I remember when my kids were in school. God, does that feel like forever ago—lol. Yet those memories live in me like little time capsules. Back-to-school was never just a date on the calendar; it was a whole ritual that seemed to take over the end of summer—two weeks of preparation, anticipation, and excitement. There were shopping trips for new clothes that smelled of crisp fabric and fresh dye, the endless lists of supplies—binders, paper, pencil crayons—and the comforting aroma of sharpened wood and ink that came with them. It was chaotic, yes, but it was also sacred in its own way. It was the marking of something new, the feeling of standing on the edge of possibility.
It’s funny how the approaching Samhain season is considered a new year for those who walk the pagan path, and how closely it mirrors that same energy of back-to-school. Both carry the weight of endings and beginnings, the turning of a page. With Mabon drawing near—the time of balance, when light and darkness stand equal—I can’t help but see how September has always been a threshold. It asks us to pause and take stock, to gather the harvest of our days, and to recognise that change is not just coming, but already here.
Sometimes I find myself longing for those good old days, when my children were young and the air seemed to crackle with their excitement. I’d watch them pull on their brand-new sweaters, backpacks slung over shoulders too small for the weight of them, and I’d feel that bittersweet ache of time rushing forward. And while I’m thankful I no longer have to fill the endless hours of summer with distractions—lol again—there’s a quiet emptiness that comes with the passing of those seasons of motherhood. It lingers, especially in September.
But this year, I’m beginning to understand something I didn’t before. It isn’t just the back-to-school ritual that brings that feeling of newness. It’s the season itself. September carries its own kind of magic. The mornings grow cooler, mist rising over fields and streets like a soft veil. Pumpkins begin to appear on porches, the scent of spice winds its way through kitchens and cafés, and cosy knit sweaters find their way back onto our bodies like a second skin. There’s a hush in the evenings, a slower rhythm that invites us to breathe, to settle, to open a book and lose ourselves for a while. (Shameless plug: if you’re looking for one, my novel Through Bright Eyes is perfect for crisp September nights!).
What I realise now is that September has never been about the school buses or the stacks of notebooks. It’s about turning inward. It’s about remembering the child within us who once felt that flutter of anticipation, that joy in new beginnings, that hope in fresh starts. The wheel turns, the days grow shorter, and the earth begins its slow rest, wrapped in mist and silence. And in that stillness, we are invited to reflect—not only on how far we’ve come, but on the roads we still wish to travel.
September isn’t just another month. It’s a doorway. And when we step through it, we’re reminded that beginnings aren’t bound by age, or season, or circumstance. They live in us always, waiting for the courage to be embraced.