Seasons of Me

Some people live for summer. Flip-flops, fireflies, and late-night bonfires. Not me. I mean, summer has its place, usually in the outdoors… with the mosquitoes.

For me, the seasons have always felt more like moods than months.

• Spring is hopeful and erratic, like the beginning of a new relationship.
• Summer is loud, sticky, and a little chaotic.
• Fall is the deep breath I wait for all year.
• And winter? Winter is both a full stop and a quiet invitation to listen to yourself again.

As a kid, the seasons weren’t marked by calendars or decorations—they were marked by rhythms.
Summer meant lazy days at Grandma’s house, where time moved slower and snacks appeared like magic. Fall meant sharpened pencils, new shoes, and that jittery feeling of starting school again. Winter was all about praying for snow days, listening to the radio with fingers crossed and boots by the door. The world kept turning, but it was those simple seasonal rituals that shaped the backdrop of my childhood.

Now, I feel the shift in subtler ways. The first time I open the windows in spring and let the breeze blow in dust bunnies I pretend I don’t see. The way I start making chili again in October, like clockwork. The winter silence that makes me a little melancholy, but a little more myself, too.

The truth is, my life has had its own seasons. Times of growth. Times of letting go. Times of chaos. Times of rest.

And just like nature, those seasons rarely arrived when it was convenient.

I’ve learned to stop fighting them. You can’t rush fall any more than you can force a person to listen. You can’t make spring arrive on command just because you’re tired of the cold.

But you can show up with a sweater when it’s chilly. You can open your arms when things bloom again. And you can trust that whatever season you’re in—it’s not forever.

But it’s yours.

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