For me, it's not about the messiness or the drama. I've always been deeply curious about people—what drives their actions, how they find redemption, or how fear or love shapes their choices.
It's the sociology major within me that can't help but study and decipher people. Whether it's the Bachelor or Survivor, I root for people to be good, to face their inner demons, and to fall in love. I'm wholeheartedly invested in their becoming.
And so, there was a moment on the show Love is Blind (the last season) that went completely overlooked, siloed away from the drama and the gossip.
In one of the wedding scenes, the bride, Taylor, shared a word in her vows that she discovered throughout the process.
Apricity.
Apricity is an Old English word that refers to "the warmth of the sun in winter." It got lost in the English language centuries ago, but it seems like the kind of word that should be pulled from the cutting room floor, especially this winter.
Just this morning, as I bundled up and walked in the 29-degree weather, I basked in the apricity, feeling hopeful for spring days coming soon.
When she shared the discovery of the word within her vows, I was in the middle of a pregnancy loss– caught between knowing that there was no heartbeat and waiting for the "next steps" from the doctor.
I had no words to mark where I was on the map. It was such a jarring feeling to be headed somewhere, in a direction you were anticipating, and then to feel straight wiped off the road with a couple of words and an ultrasound.
It felt like I was hiking in the woods but lost the trail. Like I was looking around in all directions, searching frantically for the colored paint on the trees that told you, "This way. Keep going."
Apricity. Something about that word felt like light breaking through the darkness. It felt like a little "I see you" moment from God, a gift for someone who has always found His presence in the beauty and nuance of language.
Apricity.
The days felt cold and long and lacking light– yet I kept feeling the sun in small ways. In tears cried. And meals delivered. In care packages left on the doorstep. In a village showing up.
I felt the sun in cups of tea. In the turn of the holiday season. In a heating pad and raspberry leaf tea sent by an old friend. In stillness. In surrender.
The notebook hoarder in me—who firmly believes a good journal can change your life—went to Target a few days after the news. I grabbed a chunky white spiral notebook, the kind you'd use for AP Biology, with plenty of space and no frills. I called it my "healing notebook" and placed it on my desk. In that notebook, I wrote words I needed to hear. Little reminders. Small graces. Places where I spotted God moving. This chunky notebook of mine is one big spiral-bound collection of apricity.
The moments of the sun in the cracks kept coming. They have not stopped revealing themselves to me, and I haven't stopped circling them in my mind. It never feels like the moments need to be claimed or thrust onto a gratitude list. They just stand there shining—like the sun on a longer winter day.
Their presence soothes me. I smile when they make their little appearances. It's like a still small whisper rushing in, "You don't need a map. You're doing just fine. You don't have to look for the trail markers anymore. You can paint the trees yourself.
This season isn't all about moving forward or moving past the grief. Move when you're ready. Stand still when you need to. You can always stand still and be warmed by the sun."
