Where the Marsh Meets Spring
Lessons on Permission, Emergence, and Becoming
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 900+ readers across 47 states and 31 countries. This week, I’m reflecting on how the marsh teaches us about the quiet, tender beauty of becoming.
Hello friends,
Last week, we traveled south, leaving behind snowbanks for the quiet beauty of spring in the Lowcountry. We spent time on a barrier island—walking the beach, wandering through maritime forest, and spending sacred moments in my beloved salt marshes. Everything moved a little slower there. And it was in that stillness, standing at the edge of the tide, that I felt spring begin to stir. I hope you enjoy this month’s reflection on what the marsh had to teach us—about emergence, permission, and the tender beauty of becoming.
With gratitude,
Dr. Michelle
Where the Marsh Meets Spring
Dear Spring,
I met you in the marsh.
You were there in the grasses swaying like breath… inhale… exhale. The tide moved with no urgency to arrive anywhere at all. The land was soft beneath my feet, muddy and brined with salt and memory. The air was thick with the unmistakable scent of decay and rebirth. And for a while, I stood still enough to feel it: something stirring. Not quite formed, not quite ready, but undeniably alive.
I thought I was coming to rest. But what I found was a mirror.
The marsh offered no answers, only presence. It didn’t ask me to choose between stillness and movement, between softness and strength. It simply was—a place where contradictions coexisted. Where water held the shape of the land, and the land gave way to the tide. Where roots sank deep into shifting soil, and birds skimmed the sky above, free and untethered.
There was something comforting in that. Reassuring. As if the marsh itself whispered: You don’t have to be one thing. You’re allowed to be both. You’re allowed to be multitudes.
Because becoming isn’t neat. It doesn’t unfold in perfect steps or polished timelines. We don’t wake one morning transformed, fully bloomed, ready for the world. More often, we emerge slowly, uncertainly. One foot in the familiar, the other reaching for something new.
We try.
We pause.
We stretch.
We return.
We get muddy.
We falter.
And still, we grow.
The marsh didn’t rush. It didn’t apologize for its messiness. It simply held space for life to come back.
Spring, this year, is inviting me into permission.
Permission to not have it all figured out.
Permission to take up space, even in my becoming.
Permission to root deeper and flow freely.
Permission to emerge just as I am.
The old patterns—striving, certainty, knowing exactly what’s next—feel out of sync with where I am. Lately, I find myself softening into something quieter. Something more spacious. I’m learning to hold my own unfolding with more tenderness. To let the process be slow, intuitive, even a little muddy. To trust the movement beneath the surface, even when I can’t quite name it.
The marsh reminded me:
I don’t need to bloom on command.
I don’t need to arrive fully formed to begin again.
And maybe you don’t either…
You are allowed to change.
You are allowed to grow, even here.
Even now.
At the Edge of the Marsh
A seasonal invitation to enter gently into your own emergence
If you find yourself near a wetland or marsh this month—a place where water meets land, where grasses sway and birds call overhead—pause there.
Let yourself linger.
Feel the ground beneath you—spongy, damp, full of life. Notice how it gives just a little, how it holds you anyway. You don’t have to be rooted in certainty to feel supported.
Close your eyes. Breathe.
Inhale… exhale. Let your breath move like the tide—coming in, going out.
Notice how stillness and motion can exist at once.
Ask gently:
Where am I slowly emerging?
What am I ready to allow, even if it’s messy or unfinished?
What does it mean to hold space for what’s becoming?
Listen.
Not for clarity or direction, but for presence.
Let the marsh remind you: you don’t have to bloom on command. You are allowed to arrive slowly. You are are allowed to dwell in the softness of what’s next.
Let this be enough. Let spring meet you just as you are.
Savor the Seasons: This Month’s Cookbook selection
This month, we’re cooking from One: Pot, Pan, Planet by
. Her recipes celebrate simplicity, sustainability, and the quiet joy of nourishing ourselves and the planet at the same time. As we ease into this new season, I hope this book brings a sense of calm to your kitchen and fresh inspiration to your plate. It’s a beautiful fit for spring—and a meaningful way to honor Earth Day through the meals we make.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!
Thank you for being here, and for meeting this new season with presence and curiosity. Whether you’re emerging slowly, stretching into something new, or simply letting yourself rest at the edge. I hope spring meets you with ease.
With love and care,
Dr. Michelle
Physician, Gardener, Home Cook, and Forever Curious
P.S. If this reflection resonated with you, I’d be honored if you’d like it or share it with a friend. This growing community is a place for slowing down, seasonal nourishment, and thoughtful connection—including our Savor the Seasons Cookbook Club, where we explore food as medicine together, one beautiful meal at a time.
Here are my most recent Substack sharings:
A New Season for the Newsletter - Deeper conversations, seasonal audio, and a heartfelt invitation to join me in this next evolution—including a new way to support this work!
Savor the Seasons Cookbook Club #3 - Featuring Salad Seasons by Sheela Prakash
Many takeaways. Beautiful writing, thanks for the reflection prompts.
Such a beautiful read ✨