By The Gales of November are almost upon us—the season of in-between. *Cue Gordon Lightfoot* Outside my window, the golds, reds, and deep purples of the trees have surrendered to nature’s confetti on the forest floor. Summer is only an echo now, her song briefly heard when the late October sun warms the earth.
Autumn has always been my favorite time of year. It feels like a celebration of the long stretch behind us and a preparation for hibernation—for quieter, inward days.
My husband and I have been trying to live more seasonally, and this year that rhythm feels especially natural. It’s been a month since we returned from our two-week honeymoon in Italy—Capri, Florence, Rome, and Tuscany still linger in our minds—but our days in Northern Michigan have found their own kind of romance:
We’ve been clearing leaves, cutting down felled trees and branches, prepping our land for next spring, tracking mud into the house more often than we should, and slowly learning what it really takes to care for this place in the woods.
At night, we read aloud together—sometimes our own writing, sometimes a smutty cozy romance we found on a dusty bookshelf in Florence. What started as a joke honeymoon read has now become a shared mission: we have to finish this horrible novel.
Last Friday, we took a pottery class and made a set of bowls. We fell so in love with the practice that we’re signing up for a four-week intensive and half-jokingly talking about renting studio space—because apparently we’re becoming those people.
We’ve become regulars at the local farms for produce and joined our community CSA. After fifteen years of being vegan, we decided to transition to vegetarian—incorporating local, ethically sourced eggs, cheese, and butter. It’s felt like a natural shift, one that connects us more closely to the local farms around us. There’s been a lot of making jam, baking bread, and trying to not eat any frozen or packaged foods beyond what we make ourselves.
There are countless hikes with our nine-month-old puppy, and evenings spent snuggling with all the animals as we make our way through our spooky movie list.
This whole month has felt like a true celebration of the season. As much fun as I had in Italy with J., being home with my furry family and getting my hands into the earth is where I feel the most myself.
At the end of this month, J. and I will be celebrating two anniversaries. We’ve always been sentimental about the little milestones—the night we met, the first “I love you,” and now, our wedding day. To mark the occasion, we’re planning a Halloween showing of Frankenstein and a cozy dinner in Glen Arbor the next evening. It feels like the perfect way to close out October—content, grounded, and ready for whatever the winter brings.
In my last Life Lately post, I wrote about feeling burnt out and wanting to slow down—and for once, I feel I’ve made good on that.
The older I get, the more I crave simplicity. There was a time when I believed life was happening everywhere I wasn’t. Every bar, concert, and event felt like an opportunity I couldn’t miss. I wanted to consume the entire world and ended up feeling like I was constantly missing out.
It was an exhausting way to live.
I’ve since moved through that narrow, restless space and started finding joy in smaller things—the way the light transforms the woods into a cathedral in the morning, coffee shared before the day begins, the quiet comfort that comes from truly being seen. There’s tremendous peace in knowing I get to share this life—with all its small, ordinary moments—with someone who understands me so deeply. Life feels slower, steadier, and more real in this space.
It’s something I’m grateful to experience. It’s taken a long time to get here—to feel this settled in my own life—and I don’t take that for granted.
Though I’ve had a few short stories published in the past two years, I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus from my fantasy series. But J.—among his myriad wonderful qualities—is the biggest advocate for my writing. (Side note: He’s also an incredible literary fiction writer himself. I’m just trying to convince him to submit his work!) One of our autumn rituals, beyond joining a local writer’s group, has become reading one of my books out loud to each other at night. We take turns every few pages, and hearing my own words spoken back to me is incredibly illuminating. I’ve always believed in reading work aloud to check rhythm and cadence—but having someone else read it transforms how I hear the story.
Once we finish reading through this rough draft, I plan to outline and rewrite the entire book in 2026. It’s my main creative goal right now, and it feels right for this slower, more intentional season of life.
As the trees release their last leaves and winter creeps closer, I’m reminded that every season—of nature and of life—asks us to let go of something. For me, this year, it’s the need to rush, to prove, to be everywhere at once. I want to keep building an authentic life that moves with the seasons, that honors love, land, and story.
And maybe, by the time the Gales of November come around again, I’ll be deep into the next draft—rooted, rested, and growing at my own steady pace.
Wherever you find yourself this autumn, I hope you remember that no matter where you are in your life, you’re exactly on time. It took me a long time to realize that, and maybe you need the reminder too—to breathe, slow down, and trust that your own rhythm is enough.
Onward,
My Autumn 2025 Soundtrack:
☾Jessica♥Malen☽ 