The Slow Work of Transformation
What the River Beneath the Ice Can Teach Us About Change
Welcome to the Michelle Seguin MD newsletter! I’m Dr. Michelle, and I’m grateful you’re here as part of our growing community of 870+ readers across 46 states and 30 countries. This week, I’m reflecting on the freeze-thaw cycles unfolding in the first stirrings of spring and what it means to embrace transformation in its own time.
Hello friends,
Last week, the air softened, and for a brief moment, it felt as though winter was loosening its grip. Snow melted from rooftops, the roads ran wet with thaw, and I could hear the quiet trickle of water slipping beneath the ice. But just as quickly, the cold returned. By the weekend, snow swirled through the air again, adding a fresh layer of white. This is the rhythm of March—the thaw and freeze cycle, the slow, almost imperceptible shift of one season giving way to another. Rarely do things happen all at once.
Earlier this week, I gathered with a group of women and the theme of transformation emerged in our conversation. How change so often comes in waves, how we are always in motion, even when we don’t feel it. As we spoke, I found myself thinking about the river, how water moves beneath the ice long before we see it breaking through. The landscape, even in its stillness, is always preparing for what’s next.
With gratitude,
Dr. Michelle
Spring
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows’ wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,
hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.
The Slow Work of Transformation
I stood by the river’s edge, my boots pressing into the snow, leaving deep impressions on its surface. The air was sharp but bright, and for a moment, I closed my eyes and listened.
Beneath the thick, sculpted layers of ice along the bank, the river was moving. I could hear it—a quiet rush, steady and insistent, carving its way forward under the frozen surface. But along the edges, winter still held on. The midday sun softened the ice, but by evening, it would tighten again, hardening in the night cold. This is the rhythm of March. Freeze, thaw, freeze again. Nothing happens all at once.
How often do we feel this same pull? Ready for something new, yet still tethered to what was?
Change rarely comes in a single, decisive moment. It moves in stops and starts. A softening, then a freeze. We think we’re ready, and then suddenly, we retreat into what feels safe, what is familiar, what we’ve known.
Nature resists at first, too. The ice does not vanish overnight. It cracks, weakens, and buckles before finally giving way.
Just as winter fights to hold on, we, too, resist the moments in our lives that call us forward. We hesitate. We convince ourselves we aren’t ready yet. But like the ice, we can only hold on for so long before the inevitable shift begins.
And when it does, it isn’t always graceful.
Ice doesn’t just dissolve. It lets go in pieces—some sudden, some slow. Sometimes, the break is loud and jarring. Other times, it’s imperceptible, a quiet thinning before it disappears altogether.
The process is messy, uncertain, and often uncomfortable. But it is also necessary.
Our bodies go through their own freeze-thaw cycles and seasons, too.
“Hurt, heal, hurt, heal,” a dear friend and colleague once shared. Healing, growth, and change do not happen all at once. We soften, then close back up. We move forward, then retreat into stillness. Some days, we feel fluid and open, like the rushing current. Other days, we tighten, holding on, not yet ready to let go. But even in the stillness, even when it feels like nothing is happening, the work of transformation is already underway.
I turned back toward the cabin, its logs catching the late afternoon light, the roof still heavy with snow. The bare trees stood around it, their branches outstretched and waiting. Even in stillness, there is movement. Even in dormancy, there is preparation.
We don’t rush the thaw.
We don’t force the river forward before it’s ready.
Instead, we trust that movement is already happening. What looks like stillness may, in fact, be full of quiet transformation.
If we listen closely, nature is always teaching us how to navigate change.
How can we look to nature for guidance in times of transition? What does the slow melt of winter’s hold teach us about transformation: about patience, about trust, about allowing the process to unfold at its own pace?
The River’s Edge Reflection
If you find yourself near a body of water this month—a river, a stream, even a melting patch of snow—take a moment to pause and observe.
Let yourself linger. Notice what is frozen and what is moving.
Close your eyes and listen. Can you hear the water beneath the ice? The slow drip of melting snow?
Breathe deeply. With each inhale, invite in the possibility of change. With each exhale, soften into the unknown.
The seasons do not rush their transformation. Neither should we.
Savor the Seasons: This Month’s Cookbook Selection
This month in the Savor the Seasons Cookbook Club, we’re exploring Sheela Prakash’s Salad Seasons. With a fresh and creative approach, she redefines salads beyond leafy greens, weaving together bold flavors, hearty ingredients, and delicious pairings that evolve with the rhythm of the year.
New to the Cookbook Club? Check out this welcome post and download this month’s guide to get started. I hope you’ll join us!
Coming soon!
March is a season of transition—the slow unfolding of spring, the shift from introspection to connection. And soon, this newsletter will be evolving, too.
Later this month, I’ll be opening up new ways for us to connect more deeply, with intentional spaces for those who want to go further—to slow down, reflect, and engage in meaningful conversation.
One of the things I’m most excited about? Creating a private gathering space where we can share seasonal reflections, exchange kitchen inspirations, and deepen our connection as a community.
A place to share photos from the kitchen or garden (perfect for the Cookbook Club)
A space to ask questions, exchange ideas, and explore the rhythms of nature
A cozy, thoughtful gathering space—just for us
This is just one of the new ways we’ll be growing together. I’ll share more each week—small glimpses, like the first cracks in the ice before the river fully breaks free.
But for now, I’ll simply invite you to notice what’s shifting. To sense the quiet momentum of change. To trust that transformation is already underway.
More soon.
With love and care,
Dr. Michelle
Physician, Gardener, Home Cook, and Forever Curious
P.S. If today’s reflection resonated with you, I’d love for you to like it and share it with a friend. This community is growing into something even deeper—a space for slow living, nourishing meals, and meaningful connection. More soon, and as always, thank you for being here—your presence means so much to me.
Here are my most recent Substack sharings:
Beautifully written! This is such an encouraging message for those of us who feel we should progress like water in endless summer.
We are far more like spring, releasing and freezing our resources as the sun gains strength around us. Science in poetry!
I made the French onion portobellos last night with some grilled salmon. My daughter & her family are visiting, aunt & uncle were here and everyone Loved it! I didn’t put it over greens because we had an Asian slaw I had made the night before but my aunt commented on the mushrooms that she could “totally make a meal out of this”.