October looked like it had hired a cinematographer. The trees turned amber and copper, the mornings came with that sharp little bite in the air, and the afternoons disappeared so early that by five o’clock Britain seemed ready to put on pyjamas. Pavements were covered in leaves, shop windows suddenly became more autumnal, pumpkins started appearing everywhere as if they had secured a seasonal sponsorship deal, and coffee somehow tasted more appropriate simply because I was wearing a jumper. Outside, everything looked wonderfully dramatic. My actual life, meanwhile, involved work, laundry, pet duties, anniversaries, family birthdays, train journeys and the usual question of what on earth we were having for dinner.

I had imagined October as a slower month. In my head, I would take long walks, read more, drink coffee while staring thoughtfully out of windows and generally behave like the female lead in an autumn film. Reality allowed approximately thirty per cent of this plan. I did have the walks and coffee. I also had errands, schedules and four animals with absolutely no interest in supporting my seasonal aesthetic.

Calvin and Bentley were very happy with autumn because fallen leaves apparently exist primarily for dogs to inspect. Every pile required investigation. Every interesting smell required a committee meeting. Walks that could have taken twenty minutes occasionally became extended field research. Miyuki and Luna, meanwhile, remained indoors running their own operation. The kittens had no awareness that October was supposed to be calm and reflective. Their approach to autumn was more along the lines of sprint, attack, sleep, eat, repeat.

Between the dogs and the kittens, I was reminded regularly that nature does not spend nearly as much time overthinking life as humans do. The dogs saw leaves and wanted to jump into them. The kittens saw a cardboard box and considered it superior to almost everything I had actually purchased for them. Nobody was setting goals. Nobody was reviewing their progress. Nobody had a five-year plan. Frankly, they seemed very content.

The walks did make me slow down, although not in the dramatic way autumn articles usually describe. I did not stand under a tree and suddenly understand the universe. I simply started noticing things I normally rushed past. The colour of the leaves against grey British skies. Cold air on my face. Damp pavements reflecting streetlights. That particular autumn smell of wet ground, trees and somebody nearby burning something they probably should not be burning.

I also discovered that October makes ordinary streets look far more expensive. Add golden leaves and low afternoon sunlight to almost any road and suddenly it appears ready for a property brochure.

Moments of Warmth and Celebration

October 4 brought our batch anniversary, which was another reminder that time has become disturbingly efficient. It does not feel that long ago that we were all beginning that chapter together, and yet here we are with careers, responsibilities, different schedules and increasingly complicated conversations about when everybody is free. Friendship used to require a message saying, “Where are you?” Now it can involve rotas, annual leave, family commitments and several screenshots of calendars.

Still, I like that those friendships have survived the logistics. Some people belong to a particular chapter of your life but somehow remain part of the later ones too. You may not see each other as often. Conversations are sometimes interrupted by work and adulthood. Messages can sit unanswered because someone read them during a busy moment, replied mentally and then discovered three days later that their fingers were never involved. Yet when everyone eventually manages to meet, very little explanation is required.

Then came our sixth anniversary, which gave October another reason to make me aware of time. Six years sounds impressive when written neatly under a photograph. The actual six years, of course, contain far more ordinary material than the photograph suggests.

Long-term love is not made entirely from anniversaries, flowers and carefully planned dates. It is also built from groceries, tired evenings, shared decisions, disagreements about minor things, repeated questions, private jokes and the ongoing challenge of deciding what to eat. I have learned that “Anything is fine” is one of the least reliable statements in a relationship because it often means “Anything is fine except all the things you are about to suggest.”

But I like that reality better. An anniversary matters because of all the ordinary days that came before it. The celebration may happen once a year, but the relationship lives in everything between the dates: showing up, adjusting, laughing, being annoyed, forgiving, making plans and continuing to imagine future versions of life together.

October 6 was Mama’s birthday, which meant celebrating across miles again. Living abroad has made me very familiar with birthdays conducted through messages, photographs and video calls. Technology is wonderful until the middle of an emotional conversation when somebody freezes on screen in a deeply unflattering position and everyone spends the next minute asking, “Can you hear me?”

Distance does not make those dates less important, but it changes how you experience them. Sometimes home feels perfectly manageable from far away. You call, send messages, carry on with your routine and the miles stay politely in the background. Then a birthday comes along and suddenly you are reminded that a screen, however useful, is still a screen.

