Seasonal seesaw

Spring has sprung: how seasons mold our hobbies and identity.

Both the cherry blossoms and invites for sunset drinks at rooftop bars are in bloom—telltale signs spring has sprung here in New York City. People are migrating out of their apartments and onto rooftops, into parks, and lining the streets of Soho, Williamsburg, and the West Village. Even restaurants are bringing back street dining (NYC.gov). However, sitting in a plywood box on the street while I eat my $32 cacio e pepe and sip a $22 martini is not something I’m looking forward to.

I'm not just a passive observer in the transition to spring and summer. The growing hum of excitement and energy felt in the city is reflected in my own internal circles. Chatter about golf rounds and questions of trip plans for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July fill the air. A small group of friends and I even applied for Manhattan Yacht Club, eager to continue our newest hobby: sailing. Picnics in the park instead of lunches at the bar and running on the West Side Highway instead of on a treadmill in the basement define this seasonal shift. My life is beginning to once again completely reorient around this beautiful period from the end of spring through fall, worshipped by those of us from cold weather states. Spring cleaning means not only decluttering and preparing for yet another summer, but also dusting off a long list of hobbies placed on the shelf during winter.

Society has an overweight reliance on activities and hobbies geared towards warmer weather (read: summer). I posit that it isn't just me who is excited to pick up a list of things I would critically define as my hobbies again this summer. I believe many of you feel the same way, and this seasonal hobby cycle may be a contributing factor to what is known as "seasonal depression." For a quarter to half of the year, a long list of activities and experiences gets tucked away for winter, and often new activities don't take their place. This lack of loved experiences and potential isolation from the people we share those experiences with can compound the other triggers of seasonal depression. In New York especially, where the city transforms so dramatically between seasons—from vibrant street life and park gatherings in summer to the insular, indoor existence of winter—this contrast can make the seasonal hobby deficit feel even more pronounced. The same dense urban environment that buzzes with endless outdoor possibilities during warm months can feel unusually confining when cold weather forces life behind closed doors.

An evening walk back to our cabin.

We are ultimately comprised of our daily actions. As Annie Dillard says, "How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." While I would call myself a golfer, is this identity truly authentic during the six months of the year when I do not touch a golf course? The same can be said about a sailboat stowed away in a dry dock. I am more fulfilled and more me during these cycles of the year when I get to center my free time around the things that I love. This transition of seasons is inherently exciting because I get to become a fuller version of myself. However, it is also a signal that I need to create better balance between the things that I enjoy, and when I enjoy them. This seasonal imbalance feels as unsustainable as perpetually living for the weekend, year after year.

I don't write this as a challenge to pick up more things to do when the temperature drops below freezing but rather as a prompt for introspection. Consider whether this seasonal seesaw has tipped in your own life, and if you've fallen deeply entrenched in a routine that favors one part of the year. For me, it certainly has. It has led to me seeking new activities that are not bound by some arbitrary constraint such as season or place. Living in Manhattan alone often makes it hard enough to do things you love, so I'm trying to impose as few restrictions as possible on my enjoyment. I've also picked up skiing, in an attempt to bring unique experiences to that once-void period of the year and balance out me. The goal isn't perfect equilibrium across seasons, but rather a more continuous thread of fulfillment woven throughout the year.

Note: This same post can be written on the transition from fall to winter, with a melancholic tone. I’m intending to be writing it optimistically, as I get to open the door to a more fulfilled version of myself. All of the film is from a trip to upstate New York, to Wildflower Farms, an Auberge Resorts property.

Thanks for reading—have a great week.

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