Of Time & Honey

There’s a moment, just before the wind turns sharp and the trees surrender their colors, when everything feels like it's been dipped in gold. The sun hits different—softer, lower, more honest. Time slows, not because life gets quieter, but because something inside asks us to notice. The rustle of leaves, the amber skies, the way the air smells like both endings and beginnings all at once.

I used to think change had to be big and disruptive—loud declarations, sweeping life shifts. But the seasons keep teaching me otherwise. Change can be gentle. Change can whisper. And sometimes, it's not about reinventing ourselves, but about returning to something we forgot. Something essential. Something quietly waiting.

This time of year reminds me to stop chasing, just for a little while. To light a candle. To wear something soft. To open a window and let the air move through the room, and through me. To let go of the version of myself that no longer fits, without needing to fully understand what comes next.

Inspiration doesn’t always come in a lightning bolt. Sometimes it arrives in the smell of woodsmoke, the sound of boots on dry leaves, the golden slant of 4 p.m. sunlight on a Tuesday. It reminds me that beauty doesn’t ask to be earned—it just is, waiting for us to witness it.

So here I am again, learning how to let go and begin all at once. Watching the trees do what they do best—trust the falling. Trust the light.

And maybe, just maybe, so can I.