Autumn is my spring.

While others come alive with the first blossoms and the lengthening days of spring, I stir awake with the falling leaves — with the crisp bite in the air and the golden hush that settles gently across the world. It’s as though something deep within me has been lying dormant through the long, bright, blazing summer — waiting, yearning, holding its breath. And then, at last, autumn arrives… and I breathe again.

Most people see autumn as a season of slowing down, of letting go. The trees shed what no longer serves them. The light fades earlier. Nature retreats softly toward rest. But for me, this is when everything sharpens. Everything heightens. I come alive in the burst of colour. I feel it in my chest — that first real chill in the breeze. I see it in the way the trees burn with beauty — flaming reds, fierce oranges, mellow golds — each leaf a whisper of something sacred and fleeting.

Summer felt endless this year in Melbourne. Day after relentless day, the sun blazed on, and I ached for autumn the way you ache for home. So when it finally came, I promised myself I would not miss a single moment. I couldn’t. It felt urgent, necessary — as though autumn were a dear old friend standing at the station, arms open wide.

I love the idea of curling up in front of an open fire, sipping hot chocolate and listening to the crackle of flames — but only once darkness falls. During the daylight hours, something almost magnetic pulls me outdoors.

The season thrills me. It draws me like a lover’s gaze across a crowded room. I want to walk beneath golden canopies, to kick up leaves like a child, to feel the cool air on my face and the softened light on my skin. I want to trace the patterns in ancient bark, watch the last bees linger over stubborn blooms, gather fallen leaves like quiet treasures in my pocket.

Autumn makes me feel more — more myself, more grounded, more alive. It is a season stitched with memory: forest walks and wood-smoky afternoons, scarves wrapped loosely around chilled necks, slow-cooked meals and rain against the windows. I notice everything more keenly — the rustle of leaves, the distant call of birds, the way light filters through trees like golden lace.

Somewhere deep in my soul, autumn speaks a language I do not need to translate.

It whispers, “This is your time, Jaana”.

And I listen. I always listen.