Why I Wait All Year for Autumn to Arrive

Every year, I find myself waiting.

Not in an impatient, tapping-my-foot sort of way, but in the quiet anticipation you feel before your favourite song reaches its chorus. It’s a kind of longing that builds slowly through the blistering brightness of summer. I’m counting down—not to birthdays or holidays—but to that moment when the first leaf turns orange and drifts to the ground.

That’s when I breathe a little deeper. That’s when the world feels like it shifts into a rhythm I can actually keep up with.

The Slow Unfolding of Autumn

Autumn doesn’t arrive all at once. It tiptoes in quietly. One morning, the air feels sharper when you open the door. A week later, you notice the trees have a golden edge to their leaves. Before long, you’re brushing crisp, curled foliage from your path as if nature is decorating your days with confetti.

By mid-September, my summer clothes are in the back of the wardrobe, replaced with warm jumpers and fluffy socks that feel like they’ve been waiting for their own reunion. The first time I wear a chunky knit again, it feels like a homecoming.

For me, autumn is more than just a season—it’s the turning of a page in my life. I plan my year around this shift, and not just because of the cooler weather. Autumn is the one time of year when the pace of life matches the way I move through the world.

A World That Finally Slows Down

I’m someone who is easily overstimulated. Bright sunlight, high temperatures, relentless noise—all of it wears me down quicker than I care to admit. Summer feels like a constant demand to do more, be out more, keep up. But autumn? Autumn lets me exhale.

The days get shorter, yes, but they also feel calmer. There’s less urgency in the air. Fewer demands to be constantly busy. The world seems to collectively agree that it’s okay to stay indoors, wrap yourself in a blanket, and drink something warm without guilt.

The cooler air feels like it’s made for me. My internal thermostat, usually at war with the heat, finally finds some peace. And for someone living with chronic pain, this is more than a comfort—it’s a relief. My heat pad, so often stifling in summer, becomes a gentle, bearable source of comfort again.

My Autumn Rituals

As soon as the season shifts, my life begins to orbit around small, grounding rituals that I’ve carried with me for years.

Long Walks with the Dogs

Zeus and Hades—my two constant companions—seem to love autumn just as much as I do. In summer, walks can be quick and functional, stolen in the early morning or late evening to avoid the worst of the heat. But in autumn, we take our time. We wander down leaf-strewn paths, crunching our way through amber and gold. The dogs’ breath clouds in the crisp air, tails wagging as they investigate every interesting smell the wind carries their way.

Hot Drinks and Slow Afternoons

Coffee tastes better when there’s rain on the window. Tea feels richer when steam curls up into the dim light of an early evening. I keep a rotation of mugs that are too large for any practical reason other than they feel good to hold—warmth seeping into my palms while I watch the weather shift outside.

Thunderstorm Watching

I’ve always found thunderstorms comforting in a way I can’t fully explain. The low rumble in the distance, the sudden flicker of lightning, the heavy rain drumming against the glass—it’s like nature giving you permission to stop. I sit near the window, heat pad tucked under a blanket, and let the sound fill the house. There’s no expectation to be anywhere else. No pressure to be productive. Just the storm and me.

The Cozy Uniform

My jumpers get softer with every wash. My socks are so fluffy they could double as slippers. In autumn, I live in layers—scarves, knits, oversized cardigans. I’ve long since abandoned the idea that clothes should be “fashionable” in any way that compromises warmth and comfort. The season feels like it’s built for people like me—those of us who dress for texture, for softness, for that feeling of being cocooned.

How Autumn Helps My Chronic Pain

Living with fibromyalgia and other chronic conditions means my relationship with the weather is deeply personal. Heat drains me, humidity exhausts me, and cold often stiffens my joints. But autumn hits a rare sweet spot.

The milder temperatures mean my body isn’t constantly fighting to regulate itself. The air feels more breathable, the sunlight less aggressive. My heat pad becomes a comfort again, not an ordeal. And the slower pace of the season means I’m not pushing myself to keep up with demands that flare my symptoms.

There’s also something deeply healing about the sensory experience of autumn. The muted light, the gentle sound of rain, the earthy smell of fallen leaves—they all feel like natural remedies for an overstimulated mind. It’s as though my body recognises autumn as a safe space to recover.

Planning Life Around the Seasons

I’ve learned over the years that my energy, my creativity, and even my mood are all closely tied to the seasons. Summer is survival mode. Winter can be a test of endurance. But autumn? Autumn is when I thrive.

So I plan for it.

Big projects, creative bursts, and new routines all get pencilled into the calendar for when the leaves start to turn. I arrange my work so I can enjoy more flexible afternoons in September and October. I plan home improvements for when the air is cool enough to work without sweating through my clothes. Even my reading list shifts—I save the dark, atmospheric novels for evenings when the rain is falling and the wind rattles the windows.

It’s not that I can’t function in other seasons—it’s just that autumn is the one where my life feels aligned. Everything seems to flow easier when the world outside is slowing down too.

The Lesson of Autumn

If autumn has taught me anything, it’s that slowing down isn’t a weakness. The trees let go of their leaves, not because they’ve failed, but because it’s the right time to rest. The flowers retreat into the soil, the animals prepare for hibernation, and the days shorten—not as an ending, but as part of a cycle.

Maybe that’s why autumn feels so healing to me—it’s a reminder that rest is part of life’s rhythm. That letting go, making space, and taking things at a gentler pace isn’t laziness—it’s necessary. And it’s beautiful.

The Season I Wait For

By the time October arrives, I’m fully in my element. The house smells faintly of cinnamon from the candles I’ve been burning. My bookshelves have a growing stack of reads for the colder months ahead. The dogs are curled up, content after long walks. And I’m wrapped in my favourite blanket, warm drink in hand, watching the rain trace patterns on the window.

This is my season. My reset. My reminder that the pace of life doesn’t always have to be frantic to be meaningful.

And so, every year, I wait for it.

Through the heat, the noise, the brightness of summer—I wait for the leaves to fall, orange and crisp. I wait for the first morning I can see my breath in the air. I wait for that feeling of slipping back into something familiar and right.

Because autumn heals me. And it’s worth waiting for.