Before The Season Changes
I have always been someone who looks ahead.
Some people are unsettled by change, but I have always been drawn to it. New seasons, new routines, new places, new ideas—I tend to live a few steps in front of where I actually am. There is excitement in what comes next, but I have learned that constantly reaching for the next chapter can make it difficult to see the one you are already living.
It is easy for me to think about where I want to be six months from now. It is harder for me to stop long enough to realize that many of the things I once hoped for are already here. The work I wanted to build, the freedom I wanted in my schedule, the time I wished I had—somehow they arrived while I was busy looking toward whatever came next.
Every season reminds me of this.
As summer begins to slip into fall, I find myself thinking about sweaters, cooler mornings, and evenings spent inside while the leaves change outside the window. Meanwhile, there are still long days left to enjoy. There are walks to take, books to read outside, quiet mornings, sunshine, and all of the little things that make summer what it is.
I have realized that I often live in the next season before the current one has had a chance to finish.
The truth is that being present has become its own kind of discipline. It is not something that happens naturally for me. My mind is full of ideas, lists, stories, plans, and things I want to create. I love building things. I love dreaming about what is possible. But somewhere along the way, I have had to learn that a life cannot only be planned—it also has to be lived.
For me, that often looks like quiet.
I work best when there is space to think. Writing, designing, creating, and building all require a certain amount of stillness. While my work may simply look like typing on a computer, much of it happens long before words ever appear on a page. Ideas need room. Creativity needs room. Sometimes I do too.
I used to feel guilty for needing solitude. Now I understand it differently. Solitude is not isolation for me—it is where I return to myself. It is where my thoughts settle, where my creativity comes back, and where I remember what actually matters.
As life continues to change, I find myself less interested in rushing toward whatever comes next and more interested in paying attention to what is already here. There will always be another season to look forward to, another goal to chase, another version of life waiting somewhere ahead.
But there is also this morning. This season. This chapter.
And I am learning that it deserves to be lived before it becomes something I miss.
