Live in the season you’re in

In preparation for the launch of our Back to Basics course on May 11th, we have invited our friend and co-creator, Olympia Rusu, to share some thoughts on flourishing through every season! 

Sometimes I feel like the season of my life reflects the season I see outside. And sometimes I feel the opposite. I remember when I finally felt like I was going to thrive after a long health flare-up, COVID hit and isolation became the new norm. I became unsure not only of what was going on in the world (as many of us felt at the time), but I also experienced an inner discord that arose within me. I felt confused and uneasy, like things should be one way, and yet they were outwardly looking like another. In a way, I felt duped.

A few years later, my husband and I moved from California to North Carolina with a grand vision of starting a farm and seeking a more intentional, grounded, nature-focused life. It was spring. Each new bloom felt monumental, and we began paving a new path for ourselves—one we are still cultivating today. In many ways, that spring carried with it small blessings that gave us hope for what was to come.

I believe there is profound purpose to be found in every season. There will always be ebb and flow—seasons of pressure and of release, times of flourishing and others of being pruned. I want to take a few moments to reflect on what each season has meant to me over the years, and how I am choosing to see them now. My life circumstances may not always match the physical season outside, but I can still look at the world around me and take inspiration from what this day offers.

WINTER

quietly turning inward | pondering and searching for meaning

Winter used to feel like something to endure.
The shorter, darker days, the quiet, the lack of visible growth—it all made me restless. The cold seemed to make everything physically more difficult too. I felt stagnant, sometimes lonely, and often bored, wondering how to fill my time indoors. I wanted proof that things were moving forward, and winter rarely offers that. It asks you to trust what you cannot yet see.

But this past winter, I finally stopped resisting it.

I let things be slower. I spent more time indoors without trying to justify it. I allowed space for rest, for reflection—even for the uncomfortable feelings that tend to surface when everything else gets quiet. Instead of asking, “When will this pass?” I began asking, “What is this season asking of me?”

And here’s what I discovered: in practicing deeper breathing, I slept better. In starting my nighttime routines earlier, I slept longer. In paying attention to the small moments that made up my day, I felt more restored. Healing was taking place—both in my body and in my soul. It felt slow, and yet it felt right.

Winter, I’m learning, is not empty. It is foundational. It is where roots deepen, where clarity forms, where strength is quietly built.

SPRING

a blossoming of the soul | seeing hope manifested in small flowers

As I’m writing this, we’re quickly approaching spring. Spring feels like a gentle invitation—
not a demand to bloom overnight, but a quiet nudge toward life again. Even along the freeways, the trees carry soft amber buds, hinting at the green they will soon become. And on warmer days, the birds and frogs find their voices again, filling the air with a song that feels like a promise of what’s coming. In winter, they were silent—but now they are remembering the joy of living.

There’s a tenderness to spring. The first signs of growth are small, almost easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. Growing up, I often overlooked these moments—the fresh buds, the newly blossoming trees—so I’m determined to enjoy them now for as long as they last. I even cut a few branches from our peach tree and placed the budding blossoms in a vase on our kitchen island instead of buying flowers from the store. I’ve been trying to invite spring into our home more intentionally.

In my own life, spring often looks like one foot in front of the other. New ideas, renewed energy, the desire to try again. But I’m learning not to rush this season either. Growth that is forced too quickly rarely lasts. The blossoms will soon be gone as they transform into the fullness of what they were meant to be. So I appreciate them today, knowing they may be gone tomorrow—and that’s okay.

Spring reminds me that it is intrinsically good to begin again. To start small. To nurture what is just beginning to take shape, even if it doesn’t look like much yet. 

SUMMER

charming, wild chaos | enjoying the present moment

Summer feels like a kind of free-for-all. It’s full of energy, movement, responsibility, and visible growth. It’s the season where things stretch outward—where the work you’ve been doing begins to show.

Schedules are more fluid. Kids are out of school. Vacations are on the horizon. Long, sunny days offer the freedom to choose between a spontaneous trip to the pool or a slow afternoon reading outside. I love how summer carries a sense of endless possibility—a deep enjoyment of the present moment.

On our farm, summer is also demanding. There is always something to tend to, something that needs attention. And in life, it often feels the same way. There have been times I’ve tried to carry summer energy all year long—to stay productive, outward, and constantly “on.” But that kind of living isn’t sustainable. I’ve exhausted myself that way, leading to burnout that takes longer to recover from than if I had simply embraced the season I was in.

Now, I’m learning to step into summer when it’s here—to accept and enjoy the fullness, the work, the abundance—without trying to make it last forever. It too will pass. So in the meantime, I embrace the spontaneity, the late-night dinners, the heat, and the endless ideas that move through my mind and body. The starry nights invite deep conversations, and I marvel at the handiwork of a flourishing garden that God brings to life.

FALL

beauty unwinding | gentle and purpose-filled dying

Fall has its own kind of charm—yes, even beyond the spiced lattes and pumpkin patches. It naturally welcomes structure while still holding onto a sense of wonder. The rich palette of golden hues, olive greens, terracotta, and deep plum feels both grounding and familiar. In my soul, fall feels like gratitude, contentment, and release.

It is a season of harvest—of seeing what has come from months of tending and growth. But it is also a season of letting go, of recognizing that not everything is meant to be carried forward. I remember when we grew our first large garden and realized that these plants would all eventually die, and we would have to start again the next year. It felt sad at first, but I chose to transform that sense of loss into gratitude for everything the garden had given. It wouldn’t last forever—but it wasn’t meant to.

There is a quiet wisdom in fall. A slowing down that feels different from winter—not as still, but more reflective. More intentional.

In my own life, fall has become a time to take stock—to celebrate what has grown, to grieve what didn’t, and to gently release what no longer serves the next season.

It is possible to thrive in every season. I’m just learning now that thriving doesn’t always look the same.

Sometimes it looks like small, simple blossoming in the spring—quiet growth that’s easy to overlook.
Sometimes it looks like the full, stretching work of summer, bringing long-held ideas into fruition.
Sometimes it looks like fall—letting go, unwinding, and receiving what is with open, grateful hands.
And sometimes, thriving looks like winter—when nothing appears to be happening at all, but your roots are growing deep in the silence and safety below the surface.

What season are you in right now?
Does your inner season match what you see around you—or feel at odds with it?
What might this season be trying to teach you?

The LORD will guide you continually,
And satisfy your soul in drought,
And strengthen your bones;
You shall be like a watered garden,
And like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.
—Isaiah 58:11

As we journey together through Lent and approach the glorious Resurrection of our Lord, I pray that you would live fully in this season of becoming. We are not yet at the crucifixion, and we have not yet passed through it with Christ into the resurrection. May we trust Him in the process and seek the treasure that is to be found today.

Olympia Rusu

Orthodox Christian • Certified Holistic Nutritionist • Homesteader

Olympia and her husband Ephraim left California to cultivate a 7.5-acre farm in North Carolina, creating a life rooted in intention, beauty, and joy. Together, they run a tea company, host guests at their farm’s Airbnb cottage, and share their sourdough, teas, and produce at over 15 locations locally and around the country. Through her writing, products, and offerings, she helps others slow down, elevate their everyday routines, and cultivate homes and lives that flourish with joy and beauty. You can explore her farm shop, classes, events, and blog at www.saintbasilfarmnc.com.