Summer shifts into Serious September, and I kinda hate it?
All the small-talky conversations I’ve had recently have included some lamenting that summer is over. Girl, it’s still 85 degrees out. It certainly is not fall yet. I’m not in denial; autumn officially starts on the equinox. I’m sticking to that stance.
I get it, though. Every September, usually not too long after Labor Day, the vibe shifts. It’s subtle at first — cooler morning dog walks, a slightly darker sky when I start cooking dinner, a sudden craving for soup. But it’s not just the weather. There’s a different feeling in the air, both literally and figuratively speaking. It’s as if September flips a switch.
Even though I haven’t had a real “back to school” moment in years, September still carries the energy of a new school uniform (yep, attended Catholic school from K–8), sharpened pencils (Ticonderoga #2s!), new notebooks (composition notebooks only, not sure why), and a return to seriousness. I can still feel the stiffness of that plaid jumpskirt and hear the way my sensible black-or-brown-only shoes squeaked against the linoleum floors. The ritual of school-supply shopping made it feel like September was less about a date on the calendar and more about hitting the reset button. Summer was for drifting, but September was for getting serious.
I can’t help but think this is a result of conditioning. Most of us spent the first two decades of our lives on the academic calendar. September was the real New Year, whether or not the calendar said January. It was when the freedom of summer gave way to early alarms, structure, and expectations. Even as adults — with no teacher waiting and no midterms looming — that rhythm is still baked into us.
You see it everywhere. Workplaces suddenly feel busier, like everyone collectively decided that “vacation season” is over. Calendars fill up again. Deadlines multiply. Summer Fridays give way to Friday status updates. Every year, the week after Labor Day, it’s like someone sounded an alarm and suddenly I’m drowning in meeting invites and Slack pings. Somewhere along the line, we tied September to discipline and productivity, and we never let go.
I notice it in myself too, and I try to resist. The silly little voice in my head that never shuts up insists that summer fun is over, that I should be inside getting things done. It’s like a phantom school bell still ringing, even though I graduated long ago. The adult version isn’t homework. It’s the guilt I feel if I say yes to a mid-day ice cream run or a last-minute hike before winter sets in.
But maybe September doesn’t have to mean the end of leisure. Maybe we don’t have to accept the cultural script that says fall is for buckling down. Especially not during These Times. Joy is resistance, right?
After all, harvest season was never just about hard work. It was also about feasts and festivals, about gathering to celebrate what had been grown. Maybe the invitation of September isn’t to put our heads down and grind, but to find balance… to hold onto slowness even as the days get shorter. To make soup AND still eat ice cream. To reset without erasing joy.
So no, I won’t be rushing into Serious September just yet. The air might feel different, but I’m holding onto the sunshine a little longer. After all, it’s still 85 degrees out.
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