Everyone Is Back. You Never Left.

When September feels like a fresh start for everyone else—and you're already tired.

I am a sucker for September.

Or at least I used to be.

I loved the excitement of a new school year. New classes. New subjects. New things to learn. And, if I'm being completely honest, I loved the school supplies almost as much as the coursework. Colored binders, tabs, cute pads of paper, fresh notebooks. I am a bit of a stationery geek.

There was something about getting everything organized and ready that made me feel like I was setting myself up for success. A new semester meant a clean page. New possibilities. A chance to do things a little better than I had the semester before.

Working in higher education only amplified that feeling.

Every fall, campus seemed to come alive. New students arrived, excited and nervous about beginning college. There were activities and welcome events and new projects designed to help students find their place. Faculty and staff returned from summer with stories about long weekends at the beach or trips to national parks.

The energy was contagious. September meant something was beginning.

I think part of what I liked so much about September was the idea of a new chapter. There was something about organizing my school work, setting up appointments at work and mapping out new projects that made me feel like maybe, if I could just get everything in order, the rest of my life might fall into place too.

Maybe the constant uncertainty at home would somehow become more manageable. Maybe things would feel a little more certain.

Of course, they didn't.

Our summers were different, too. There weren't long vacations or extended getaways. An ambitious excursion might be an hour's drive to Orr's Island. More often, it was a trip to the nearby ice cream shop or takeout sandwiches in the parking lot at the beach.

We found ways to enjoy ourselves, but there wasn't really any respite. Caregiving didn't take a summer vacation.

And then September came.

The air turned crisp. The windows could finally be opened, and a cool breeze would move through the house. That was one of the things my husband and I both loved about fall.

But the responsibilities didn't change with the weather.

My mornings looked much like they did the rest of the year, except that during those years there was often a 4 a.m. alarm. I'd get up and study for a few hours before my husband was out of bed. Then there were meals to prepare, things to organize, appointments and all of the small logistical details that become part of a caregiving life.

And then I went to work.

Working in higher education wasn't exactly a slow way to ease into September. Students arrived or returned with questions. They needed help. There were meetings and presentations and projects and a seemingly endless list of things that needed attention.

I was fortunate that I genuinely liked my work. I worked with students from all over the world, and the job was a mix of logistics, analysis, compliance and problem-solving. It was also very human. Students came to us when they needed help, sometimes with situations that had little to do with the classroom. There could be a crisis to manage or simply a student who needed someone to listen.

I liked being useful. I liked being able to solve a problem and, when I couldn't solve it, at least help someone feel heard. The work could be stressful and emotionally demanding, but it was also meaningful.

Most days, I showed up and did the work.  I was cheerful and competent. I was good at that part.

What was harder was that I was already tired before the workday began, and there wasn't really a place in my day where everything stopped long enough for me to recover.

I've thought about that a lot over the years because I don't think I lost the excitement. I lost the energy to feel the excitement in the same way.

That's different.

During this period, I entered law school. I loved the material. I loved learning something new, and my husband loved hearing about it, too. His body was failing, but his mind was still sharp. We could talk about what I was learning in class, about the ideas and cases and things I was wrestling with in my coursework.

Those conversations mattered to me.

I wasn't living without joy. I was living with very little margin.

By the time I entered law school, my life had become a particularly complicated version of this. My father died just before my first semester. My mother had been gone for years, and my sister and I were suddenly dealing with his estate. At the same time, my husband's illness was progressing and his care needs were increasing.

I was working, caregiving and going to law school.

Eventually, my husband died just before my final semester.

When I look back at those years, I don't remember September as a beginning.

The calendar changed. The weather changed. The students returned. The campus became busy again.

But there was no new season in my life.

There was simply the next thing to do.

I think that's one of the strange things about caregiving. The rest of the world operates in seasons. School years begin and end. Projects have start dates and completion dates. Companies have quarters. People take vacations and come back refreshed. There are natural moments when you can stop, take stock and begin again.

Caregiving doesn't always work that way.

The appointment is followed by another appointment. One decision leads to another. One difficult week becomes another. Just when you think you might have a little breathing room, something changes.

Then September arrives and everyone else seems to speed up again.

I imagine there are caregivers sitting at desks right now who know what I mean. Their coworkers are coming back from summer vacations talking about where they went. Calendars are filling. New projects are getting underway. Everyone is talking about getting back into a routine.

And the caregiver may be doing the same things everyone else is doing. Going to work. Answering emails. Starting projects. Showing up.

But they didn't necessarily come back from anywhere.

They may have spent the summer doing exactly what they were doing in June.

That is what I didn't understand about September then. I thought a new season would somehow create a new feeling. If I could get organized enough, plan enough, prepare enough, maybe I would feel more in control.

I didn't.

But there were still good things.

I remember the windows being open. I remember the crisp air. I remember working in the yard while my husband sat nearby, chatting, making jokes and soaking up the sunshine.

He wasn't able to do the work. But sometimes he could be there. And sometimes being there was enough.

Those moments didn't look like a vacation. They didn't feel like a fresh start. But they were still moments of joy.

Maybe that's what I understand about September now.

A new season doesn't necessarily mean a new beginning.

Sometimes the calendar changes and you are still carrying the same things. Sometimes everyone around you seems ready to start over, while you are simply trying to keep moving forward.

I still love September. I still love opening the windows and letting that first crisp breeze move through the house. I still like the notebooks and the planning and the feeling that something is beginning.

But I don't think about it as a reset anymore.

Maybe because I know that life doesn't always cooperate with the calendar.

Some things begin. Some things end. Some things simply continue.

And sometimes a new season isn't about starting over at all.

Sometimes it's just about noticing where you are, taking a breath, and beginning the next part from there.