The transition from summer to fall is one of the most beautiful periods, yet one of the hardest to embrace. Plagued by a longing for warm sunset air and bold tan lines, it is difficult to let summer slip away. The long nights spent under the sun now fade shorter as darkness falls hours before they should. Clinging to the months of freedom and joy fills my mind and casts a shadow over my excitement for fall.
What I’ve come to realize is that this seasonal shift isn’t just about the calendar flipping to Sept. 22. It’s about change and the discomfort that comes with it. Letting go, especially in an emotional sense, has never come easily to me. No matter how many times I’ve begged for summer to stay, inevitably it slips away.
During the months of June to August, I feel a sense of control. I know I have time to do everything I want to: to sleep in, to be out late at night, to break curfew, all the things that vanish when fall comes. Fall brings me back to reality. School begins, curfews return, and the freedom I once had is no longer there.
Each year I try to delay the inevitable. I squeeze in one last campfire, one last lake day, one last hangout with friends. I send frantic texts, hoping to align our schedules and create one final lasting memory before the end of August rolls in. These rituals are my way of resisting change, of clinging to a season that feels like home.
No matter how hard I try, fall arrives through both beauty and grace. The air turns crisp and the vibrant green leaves transition into warm autumn colors. The transition is gentle, allowing time for each person to be ready for it. Although it marks the end of summer, it serves as a reminder that endings can be beautiful.
So why do I resist it? To say I hate fall is not the case. I love cozy sweaters, pumpkin patches, the scenic drives, and the anticipation of Halloween. What I hate is the cold and what it represents. The loss of summer’s warmth feels like the loss of freedom, spontaneity, and ease.
This year, I’ve tried to confront that discomfort more directly. I’ve realized that my resistance isn’t about the season itself, it’s about the shift in control. Summer gives me the space to breathe, and to choose. Fall, by contrast, feels like a tightening grip.
Naming the pattern — control in summer, loss of control in fall — makes the transition easier to face. It doesn’t erase the sadness, but it gives a map: schedule a few intentional “lasts,” notice what you can keep year-round, and let the beauty of the season have its place alongside the grief for what’s ending.
Maybe the real lesson isn’t in resisting change, but in learning how to hold on while letting go.