I’ve always loved fall. Maybe it’s the colors. Maybe it’s the crisp air. Or maybe it’s that one season every year reminds us that change can be absolutely breathtaking.
Every autumn, I find myself staring at trees like I’ve never seen one before. Brilliant reds, fiery oranges, golden yellows. I’ll stop to take a picture of one, turn around, and discover another that’s somehow even more spectacular.
Apparently, I’ve become the unofficial paparazzi of autumn foliage.
But something caught my attention this year.
The trees didn’t get the memo.
Some are already showing off in their full autumn glory. Others are just beginning to change. A few are stubbornly hanging on to summer, still dressed in green like nobody told them October came and went.
And you know what?
They’re all beautiful.
The more I looked around, the more I realized that autumn doesn’t seem particularly concerned with schedules or expectations.
One tree is practically screaming, “LOOK AT ME!” in brilliant shades of red and orange, while the one standing right beside it is apparently still enjoying July.
Neither one is behind. Neither one is ahead. They’re simply changing when they’re ready.
And somewhere between photographing my fifteenth tree and wondering whether I needed a support group for my newfound obsession, it occurred to me that life works much the same way.
We spend so much time making plans, setting timelines, and imagining how things are supposed to unfold.
And then life, with its impeccable sense of humor, reminds us that it never agreed to any of those plans.
This year has certainly driven that point home.
Of course, not all change arrives wrapped in beautiful colors and crisp autumn air.
This year brought a season of loss we neither anticipated nor asked for. The kind of change that doesn’t knock politely before entering. It just shows up, rearranges everything, and leaves you figuring out where the hell to put all the pieces.
There are empty spaces now where familiar voices and laughter once lived. Traditions that will feel a little different. Stories that suddenly seem more important to remember.
But there’s something else, too.
Gratitude.
Not for the losses themselves. Those can take a flying leap.
But for the years, the laughter, the lessons, the ridiculous stories, and the memories that remain. For having had those people in our lives in the first place.
And maybe that’s another lesson autumn has been quietly teaching me.
Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean we stop missing what was.
Sometimes it simply means learning how to carry the things that matter into whatever comes next.
And then there are the changes we actually invite into our lives.
The ones we dream about, plan for, save for, and occasionally question our sanity over.
For us, that means preparing to trade the familiar for something entirely new. A different country, a different language, a different pace of life.
Portugal.
It’s exciting. It’s intimidating. And depending on the day, it’s either the greatest adventure we’ve ever planned or a spectacular example of two people who really should have their heads examined.
Possibly both.
We’re slowly letting go of things we’ve accumulated over the years, making room for experiences we haven’t had yet. Learning that sometimes moving forward means leaving a few things behind.
And just like those trees, we’re not changing everything overnight.
Some things we’re ready to release. Others we’re still holding on to.
We’re figuring it out as we go.
Which, come to think of it, has pretty much become our operating system.
I suppose that’s what I love most about autumn.
It doesn’t ask everything to stay the same. It doesn’t apologize for changing. And it certainly doesn’t wait for every tree to get on the same damn schedule.
It just happens. Beautifully, imperfectly, and in its own time.
Maybe that’s how we should approach the changes in our own lives.
We can miss what was, appreciate what remains, and still be excited about what’s ahead. We can hold tightly to our memories while loosening our grip on the things that no longer serve us.
And we don’t have to have every detail figured out before taking the next step.
Lord knows we don’t.
So, as the leaves continue to fall and another year begins winding down, I’m choosing to embrace the changes ahead. Not because I know exactly where they’ll lead, but because I’ve learned that sometimes the most beautiful moments happen somewhere between what was and what’s next.
Besides, we’ve got a general direction.
And snacks.
We should be fine.