This morning, I pulled on my tights to head to the office. Booties slipped on my feet and jacket over my shoulders before I walked out the door. That means one thing… it’s officially fall.
I hate fall. There, I said it. I get it if we can no longer be friends. I don’t like Pumpkin Spice Lattes either. I know, there is something wrong with me. Pencil bouquets, the smell of new backpacks, Halloween candy at every turn — It’s not my jam. If forced to name something, I love apple picking & squash. Boots, sweaters, football games, and crisp weather are all okay, but not things that I yearn for.
Fall makes me anxious… anticipating shorter days. The night that comes so quickly. The leaves withering and falling to the ground. The crunch they make under your feet reminding you of the crunch of snow when it is less than 10 degrees that is to come. It is the season I worry that my depression will come back, even if it is an irrational fear. I have no symptoms, just an unsettled feeling.
Darkness is suffocating to me. We have timers on lights in our house so the automatically come on as the sun goes down. I hate walking into our house when it is completely dark. Somehow it can’t be a sanctuary when it is pitch black. I need the warm glow of even one soft white light bulb, like a lighthouse reminding me that love lives there even when we aren’t home.
Because I can’t change the darkness, I will find joy in other things this season: our annual family apple picking trip where everybody is required to wear red; trick or treat where we come back to my best friend’s stew and homemade bread that reminds me of my mother; and my children spending hours jumping in leaves. But for now, I’m going to grieve for the daylight that will soon be gone when I go home from work.