After crossing the finish line of my big 100-mile race this summer, I expected pure joy. Instead, I found myself in that quiet, disorienting space that comes after a big goal—the moment when purpose fades and rest feels strange. Fall, I’m realizing, is the season for learning to live in that in-between. To sit with the stillness, resist the urge to rush into what’s next, and let uncertainty make room for something new to take shape.
I love summer. It has long days and high peaks, extra hours of daylight for alpine missions, warm sunny trails speckled with wildflowers, and lush green forests. Finishing a long run a little dehydrated, probably too sunburned, definitely a bit salt-crusted, but glowing with that dumb, happy satisfaction that says, I can’t wait to do this again tomorrow.
And now it’s fall. The air’s crisp, the aspens are showing off, the first dusting of snow is sneaking down the peaks. It’s objectively gorgeous. I’m doing my best to lean in, to make fall, if not my whole personality, at least a tasteful garnish on it. I’m drinking the pumpkin spice, baking the pumpkin bread, and downing apple cider like a Victorian invalid. But the truth is, I’m still struggling to get with the program.
There’s a small, feral part of me that just wants one more big alpine linkup, one more sweaty, sunburned, mosquito-bitten weekend that ends with gas station snacks and a dirt tan. Instead, I’m staring down shorter days, cold mornings, and the uncomfortable emotional terrain of “rest and reflection.”
Fall is the pause between chapters, the in-between season that doesn’t demand we go harder or faster, just different. It’s a moment to reflect before winter builds us back up again. To ask: What did I learn from this summer? What do I want to keep? What do I want to leave behind with the sunscreen and empty LMNT packets rolling around in my car?
If summer was about going big, fall is about going intentional. You don’t have to hang up your shoes, or pivot straight into spreadsheets and base training blocks. When I crossed the finish line of my big 100-mile race this summer, I thought I’d feel nothing but joy and relief. And I did, at first. But a few days later, that finish-line high gave way to something quieter, heavier, and harder to name. After spending months very focused on a single goal, every weekend on the trails, every tiny PT exercise performed, muscle foam-rolled, every recovery drink choked down, it’s strange to wake up without that north star.
It’s not just the training I miss (or the toenails I lost with it); it’s the clarity—the way a big goal makes everything else feel neatly ordered for a while. Now, in this in-between space, I feel both proud and a little purposeless. And as uncomfortable as that is, I’m realizing it’s part of the process—the season after the season. The place where reflection happens if you let it.
The poet John Keats once wrote about “negative capability”, the ability to rest in uncertainty, “without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” I think about that a lot this time of year, when the impulse to chase the next race or sign up for something, anything, starts to hum under my skin. Sometimes that urge comes from genuine excitement, but often it’s just a way to avoid the stillness. To avoid sitting with what the summer meant, and who I was inside it.
I’m always tempted to run headlong into what’s next. Sign up for and start training for my next race before even finding a place to put my last belt buckle. Sometimes that’s because what’s next feels genuinely exciting, and sometimes my decisions are guided more by stoke than sense, but it can also be because sitting still means thinking about and processing the summer of adventures and races I just had, which is …less fun.
Stillness doesn’t come easy for me. I start to feel itchy if I’m in one place too long, like my soul is wearing a wool sweater that doesn’t quite fit. I’ve opened and closed and re-opened (and re-closed, and re-opened again) the UltraSignup page for at least a dozen races, already dreaming up hypothetical finish lines instead of appreciating where my feet actually are.
And I know the “fall right now” thing is pretty regionally specific. My southern friends are finally running outside without looking like they just escaped a sauna. My desert friends are stepping into their prime season, when the red rock canyons start feeling runnable instead of like a cast-iron skillet under the sun. But the principle holds: whatever season you’re in, embrace it.
Because you might as well enjoy the transition while the seasons keep on season-ing.
Fall reminds us that slowing down doesn’t just mean the end of summer; it means letting your body and brain catch up to everything you’ve done. Reflection isn’t wasted time, it’s what gives meaning to the miles. The same way leaves turn before they drop, you get to change color before you grow again.
Winter will come soon enough, with its structure and early alarms and righteous indoor workouts. Before long, I’ll be catching up on the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City on a dreary treadmill run. But for now, I’m trying to stay here a little longer,to enjoy the gold light, the short sleeves at noon, the runs that are more about peeping leaves than building strength.
Maybe fall doesn’t need to be my whole personality, and I don’t need to rely on pumpkin pastries and decorative gourds to fix my seasonal melancholy. Maybe it’s just the quiet subplot where I remember how to run for no reason at all, and that sometimes the most productive thing you can do is enjoy the view, fold your laundry, and let yourself just be a person again.
I enjoy your stories. You talk about running, but you fit it into a broader narrative about who you are and about life in general.
I am much older–and less accomplished–than you; with the end of each season, I also face the angst of whether I will be able to find the energy for another.