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 comes, and I breathe again.

Most people see autumn as the season of slowing down, of letting go. The trees shed what no longer serves them, the light begins to fade earlier, and nature retreats softly into sleep. But for me, this is the season where everything sharpens, heightens. I come alive with the burst of colour. I feel it in my chest, that first real chill in the breeze. I feel it in the way the trees seem to 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. I watched the sun blaze on, day after relentless day, and I ached for autumn like you ache for home. So when it finally arrived, I promised myself I would not miss a single moment. I could not miss it. It felt urgent, necessary — as though autumn were a dear old friend I hadn’t seen in years, waiting at the station with arms open wide.

I do love the idea of curling up in front of an open fire, sipping hot chocolate, listening to the crackle of flames and letting the warmth settle into my bones — but only once darkness falls. During the daylight hours, I feel pulled outdoors by something almost magnetic.

The season thrills me. It draws me like a lover’s gaze across a crowded room. I want to be out walking under golden canopies, kicking up leaves like a child, feeling the cool air on my face and the soft light on my skin. I want to trace the patterns in the bark of ancient trees, watch the last bees dance around stubborn blooms, gather fallen leaves like treasures in my pocket.

Autumn makes me feel more. More myself, more grounded, more alive. It’s a season stitched with memory — of forest walks and wood-smoky afternoons, of scarves wrapped loosely around chilled necks, of slow-cooked meals and the sound of rain on windows. It’s a time when I notice things 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 understand without needing to translate. It whispers, “This is your time.”

And I listen. I always listen.