There are certain days in our lives that we celebrate year after year without ever realising just how much meaning they carry. We mark them, we remember them, we feel them… but we don’t always understand them. Not until much later, when time softens everything and gives us the distance to finally see.
I wrote recently about my son being born just after Valentine’s Day—how it felt like love itself had found its way into my life in the most tangible, undeniable way. And the more I’ve reflected on it, the more I’ve come to understand that his timing carried its own quiet symbolism. February 15th sits just beyond Valentine’s Day, but it also echoes something older—an ancient rhythm tied to Lupercalia, a time of purification and fertility, a kind of energetic clearing before the full arrival of spring.
But before that… before I had the language for that kind of love… there was her.
Amber-Lynn.
Born on March 19th,
And I still catch myself wondering… how is that even possible?
Because in my mind, I can still see her as she was in the beginning—and I can still see myself, too. Young. So young. Standing at the edge of a life I hadn’t quite figured out yet, holding something so precious it almost felt too big for me to fully comprehend.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t scared. I was. There’s a kind of fear that comes with realising everything is about to change, and that you’re stepping into something you can’t possibly be fully prepared for. But what I remember just as clearly—maybe even more so—is the love.
Immediate. Fierce. Unquestionable.
The kind of love that doesn’t ask if you’re ready… it just arrives and rewrites you from the inside out.
At the time, I didn’t see anything beyond that moment. I wasn’t thinking about seasons or symbolism or sacred timing. I was just living it. Learning as I went. Growing into motherhood one day at a time, alongside her.
But now… now I see something I didn’t then.
She was born on the eve of the Spring Equinox. Ostara. A moment suspended in perfect balance, where light and dark stand side by side before the world begins to lean toward the light again. A quiet turning point. A breath held between what was and what is about to become.
And when I think about that now… it moves something deep in me.
Because that’s exactly where I was.
In between.
Not in darkness… but not yet fully in the light either. Still finding my way. Still becoming.
She arrived.
Not as chaos. Not as something that took from me… but as something that gave. Direction. Meaning. A deeper understanding of love, of purpose, of myself.
She didn’t interrupt my life.
She expanded it.
Ostara isn’t just about balance—it’s about what follows. It’s about the quiet promise that light will return, that warmth will come back, that life will rise again even after the longest winter. It’s about beginnings that don’t always feel clear or easy in the moment… but unfold into something beautiful over time.
That’s what she was for me.
A beginning I couldn’t yet name.
A shift I couldn’t yet see.
A light I didn’t even realise I was stepping into.
Years later, when my son was born, I could recognise it more clearly—the love, the symbolism, the way life has these quiet patterns. But Amber-Lynn… she was the first spark of it all.
The first light.
The turning of everything.
And now, all these years later, I look at March 19th, and I don’t just see the day my daughter was born. I see the moment my life gently, powerfully began to change direction. I see the beginning of a version of myself that I hadn’t yet grown into—but that she helped bring forward, simply by being here.
She will always be that for me.
Not just my daughter… but a living reminder that even when we feel unsure, even when we’re still finding our way, life can place something in our hands that becomes the very thing that leads us forward.
Light doesn’t always arrive all at once.
Sometimes… it arrives as a little girl, on the edge of spring 🌸