Astrophotography

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.

I know she’s beautiful.
I know.

The way she rises over the trees, soft and gold like something out of a story. The way people talk about her like she’s this gentle, steady presence. Like she’s comforting. Like she belongs in poems and lullabies and quiet prayers.

And maybe she does.

But sometimes, I hate her.

I do astrophotography. And I love the stars, really love them. Not in a casual, “oh that’s pretty” kind of way, but in the kind of way that keeps you breathing when everything else feels too heavy. In the way where the night sky becomes a place to rest. A place where you don’t have to smile, don’t have to speak, don’t have to be okay. You just look up and remember that you’re still here.

And I wait for those nights. I wait for clear skies like some people wait for answers. I watch the forecast. I watch the clouds. I stand outside barefoot, camera in hand, hoping this will be the night the stars show up for me.

But if the moon is full, it’s over before it starts.

Her light spills everywhere. It’s too loud, too much. It drowns out the stars like they never mattered. Like they were never even there.

And I hate that feeling.
Knowing they’re out there, just hidden.
Like something I love is being kept from me.

I’ve tried to work around her. I’ve adjusted settings. Changed angles. I’ve tried to make peace with it. But the truth is, she ruins it. She takes what I came for and washes it away. And it’s not even her fault. She’s just doing what she does. Reflecting. Glowing. Showing up.

But it still feels personal.

Because I came out here for quiet. For wonder. For that ache that feels a little bit like hope. And instead I get this brightness that won’t let me in. And maybe it’s just a sky problem. Maybe it’s just photography.

But it feels like more than that.

It feels like every time I try to show up for something—something small, something sacred—it gets overshadowed. Like I get overshadowed. Like I’m always chasing the thing I love most, and something bigger, louder, brighter comes and takes up all the space.

I know it’s not fair to blame the moon.
But sometimes I do anyway.

And I know people would tell me to see her beauty too. To love the glow. To take pictures of her instead. But that’s not what my heart came looking for. My heart came looking for stars. For the hush. For that quiet kind of magic that reminds me I’m not alone.

And some nights, the moon makes me feel lonelier than anything.

But still, I keep going out.

Even when I know she’s there. Even when I know I won’t get the photo I want. I still step outside, still look up, still try. Because maybe there’s love in the trying. Maybe there’s something sacred in standing beneath a sky that doesn’t bend for you and loving it anyway.

Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to hold both.
The moonlight and the missing.
The soft and the sharp.
The ache and the beauty.

But for now, me and the moon?
We’re not speaking.

And honestly, I think that’s okay.

I’ll wait for the dark.
I always do.
The stars are worth it.

The Stars Take Note

Between the Leaves and the Letting Go

Me and the Moon (We’re Not on Speaking Terms)