On growing older, growing gentler, and learning to let the seasons change
I still felt it this year, that familiar spark when the air cooled and the light softened. I remember the first morning I stepped outside and the world smelled like change: crisp leaves, damp earth, that quiet hum that says fall has arrived.
It woke something in me, like it always does, that gentle rush of joy that says it’s time.
Fall has always been my reset button. Every year, I dive in early, eager. The pumpkins appear on the porch before the leaves have even started to turn. Candles glow, and I let myself sink into it... that rhythm of shorter days and cozier nights. It’s the season that always feels like coming home to myself.
And yet, somewhere along the way this October, something changed.
The spark came, like it always does, but it didn’t linger. Halloween is still a few days away, and somehow I’m already ready to move on. I’m not bored or sad, just… at peace with letting go.
It’s strange, really. I’ve always lived for this stretch of the year. For the haunted houses, the horror marathons, the stories that made me flinch in the best way. I loved the pulse of it, the adrenaline. The way fear felt fun when life itself felt predictable. Fall wasn’t just a season to me; it was a whole personality. A little bit of mystery, a little bit of mischief, all wrapped up in orange lights and late nights.
So it feels strange not to feel it with the same intensity. We still did all the things: the pumpkin picking, the hayride, the cider donuts I crave all year... but there’s a softness where the spark used to be. I enjoyed it, just not like I used to.
Maybe it’s because I don’t need it in the same way anymore. The older I get, the less I crave being startled. The thrill of horror and haunted houses once felt like a release, a safe kind of fear, a quickened pulse I could control. But now, after all the real-life uncertainty, I think my soul just wants a break.
I still enjoy a good ghost story or eerie novel now and then, but the draw isn’t as deep. The shadows that once felt thrilling now just feel loud. Haunted houses make me anxious instead of excited. Even my favorite horror movies, the ones I used to count down for, can’t compete with what I want most now: comfort. Calm. Predictability. The kind of peace that doesn’t need to shout to be felt.
These days, my anticipation tilts toward the holidays. I find myself craving the softness of snow, the glow of twinkle lights, the easy warmth of Hallmark movies that always end the way you hope they will. I want stillness, the quiet that comes when the world slows down and the air feels clean again.
Every year, the end of Halloween night used to ache a little. I’d climb into bed and already feel the clock ticking down, the countdown to my favorite season beginning again before I even fell asleep. But this year, I don’t think I’ll mourn it. I’ll let it go and be okay.
Maybe that’s what change looks like — not losing joy, but letting it take new forms. The thrill has faded, yes, but something gentler has taken its place. I no longer need the jolt of fear to feel alive. I find it now in smaller moments: a calm night, a cozy blanket, the sound of my boys laughing in the next room.
And perhaps that's the truest kind of magic... the way peace can still feel like wonder.
No comments