On grief, gratitude, and the season that saves me
As a self-proclaimed fall addict, horror lover, and Halloween junkie… I start counting down to the next Halloween as soon as the current one ends. It’s my favorite day of the entire year — the ultimate culmination of everything I love about fall. It’s my day. Better than my birthday, more exciting than Christmas.
So when pumpkin spice everything and fall memes start creeping into my feed, I can’t help but feel happy.
And hopeful.
Some people live for summer. I relentlessly live for fall — in all its chilly, cozy glory. In my heart, it’s fall all year round. I burn fall-scented candles no matter the month, and every single one of my many wax melts leans toward the cozy “bakery” variety: apple, vanilla, pumpkin, baked goods. Horror movies are also my year-round entertainment of choice — not just when spooky season hits. I watch them almost every weekend, and my Halloween “monster” dolls stay proudly on display 365 days a year.
Even though it’s always fall in my mind, I still anxiously await the moment each year when the rest of the world agrees. When the temperature dips to that breezy perfection. When the tips of our noses turn cold but we don’t even mind. And even though the calendar says fall doesn’t officially begin until late September, it’s game on for me as soon as the calendar flips to the first. (Though, confession, I already snuck out a few decorations last week after spotting new fall displays at the store. Oops.)
When I think of fall, I can’t help but smile.
I love the colors of the leaves, burning orange in the sky. I love the chill in the air that sends us reaching for boots and chunky sweaters. I love hunkering down under blankets, flickering candles lighting the room, a hot chocolate in hand. I love the hay bales and pumpkins, the cozy greetings of seasonal décor wherever I go. I love opening my calendar and penciling in fall festivals and haunted attractions, racing to squeeze it all in before the season disappears.
I love lining up for haunted hayrides, bouncing in place as I brace for the laughter and jumps ahead. I love prowling pumpkin patches, looking for one just big enough — but not too big to carry. I love the crunch beneath my boots, the scent in the air, the eerie sense of magic that fall brings. I love chili and baked goods and hot soups on cold nights. I love cringing at Hocus Pocus for the hundredth time with my besties — because even though we could recite it by heart, it still makes our must-watch list every single year.
I love rewatching Halloween, Scream, all the horror classics… but also trying out every new scary movie I can find. I love curling up with a pile of campy horror novels to really set the mood. I love cider and donuts and s’mores by the fire. I love the smell, the sky, the quiet of crisp evening walks under a glowing moon.
If I could live in fall forever, I would.
This year started off hard for our little family. The baby we lost was supposed to be here this fall… and so, I still feel a little bit empty. But remember that hope I mentioned? It grows in the fall. It grows when I’m happy. It reminds me that life ends, yes — but begins again and again. Just like the leaves.
Soon I’ll search for the perfect costume for Caleb. I’ll dress him in it and we’ll go trick-or-treating in the dark on my absolute favorite day. The shuffling of little feet in the street — his and my nephews’ and all the neighborhood kids’ — will remind me to hope. To be grateful. To be present. Because how could I not? This season comes back every single year.
At the end of the night, I’ll start my countdown all over again.
I’ll dig through Caleb’s candy and sneak my favorites (Kit Kats? Hand ’em over). I’ll smile at his chocolate-covered cheeks and feel a pang of joy that I get to be his mom. I’ll gently pack away the decorations and wait, again, for next time.
I’ll hold on to the hope that what’s meant to be will be.
That maybe — like the trees — something new will grow.
And I’ll feel lucky.
Because I get to do it all again next fall. I'll begin to begin again.
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