The light changes first.
Not the temperature, not the leaves - the light. It slants differently, softer and shorter. The shadows stretch longer across the ground like grief does across a lifetime - it doesn’t disappear, just shifts where it falls.
Fall has always been about change. But when you’ve lived through loss, it’s not the pumpkin spice and cozy sweaters that mark the season. It’s the ache of remembering who’s missing at the table. It's the air of gathering that used to mean home but now holds a heavy absence.
And yet, there’s something about this season that still whispers hope. The trees let go. No apology. There's no pretending it doesn’t hurt. They release what once made them beautiful and somehow, they’re still alive. Maybe that’s the lesson: letting go doesn’t mean it’s over. It just means we trust there’s another spring ahead.
So as Thanksgiving edges closer, it’s okay if gratitude feels complicated. It’s okay if your thanks come with tears, or if your joy feels like it’s walking hand in hand with sorrow. Maybe this year, gratitude isn’t loud or pretty. Maybe it’s just this: we’re still here. Breathing. Remembering. Trying again.
Because life keeps moving, even in the cold, and that, somehow, is its own quiet grace.