What is Your Story about 'Autumn'?

The stories we tell ourselves can be comforting or confining

If you are new here, welcome to Dr. Amber_Writes. I am a clinical psychologist who writes weekly about mental health. I aim to bring you evidenced-based information, with a personal touch. Check out this post to read more about why I started writing in the first place. If you want to hear from me again, subscribe any time.

A few weeks ago, in early August, I was mowing my mother’s grass and noticed the changes. The apple trees had already begun to shed their golden leaves. The cicadas hummed loudly in the background, a sound as familiar as the ticking of a clock. The signs of autumn. 

I noticed a familiar sadness rise in my chest. Historically, I have approached the fall with apprehension. I grieve the end of summer, which I associate with warmth and sunshine, later alarm clocks and bedtimes, lazy evenings free of school work. 

My dislike of autumn goes way back. I’ve always hated cold weather. I believed my body to be particularly vulnerable to the cold, once it’s permeated my muscles it’s like my body does not know how to warm it’s self again. Like a reptile that bakes itself on a warm rock, cold-blooded. 

I had no love for the quintessential autumn things. I never cared for Halloween (so chilly that I have to wear a coat over my costume, what fun is that?). Piles of fallen leaves triggered my intermittent asthma attacks and a doctor even guessed that I was allergic to mold on leaves (never tested, but the diagnosis stuck with me). 

Autumn meant the end of easy comfort. Growing up, we heated our small cape cod with a woodstove in the living room. Autumn meant that soon there would be a tiny mountain of cut wood, dumped unceremoniously on our gravel driveway. That wood had to be carried one armful at a time, and stacked, one row horizontally, the next row vertically, until the chaotic pile was neatly organized and easily accessible for winter. I hated stacking that wood. I resented the chore, the heat that we had to work so hard for and that never felt warm enough to me. 

Autumn also meant school. I spent over two decades in school, going straight from high school to college to graduate school. September meant tuition payments and juggling school, work, and various other academic responsibilities. To this day, I expect September to be more expensive, my body still anticipating the stress of financial aid negotiations and work-study placements. 

Towards the end of my education, I had to do a year-long doctoral internship, required for completion of my degree and future licensure. The application process was grueling, requiring an extensive amount of paperwork and documentation, followed by expensive travel for in person interviews. I applied to programs all over the country, with some of my top contenders located in the middle of the country. My therapist at the time begged me not to apply to places with cold winters. “For the last few years I’ve watched your mood take a nosedive every autumn. It’s better for your mental health if you live somewhere warm year round.” She was talking about Seasonal Affective Disorder. I was shocked by her observation, only because we were living in Austin, Texas at the time. If you are not familiar, this is a town with sweltering summers and temperate, short winters. If my mood had been impacted by an Austin winter, how would I ever hope to thrive anywhere else? 

So it’s no wonder that I dread this particular change of seasons. Fallen leaves and crisp, cool mornings trigger a story of hardship and discomfort. I’ve told and re-told this story for decades. My body begins tensing in anxious anticipation, all the way down to my bones. I prepare to feel deprived.

Lately though, I wonder if my story about autumn is in need of revision. 

For one, I have not been enrolled in school of any sort in a decade now. 

The cooler weather of October and November is a welcome reprieve of the sometimes oppressive heat of the summer, that keeps my children stuck in doors, cranky and bored. I relish the fall afternoons when they get off the school bus, toss their backpacks inside and run off with their friends. I sit with the neighborhood parents, my friends, in lawn chairs on the sidewalk and supervise our kids as they stretch their legs and work out the tension after a day of sitting at desks. “I love this weather” we say, again and again.

In my middle adulthood, I’ve embraced cozy, cute sweaters. I look forward to visits to the pumpkin patch. I enjoy a childish sense of joy during a hay ride. From my seat upon a bale of hay, I watch horses graze and think about how I never get used to the beauty of horses. They inspire awe in me every time. 

When the children beg to go in the corn maze, I send them off with their father while I hang back. Corn mazes make me feel claustrophobic. It’s not my idea of fun, and I get to choose. 

In the fall season, we can make campfires and sit comfortably around them in the dark. We can hike and observe the changing colors of the leaves. Snuggling beneath warm blankets feels like the sweetest shelter when the air is cold and biting. For the first time, I notice myself craving more of these things. More cool, more cozy, more joy.

Some of my change of heart is likely because I am appreciating the season through the lens of parenthood. My children did not inherit my disdain for cold weather. They even love the snow. 

I relish the opportunity to experience holidays through their eyes. Halloween, a day I abandoned and have mostly ignored, has been re-discovered. It turns out, by embracing the spookiness, we can extend the playfulness of this day for weeks. 

I wonder now if my dislike of autumn was less about the end of summer, and more about a lack of autonomy that I associated with this time of year. Growing up, I knew that autumn would bring responsibility, rigid schedules, and various discomforts, and I did not have much say in it. I had to go to school. I had to stack the wood. I had to feel the cold. For much of the year, I felt trapped. Even before the weather changed, I began to anticipate a feeling of deprivation, focusing only on what was lacking.

Even well into adulthood, I sometimes need to remind myself that I call the shots now. I can create my own comfort and choose my own entertainment. I can make my own work and my own rest. Of course, there will still be pain and distress. But I am not simply a character at the mercy of the story. I have more agency than that.

Perhaps I can approach the season with a goal to expand upon the joyful moments that are unique to these transitional months, instead of anticipating loss; loss of warmth, loss of light, loss of choice. I don’t have to become a “winter person.” The dark, cold months may always be more difficult for me…and every change in season could be an opportunity to embrace and expand on joyful moments, in whatever form they come.

The stories we tell ourselves are powerful. Some of them are obvious and undeniable. Others are more subtle. Our stories can become self-fulfilling prophecies, as predictable and inevitable as the seasons.

If a story is not serving us, we can revise it. Begin by noticing the moments that catch you off guard. Notice the exceptions. Be open to new and joyful experiences. Say “yes” when you notice yourself wanting more. Make space in your story for the season to become whatever you want it to be. 

Questions for Reflection:

What are the stories you tell yourself about “Autumn.” 

What parts of the story do you appreciate? What parts are not serving you any more?

Has your relationship with a season changed over time?

Just a reminder that I’m giving away two tickets to the Mental Health & Motherhood Virtual Conference on October 11. Check out my post here to vote and let me know that you want to be entered in the giveaway!

I have been receiving some lovely feedback on my recent articles, and it is so encouraging and inspiring to know that people are reading and benefiting from my words. Thank you, sincerely. If you find these articles helpful, please do not forget to share! A like, a re-post, a comment…they all help get my work out to a larger audience. Thank you!

Disclosure: Dr. Amber_Writes is a newsletter designed to be informational, entertaining, and engaging. It is not therapy. Following this newsletter does not establish a therapeutic relationship with me. Dr. Amber_Writes, and other written communication by Amber Groomes on Substack, is not a substitute for treatment, diagnosis, or consultation with a licensed mental health professional. I assume no liability for any action taken in reliance on my writing here at Dr. Amber_Writes.