That is one of the odd things about life abroad: you build a life in one country without completely leaving the other. You collect routines here while keeping memories there. Some people you love are within driving distance, while others require flights and leave approval. Eventually you become very good at existing in both places emotionally, which sounds poetic until you are calculating time zones while trying to call before someone goes to bed.

The Warm Comfort of Familiar Things

Birmingham made another appearance during the month, along with an Asian food court and enough good food to justify the journey. Bento boxes, sushi and miso soup are particularly convincing when the weather is cold. There is a point in autumn when soup stops being an option and starts feeling like a sensible life decision.

Meals with friends have become one of my favourite kinds of plans because nobody needs to accomplish anything while eating. We can sit, talk, laugh and allow several topics to exist without turning the meeting into a productive use of time. Healthcare has given me enough meals eaten quickly. A long lunch where nobody is watching the clock feels almost rebellious.

Afterwards, we walked among displays of pumpkins, squash and apples arranged so beautifully that even vegetables appeared to understand branding. October gives pumpkins an astonishing amount of influence. For eleven months they are simply produce. Then suddenly they are décor, personality traits and photographic props.

Naturally, I took pictures.

My camera roll from October is exactly what you would expect from someone who likes autumn: leaves, animals, food, friends, pumpkins, train windows and several photographs where the main subject is apparently “nice light.” Future me may not remember exactly why I photographed half of them, but current me clearly felt strongly about that particular tree.

The Stillness Between Journeys

There were train journeys too, and those became some of my favourite parts of the month. Trains are one of the few remaining places where staring out of a window for an hour is considered perfectly acceptable behaviour. At home, it might look like procrastination. Add a railway ticket and a coffee and suddenly it becomes travel.

I liked watching the scenery change outside: grey skies, fields, rows of houses, patches of autumn colour appearing and disappearing before I could properly look at them. There is a strange relief in being physically unable to speed up the journey yourself. You sit down, the train moves, and for once the only real task is getting off at the correct station.

On Change, Gratitude, and Slowing Down

October was not entirely picturesque, of course. Real life continued underneath all the amber leaves. There were busy days, work responsibilities, tired mornings and moments when I had more things to do than enthusiasm available. Autumn did not make me more organised. My problems did not become aesthetically pleasing simply because the trees changed colour.

That may be why I liked the month.

It reminded me that a good life does not require every part of it to look impressive at the same time.

You can have a stressful workday and still enjoy the walk home. You can miss family and still laugh with friends. You can celebrate an anniversary without pretending the previous six years were flawless. You can feel tired and grateful in the same week. You can have a perfectly ordinary month and still look back on it fondly.

October had no major transformation for me. I did not emerge as a calmer, wiser woman who now rises at dawn and journals beside a candle. I remained myself, which includes occasionally overfilling my calendar, drinking coffee later than advisable and believing I can accomplish an unrealistic number of things before dinner.

But there were good days.

There were people worth celebrating, animals waiting at home, family calls across countries, meals shared without rushing and train journeys where I could look outside instead of at another screen. There were golden trees on completely ordinary streets. There were afternoons when nothing extraordinary happened and nobody needed them to.

Looking Toward November

As November approached, I knew the calendar would change again. It carries dates that mean more to me, including my late dad’s birthday, and with those dates come memories that do not fit neatly into any particular mood. That is another thing adulthood has taught me: months rarely belong to one emotion. Celebration, grief, work, love and ordinary nonsense are perfectly capable of sharing the same week.

Grief changes, but it never really leaves. It becomes a softer presence — like autumn sunlight, still warm even when it fades.

So if I were to summarise October, I would not call it a month of letting go, transformation or any other phrase usually assigned to photographs of falling leaves.

It was simply a good, full month.

The weather had main-character energy. My calendar had supporting-cast chaos. The pets ignored the script entirely.

And somewhere between the anniversaries, birthdays, Birmingham meals, autumn walks, train windows and regular life happening in the background, I realised I did not need October to change me.

I was quite happy just living it.

“October reminded me: the leaves may fall, but the heart still knows how to bloom.”

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Still ignoring October’s dress code,
Anj 🍂