark us, and yet not be broken by it.
The medicine is all around us. In the water that flows. In the silence that comforts. In the trees that connect. In the music that holds. In the hands we reach for.
Let’s gather it. Let’s share it. And let’s move — soft, steady, alive — toward whatever comes next.
THIRSTY FOR WONDER: Anne Marie Cribben is a passionate recovery coach and spiritual companion based in Washington, DC. As the founder of Thirsty For Wonder, she offers 1:1 coaching, spiritual companionship, and recovery support rooted in compassion and empowerment. Creator of The Wellspring: A Celtic Recovery Journey, Anne Marie blends the Celtic calendar with sobriety, connecting participants to ancient wisdom and nature’s rhythms. A fierce advocate for sobriety as liberation and self-love, Anne Marie challenges the targeted marketing of alcohol to women and promotes authentic, joyful living. Her approach goes beyond addiction recovery, fostering a life of vibrancy and fulfillment.
In her personal life, Anne Marie enjoys baking, cooking, poetry, being a Swiftie, weight lifting, reading, embroidery, and creating mocktails. She treasures time with friends and embraces creativity in all forms.
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