This time of year has a way of feeling familiar.

The cold lingers longer than we want it to. The light changes slowly. Certain memories seem to surface on their own schedule, whether we invite them or not. And somewhere in the middle of it, it can start to feel like we’ve been here before.

Groundhog Day tends to lean into that idea in a lighthearted way. The same question. The same prediction. Six more weeks of winter, or not. Either way, the calendar calls March 20th the end of winter. I know it’s meant to be playful, but there’s something quietly honest about it too.

Seasons repeat.

And sometimes, emotionally, it can feel like we do as well.

I hear this from people often, and I’ve felt it myself. A sense of déjà vu. “Why does this feel familiar again?” or “Didn’t I already work through this?” The assumption that follows is usually a harsh one. If something is showing up again, it must mean we’re stuck. That we haven’t moved forward as much as we thought. Or that maybe we’ve gone backward.

I don’t believe that’s what’s happening.

Winter doesn’t return because we failed at spring. It returns because seasons are cyclical by nature. The landscape looks different each time, even if the temperature feels the same. Trees carry more rings. The ground holds more history. We’re not standing in the same place we were before, even if it looks similar on the surface.

Grief, memory, and meaning work much the same way.

There are feelings that don’t disappear simply because we’ve acknowledged them once. There are memories that resurface not to pull us backward, but because we’re capable of holding them differently now. What once felt unbearable may now feel heavy but manageable. What once overwhelmed us may now arrive with context instead of chaos.

That’s not regression. That’s experience at work.

This time of year can amplify that sensation. The quiet of winter. The way routines slow down. The way holidays and anniversaries cluster together. Life gives us fewer distractions, and feelings that have been waiting patiently begin to surface.

And when they do, we often judge ourselves for it.

We assume progress should be permanent and linear. That once something has been “processed,” it shouldn’t return. But healing doesn’t erase memory. It changes our relationship to it. The same feeling can come back with less intensity, more understanding, or a different question attached to it.

Sometimes what feels like repetition is actually refinement.

Sometimes the lesson isn’t new. We’re just meeting it from a different place.

When that happens, it’s easy to assume something is wrong. That we should be “past this by now.” That repetition means we’ve failed to learn the lesson.

But repetition isn’t always a sign that nothing has changed.

Sometimes it’s proof that we have.

You can walk through the same season again and notice different things. You can feel the same emotion with more compassion than fear. You can recognize a familiar ache without letting it define the day. You can acknowledge what still hurts without questioning how far you’ve come.

Groundhog Day asks a simple question. Are we in for more of the same?

Life’s version of that question is quieter and more personal. It sounds like, “What am I noticing now that I couldn’t see before?” Or, “How am I different this time through?”

If this season feels familiar, that doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It may mean you’re paying attention. It may mean you’re carrying more wisdom into the same landscape. It may mean you’re learning how to live alongside what stays, rather than waiting for it to disappear.

Seasons repeat. But we don’t remain the same.

And sometimes, that’s the real measure of movement.

A Reflection for This Week

If you’re willing, try this once or twice over the next few days.

When something familiar shows up again, a feeling, a memory, a reaction, pause before judging it. Instead of asking, “Why am I back here?” try asking, “What’s different about how I’m meeting this now?”

Notice what’s changed. The intensity. The language you use with yourself. The way you recover. The fact that you’re even aware enough to ask the question.

Growth doesn’t always look like leaving something behind. Sometimes it looks like standing in the same place with a steadier footing.

And that counts