I don’t remember the leaves changing color this quickly.
I don’t remember the leaves running from their branches so eagerly.
I don’t remember the sun saying goodnight this early.
I don’t remember how quickly Seattle transitions from summer to winter.
If Fall were a woman, I believe she would habitually show up fashionably late, her entrance warm and magnetic, lighting up the room. Her energy would draw people in—contagious and comforting—but she’d always leave too soon. She’d stay just long enough to connect, to pour out love, to take up space. And yet, she’d leave everyone wishing for her to linger a little longer.
If Fall were a woman, she would be the kind of friend everyone cherishes—genuine and intentional, yet hard to read. She’d keep much of herself hidden, reserved, and quiet. She'd comfort people with the kind of hug you'd melt into--warm and soft like an oversized sweater. She'd leave behind gifts of unexpected kindness, hiding sticky note affirmations for you to stumble across at a later time. She’d give endlessly to others, but only a lucky few would ever see her true colors.
If Fall were a woman, she’d constantly flow between a slow and fast-paced life. One hour, she’d sit in a cozy café, sipping tea and jotting down thoughts while quietly observing the world around her. She’d notice the butterfly that floats past the window or the tiny hand of a child reaching for their parent’s. The next hour, she'd be rushing to responsibilities, caught in the tree-swaying wind of hurry.
If Fall were a woman, she would be unapologetically creative—a visionary who thrives on experimentation. Her wardrobe would be an art form: vibrant colors, rich textures, and eclectic combinations that evolve with her mood. She would mix up her style daily and embrace the adventure of change over continuity. She would paint often, her pieces scattered and unfinished, but each one a masterpiece in progress.
If Fall were a woman, I imagine she'd dream while she’s awake. Dream of her future. Dream of her goals. Of her friends. She’d carry memories of her past but always return to the present.
If Fall were a woman, I’m not sure we’d get along.
She'd drift like a leaf in the wind, carried by her surroundings, while I stand firmly rooted. She'd welcome change while I am… scared of it? Maybe I'd be intimidated by her freedom, her ease with letting go. Would my desire for control be too much for her? Would my need for stability suffocate her creativity and curiosity? I'd like to think we'd love each other well… but the longer Fall is around, the more I find myself shrinking in grief.
The beginning of Fall was beautiful. The trees were still green with small specks of golden yellow where the light hits. It was still warm and sunny, a clear blue sky. Wow. I missed this in Vietnam without realizing I missed it. But as the season progressed, the weather became increasingly unpredictable. The mornings chilled my hands. The leaves turned red without warning. The sun set at five instead of nine. The days were darker... colder... grayer. It changed so quickly that I began to mourn. But mourn what exactly? Why was I so sad? Was sad even the right word?
Fall forced me to acknowledge reality: I am no longer in Vietnam. I am… “home.”
It wasn't just the swift changing of seasons—the fading warmth, the shorter days, the bare trees. I realized I was mourning something much deeper, something harder to articulate. I was mourning the version of myself I left behind in Vietnam. In Vietnam, I felt alive in a different way. The warmth of the air wrapped around me like a constant embrace, and the sun lingered long enough to make every day feel full. I experienced generosity and community like never before. I laughed more, moved slower, and somehow felt more present. But here, in Seattle, the cold air sneaks through my sweater, and the sky rushes to turn gray, as if to remind me of all I left behind. It’s as if part of me stayed there, in the humid air and the buzzing streets, while another part returned here, uncertain and incomplete. If the sun could just stay risen, if the warmth could linger... if Fall would just take her time, I wouldn't have to confront the dissonance in my heart.
Walking down the streets, I found myself begging the leaves to stay a little longer. To wait on changing colors for me. To work a little slower. To hold onto their branches until the last possible second.
“Must you leave so soon? Why are you so eager to go?” I ask the leaves, as if they might pause and reconsider.
The leaves dance in the wind and continue to fall with their multitude of colors, as if to remind me that they do what they are named—they leave.
They swirled together, their voices overlapping into song, "You're not alone! We've all let go! Join us!"
I wish I could. I wish I could see the beauty of the leaves. I wish I could accept their invitation to dance in the wind. I wish I, too, could find joy in leaving. But all I can see are the bare branches left behind. My relationships, an ocean away. The branches, my previous life, abandoned and alone.
Yet, the leaves only grew louder. They sang and belted out as the wind shook them free, cheering each time another friend fell.
"Jump already!" a small, yellow leaf giggled.
"Dance with us!" they laughed, swirling through my hair. One after the other, they gathered in heaping piles at my feet, attempting to sweep me up with them.
“What are you waiting for?” snapped a crimson leaf, spinning wildly in the breeze. “You’re clinging to branches that can’t hold you anymore!”
Days and weeks passed where I refused to listen to the leaves. I refused. I wanted to see the bare branches. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to cling to the past. I wanted to feel the pain. If I didn't feel pain, I would forget. I convinced myself that if I was happy, I would lose the only connection I had to Vietnam. If I let go, I would lose myself.
But the leaves didn't give up on me. They sang until I listened. They sang until I cried.
“Change is hard, isn’t it?” a deep red leaf whispered, brushing past my cheek. “But remember, we aren’t falling to be forgotten. We’re making room for new things to grow.”
It rested momentarily on my shoulder as if to offer comfort. “You won’t lose yourself in letting go—you’ll find who you’re becoming.”
My dear friend,
If you, like me, are in a season of leaving, I see you, I hear you, and I feel you. More than anything, God sees exactly what you are going through. Whether that is physically leaving one city for another, leaving a relationship, a job, or even a lifestyle, those are all forms of leaving. Leaving requires courage... and I believe it requires two very intentional acts of courage:
The boldness to jump.
The grace to embrace joy in the unknown.
I am learning to have courage for the latter. I am learning, regardless of what I see and regardless of my circumstances, I can choose joy. I can choose to rejoice in the wind. I can choose to listen to the leaves.
I’m learning that reconciling two versions of myself isn’t about choosing one over the other but embracing both. I’ve been reaching out to old friends, grounding myself in the relationships that shaped me before I left. I’ve been trying to reconnect with familiar routines, exploring whether old patterns still fit this new season of my life. But I’ve also realized that every part of me that existed in Vietnam—the spontaneity, the lightness, the version of me that felt more free—is still with me here. Even though the U.S. isn’t an environment where those parts of me naturally come alive, they remain, waiting for me to invite them out.
I'm allowing myself to sit in the discomfort of change instead of rushing to fix it. I’m leaning on God, who never changes, even when everything else feels like it’s shifting too quickly. His constancy reminds me that I don’t have to mourn the person I was because every version of me—past and present—has a place in His hands. Slowly, I’m discovering how to bring the joy I found in Vietnam into this season of life, even if it looks different here.
I’m learning that grief and joy coexist. After all, grief is a byproduct of love—a testament to the deepest sense of passion and belonging. What a beautiful thing that is.
My friend, whatever your situation is, I pray that you, too, are brave enough to listen to the leaves. I pray that you, too, are brave enough to look away from the branches and dance in the wind.
"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go."
(Joshua 1:9)
"The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever." (Isaiah 40:8)
"Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." (Hebrews 13:8)
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