Almindingen Forest is the fifth-largest forest in Denmark.
Helligdagen Klippe

Before I even knew the titles of the movies my mom used to watch on our small-screen TV, I was already hooked by the beauty of leaves falling and the lead lady wrapped in her trench coat with heeled boots. At 12, I thought, it must be magical to live in a place where you can experience the four seasons. Wearing boots with a scarf around your neck looked so chic.

So when I imagined an adult Therese in the secret places of my mind, I saw myself walking the streets of London—foggy, wet London—just like how Elizabeth Wakefield nervously walked because there was a werewolf on the loose. My frame of reference for what the world outside looked like was based on the books I hoarded in high school. I would skip lunch just to rent books.

I let the words of authors sweep me away to places I couldn’t afford to see. I felt the Highlands through words. I saw castles, their turrets, and beautiful arches through another person’s eyes. I fell in love with the green leaves slowly turning yellow, then brown, before finally falling—a promise of reprieve through the flat, Times New Roman font. It was the cheapest way to travel, and it was beautiful.

Fast forward 20 years. Autumn is still beautiful. It is still my favorite season. But now, it’s more than just the colors changing. To me, autumn is the season of reassessment, of allowing yourself to rest and truly ask what it is you want in life. The colors change, but the core remains.

As we walked through the woods, Frederik asked me if trees die when their leaves fall. I told him no. The falling leaves allow the trees to conserve their energy, to nourish what truly matters—their core—so they can survive winter and bloom again in spring.

And as I trudge my way through autumn, I’m letting my own leaves fall—the expectations of what could have been, the weight of what must be done, the battles I’ve fought, and the feeling of failure after trying so hard. I am letting it all go. Feeding my core first. Embracing the transition. Welcoming the possible, scary emptiness of winter and the quiet hope that spring promises when it finally comes.

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