Notes on Fall, Feeling, and Something Like Hope
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt any real sense of hope. Or joy. Or excitement.
Sure, there have been little moments — laughing at something the kids did, feeling a flicker of pride after a win at work.
But real joy? The kind that fills your chest and makes you believe that maybe, just maybe, something good is coming?
It’s been a while.
But then something changes.
The rhythm of the days slows. The colors deepen.
The world starts to smell like cinnamon and woodsmoke and something that feels like possibility.
Fall is coming.
And every year, without fail, it brings me back to life.
Not all at once — but slowly, gently.
Something like hope.
It starts with the smallest things:
The first chilly morning that makes me reach for a sweatshirt.
The sound of leaves crunching as the boys race through the yard.
A pumpkin candle flickering on the counter while a favorite movie plays.
None of it fixes everything.
But somehow, it reminds me I’m still here.
Still trying. Still feeling.
Still capable of being moved — even if it’s just by the way the light looks at 6pm.
Slowly, the comforts start stacking.
And before long, the season takes shape — not just in scents and sweaters, but in the rituals we return to.
Saturday mornings at the farm (ALL of them) with fry cakes and cider.
Afternoons picking pumpkins, kids darting between wagons and wheelbarrows.
Evenings curled up on the couch, the TV casting shadows while a scary movie plays and someone inevitably spills popcorn.
It’s not perfect. But it’s something.
Something cozy. Something to look forward to.
Something like the life I keep hoping will settle in for good.
And maybe that’s why I wait for it — year after year, even when everything else feels uncertain.
Because fall doesn’t fix me.
But it reminds me that I’m still here.
Still capable of joy.
Still holding space for hope.
No comments