A Change of Seasons
Some live for bold transformations—grand openings, dramatic exits, big life announcements. Not me. I’m more of a “slow fade into the next thing” kind of gal. Like nature here in the Midwest, my life seems to shift in seasons—quietly, subtly, and sometimes without me even noticing until I’m standing knee-deep in snow, wondering what happened to my flip-flops.
I love how our Midwest seasons change slooooowly (yes, with that many o’s). One season melts into the next. Summer doesn’t pack its bags and storm out; it lingers. The days gradually shorten, green leaves blush into the warm golds and reds of autumn, and then flutter to the ground, uncovering winter’s stark branches. In the spring, snowdrops poke through leftover patches of snow in my garden, and redwing blackbirds start shouting from the treetops that summer is just around the corner.
Slow transitions are true for my life, too. Honestly, I WISH my seasons would change more like someone flipping a giant universe switch labeled “NEXT!”
You see, for most of my early life, each season came quickly one after the other: a new grade, a different school building (elementary, junior high, high school, college). The benchmarks were hard to miss. Then came marriage, another clear dividing line. No mistaking that transition—it came with a dress, a name change, and a joint checking account.
But then things slowed down. Starting a family also felt like stepping into a new chapter, but it wasn’t one of those predictable, glowing pregnancy journeys with color-coded trimester timelines. Nope. Ours was more of a winding rollercoaster involving infertility treatments, adoption paperwork, frantic Google searches about international laws, and a few nail-biting country shutdowns. In the end, we adopted Luka and Kadon in 2006 and Aubrey in 2009. It was chaotic, unpredictable, and utterly life-changing—but not exactly a gentle seasonal drift.
My teaching career followed a similar pattern. In the fall of 1988, I began bright-eyed and idealistic—though already a little suspicious that I might not be cut out to be a teacher forever. A few years later, I tried to pivot away from the profession and worked in my family’s business. But the classroom pulled me back. I missed the learning, the sense of purpose… and, let’s be honest, the ability to wear comfy shoes every day. (Priorities, right?)
Still, the itch to move on never went away. I stayed year after year, always wondering, “What else could I do?” My final year of teaching was…a doozy. I handed in my resignation on March 15, 2020—just two days before the entire world shut down. I spent the last few months of my career teaching online in pajamas and trying to keep second graders engaged through a screen. (Spoiler: they weren’t.) And just like that, I was done.
And yet, here’s the funny thing: even when my transitions look sudden, they’re rarely that way on the inside. I can see now that most of these shifts started long before the official start or stop. They crept in slowly—small nudges, tiny signs, quiet inner whispers telling me that change was coming. Kind of like that first leaf turning red in early August. Blink and you’ll miss it—but it’s the beginning of everything.
As I said earlier, my life changes slowly. Even when it seems dramatic from the outside, on the inside, it’s usually more of a meandering walk than a sprint. And just like with the Midwest seasons, I never quite know if I should be grabbing a sunhat or a snow shovel—but eventually, I figure it out.
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