Kat Atwell is a freelance writer, blogger & stage presence telling stories that deliver laughs, validation & community.

Mental Health | Wellness & Self Image | Experiential & Reviews

When fall isn't fall.

When I was younger, I believed that when school started, so too would autumn. The first day would involve galloping through piles of crunchy leaves, wearing jeans and sweaters, seeing my breath in the air as I waited for the school bus.

This was never the case. However, every year, my mental slate was wiped clean, and again, the fantasy would be reborn.

I’m in my forties now. I have a daughter in middle school. I’m more wrinkled, have more gray hair and I’m wiser. Old habits die hard.

It is nearing the end of September and it was over 90 freaking degrees today. Not only that, but it’s been over 90 degrees for nearly half of the month.


I knew that when I was eight years old, and I know that now. This is a fantasy I refuse to give up. The delusion continues.

For what it’s worth, It’s not that way in the mountains. I suppose I should cling to that, and be grateful I can drive an hour or two to appreciate the cooler temperatures.


My favorite season is fall. It’s sweater weather, and soup time. Pumpkins and fires. And according to the calendar, it showed up yesterday.

The advertisers who decided to set up these campaigns decades ago, turning August and September into October and November, are sadists. They’re mean. Bullies. I want my colored leaves down here. Now.

And none of this week-long autumn crap. I want a few months of glorious transition from summer to winter.


Since I’m making demands, anyway, I’d like to add this: give me a week or two of drizzle. Cloudy, foggy days and the ability to stay wrapped up in a blanket on my couch, reading a book. Maybe I’d have brownies in the oven. Who knows?

You would love my brownies.


Sadly, there are no brownies. The best I can do is highly recommend you read It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers until autumn legitimately shows up sometime next month for, like, 72 hours.

Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald


Bitter pills.