There are seasons that announce their arrival like fireworks—and then there is autumn.
It doesn’t shout; it exhales. It doesn’t rush in with thunder; it arrives like a memory you didn’t know you still carried.

I noticed it first in the air—cooler, quieter, gentler. Then in the leaves, each one surrendering its green, choosing instead to burn beautifully before it falls. Walking through a park one afternoon, I watched the ducks glide over the water, unbothered by the decay floating beside them. The world was shedding, but it was doing so with grace.

It struck me then that autumn is not about loss—it is about honesty. It’s the earth reminding us that everything, no matter how vibrant, must eventually bow to time. But even in its surrender, it creates beauty. That, perhaps, is the miracle of it: how endings can look like beginnings if you learn to see differently.

And in that quiet, I thought of home.

“Autumn and home share the same secret: warmth never disappears—it transforms.”

The Memory of Cebu

Whenever autumn arrives, my heart drifts to Cebu—to mornings bright with sunlight and the smell of Pinakupsan frying in a pan. The sound of oil crackling, of laughter coming from the kitchen, of my father humming while the radio played songs older than me.

Pinakupsan is a dish that doesn’t ask to be understood; it asks to be felt. It’s pork fried in its own fat, browned until it releases everything it once held—its flavor, its essence, its truth. There’s something poetic about that, isn’t there? That it must give of itself to become what it’s meant to be.

In many ways, that’s what Cebu taught me—to find warmth even in hardship, to draw flavor from the parts of life that test you. The Philippines has a way of teaching resilience through simplicity. We grow up in a culture that knows how to share even when there’s barely enough. We find joy in noise, in laughter, in the shared language of rice and conversation.

And so, even here, surrounded by golden leaves and the crisp scent of autumn, I carry that Cebuano spirit with me—the art of making do, the grace of finding beauty in the in-between.

The Season of Letting and Keeping

There’s a moment in every walk where the world seems to stand still—where you can hear the leaves fall before they touch the ground. That’s where I found my reflection: in the quiet acceptance of change.

Because maybe autumn and Pinakupsan aren’t so different. Both are about transformation. Both require heat, patience, and surrender. Both begin with something raw and end with something richer.

Autumn teaches me that beauty isn’t in permanence, but in participation—in how we show up for the season we’re in, how we let the world change us without losing our roots. Cebu reminds me of the same thing. That no matter how far you go, you carry where you came from in the way you speak, the way you cook, the way you love.

What Autumn Leaves Behind

As I walk through the scattered leaves, I think of how life is really a series of small surrenders. You give a little of yourself every time you love, every time you care, every time you choose softness in a hard world. But like the trees, maybe we were never meant to hold on forever. Maybe we were made to let go, to rest, and to begin again.

And somewhere between the scent of falling leaves and the memory of home-cooked Pinakupsan, I find peace in that thought. Because both teach me the same thing: that warmth does not disappear—it transforms. That even in endings, there is flavor.

Autumn, like home, teaches me how to be human—how to let go with grace, to hold on with tenderness, and to keep becoming, quietly, endlessly.