The Feel Good Way

You already know I’m not a summer person. The heat, the brightness, the long days — they wear me out. Now, my favorite seasons have finally arrived. Living in a forest means I notice the changes early: cooler mornings, mist hanging low between the trees, and that faint, earthy smell of damp leaves that signals autumn has truly begun.

While most people complain that summer is over and darker days are coming, I feel the opposite. I love this time of year. Everything feels calmer, emptier — the world outside seems to have fewer people in it, and the quiet is almost tangible. I put on a jacket and head out for a walk.

The first thing I notice is the sound. Dry leaves cover the path, just crisp enough to crunch perfectly under my feet. It’s a simple thing, but somehow it fills the whole forest. With each step, I feel like I’m moving in rhythm with it — leaves scattering, a soft rustle rising and falling around me. Only walking through snow gives me a similar kind of quiet satisfaction.

The streets are mostly empty, except for a man walking his dog. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, probably wondering why I’m smiling and kicking at piles of leaves. I don’t mind. I smile to myself and keep walking.

The light is beautiful — that late-afternoon glow that only autumn seems to have. The trees aren’t thin enough yet for the sun to reach the ground, but the color of the leaves turns everything golden anyway. The quiet, the emptiness, the soft sounds of the forest — that’s what makes it feel special.

It’s been dry lately, so the leaves lift easily when I walk through them. The path is thick with layers — some crisp, some soft — and I keep kicking through them just because it feels good. There’s something so simple and satisfying about it, I feel like a child running through puddles.

By the time I reach home, the sun is dipping low. The golden light softens, and the forest begins to fade into shadow. I stop for a moment before going inside, listening to the quiet and feeling grateful for how full the emptiness can feel.

Rain is in the forecast — lots of it — and I can’t wait. I look forward to the skies turning dark, the wind picking up, and that unmistakable damp autumn smell returning. I’ll complain, of course, just like everyone else, about having to wear a coat and carry an umbrella. But deep down, I can’t help it — I love the change. I’m ready for it.

I realise that this is why autumn has always felt like a gift: not because the world slows down, but because it empties out. The quiet stretches farther, the spaces feel bigger, and the little sounds — leaves underfoot, wind in the trees, distant birdsong — suddenly have room to breathe. In that emptiness, I find something I never really get in summer: the feeling that the world is quietly mine to wander.