September doesn’t just bring a change in the weather.
It brings a shift in the soul.
A soft unraveling.
A quiet grief.

The days are still warm enough to pretend it’s summer,
but the wind doesn’t lie.
The light fades earlier now,
and the leaves have started to let go—
like even they are too tired to hold on.

And maybe I am, too.

This is my last season at camp.
October 18 will be the final day I call this mountain mine.
My last sunrise wrapped in fog.
My last trash run,
last time my name crackles through the walkie,
last time I move through these woods like they still belong to me.

And it hurts more than I thought it would.
Not just because I’m leaving,
but because I’ve already been disappearing.

Depression showed up slowly this season.
Not like a thunderstorm—more like fog.
Stealing joy in pieces.
Making everything feel far away.
I’m still showing up.
Still doing the work.
But some days it feels like I’m watching myself live from somewhere else.

The stars still catch my eye—I even took a photo the other night.
But the awe I used to feel has been quieter.
Less like wonder,
more like a memory trying to reach me.

This month is National Suicide Prevention Month.
And I think it matters to be honest.
I have been hurting.
I have been tired.
I have been thinking too much about vanishing.
And maybe you have too.

If you have, please hear me:
You are not broken.
You are not a burden.
You are not too much.
You are not alone.

And I’m learning—slowly, gently—that even in all this ache,
there are still things worth staying for.

Like hot coffee on the porch when the morning air turns sharp.
Like seeing your breath in October and remembering you’re still alive.
Like flannel shirts and cinnamon candles and letting yourself wear the soft things.
Like small bonfires with good people.
Like seeing a friend you haven’t in months and realizing they missed you.
Like baking something warm.
Like letting someone hug you, even when you don’t have the words.
Like a drive with the windows down and the music loud.
Like finding new things to try—maybe pottery, or painting, or just going on a walk when the trees start to flame.

Like looking up at the stars and whispering: I’m still here.

Because you are.
And that’s everything.

So no, I don’t have a perfect ending to this post.
Just this:
I’m hurting.
I’m healing.
I’m staying.
And I’m learning to believe there’s more ahead.
Not just endings.
But beginnings, too.

The leaves are falling.
But so are the stars.
And they do take note.

So if all you can do today is stay—
Stay.
And I’ll stay too.


If you’re struggling, please don’t stay silent.
You matter. You are needed here.

📞 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (US)
Call or text 988 anytime. You are not alone.

📱 Crisis Text Line
Text HELLO to 741741 to chat with a trained counselor.

🌐 NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness)
Visit nami.org/help or call 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)

🧡 You are not a burden. Your life still holds light. Please, stay.