Autumn In New York
An overview on the last two months of my life, and other musings.
By late September, I’d stopped writing—stopped doing much of anything, really.
Mornings no longer began before dawn; dusk came and went before my thoughts even began to stir. The days passed as muted repetitions, carried along by the rhythm of an almost-empty bus. My nose stayed chilled, my fingers stiff from the bite of cold slipping beneath my coat. Outside, the city hummed with a quiet urgency, as though suspended in the breathless pause before something inevitable—but what, I couldn’t say.
At first, I felt like a stranger in my own life, half-present and observing from somewhere far off. I spent long stretches watching leaves unfurl and scatter against the bus window—gold and dark auburn, their edges curling like old paper, as if worn thin by time itself. On the days I worked, I’d move through the streets with a bagel in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, the same three albums on repeat in my headphones. Their steady rhythms held me in place, their melodies a fragile tether to the world’s gray stillness. Yet that constancy felt oddly isolating, as though their notes were becoming my last link to something real.
I hadn’t given it much thought—until a joke from a coworker made me realize I’d stopped listening to anything else. Just alternative pop, an occasional burst of ranchera, and the fragmented murmurs of strangers’ conversations slipping past like smoke. In the past, my friends would have pointed it out first, with that half-amused, half-concerned tilt to their voices. But as the election season loomed closer, something in the air shifted. Our conversations grew fewer, quieter, heavier, though none of us could say why.
We were all on the same side, after all.
Perhaps it was simply the season—the time of year when the world seemed to hold its breath, and the weight of opposing perspectives grew sharper, more defined. I found myself drawn to those who believed the opposite of fire was simply its absence—no dramatics, no grand gestures, just a quiet pragmatism. There was comfort in that steadiness, in the way it grounded me against the chaos. It was a relief I couldn’t entirely name, a detachment that felt more like sanctuary than loss.
During those days, I read voraciously, devouring pages with a hunger I hadn’t noticed creeping back into my life. Each story seemed to carry the ghost of another writer’s weariness, a fatigue that felt strangely familiar, like something I wanted to lay claim to as my own. Line by line, I found echoes of my thoughts hidden in their words—sentiments so closely aligned with my own that I could almost convince myself I’d written them first.
One quote in particular stayed with me, a line from Gabby Whiten’s The Weekly:
“I’m exhausted. I can feel the lethargy in my bones creeping into the psyche. The echoes of the election leave a bad taste in my mouth. We will point fingers and play the blame game in an effort to… I don’t really know exactly. I try not to overcomplicate things. We shield ourselves from the nasty truths. We have created little islands of isolation that insulate us from the great horror of America’s political violence. It costs to exist in this country right now. We can’t afford groceries or integrity.”
Her writing is refined yet pungent—like ginger, sharp but oddly soothing. Among the voices I’ve been reading, hers feels like one of the last to truly write in full sentences. I used to joke that my musings were a blend of polished reflections and scattered thoughts, but I never imagined a time when even the writers I trusted to hold their thoughts together—when I couldn’t—would start to falter too. I don’t blame them; I falter as well. Things are difficult right now, in ways we can’t fully name—or perhaps we can, but haven’t yet found the words.
We’ll find them eventually. But for now, I’ll admit my main tool has been distraction: scrolling TikTok, following baking accounts and the self-proclaimed “thought daughters” of the internet. (The term is endlessly debated, but I like to imagine they’re young women drawn to a quieter life, where the small, unremarkable moments carry a little more weight.) I haven’t baked as much as I’d hoped, but there’s comfort in watching homemakers prepare pumpkin loaves or listening to women reflect on the soft edges of life in their late twenties or early thirties.
A few examples of the content my social pages have recently curated:
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And so, this is where I am. My writing feels different lately—slower, less urgent. Maybe it mirrors the rhythm my life has taken on, or maybe it marks a growth I’m not yet able to name. For now, it’s simply what it is.
I hope you’ve been well, and if not, I hope you will be—tomorrow, or whenever you’re ready.
Until next time,
S
A few reading recommendations for the week(end):
Divinity Holds My Hand by Wenyi Xue
When Your Phone Is A Mirror, Everything Is A Selfie by Brendan Holder
Being the ‘Love & Light’ Friend by Amara Amaryah