HOF — It’s been twenty-three days since I suspended the medication. The fog is finally starting to lift. Feelings are returning — shyly, cautiously — like sunlight breaking through after a long storm.
Yesterday, my oldest friend, Melissa, wrote to me:
“Enjoying the changing of the seasons and everything that goes with it .. You never know which beautiful Autumn season will be your last.”
Her words stayed with me. They weren’t sad — they were gentle, almost grateful. A reminder to notice how precious each fall really is.
Fall is messy. It’s windy, wet, unpredictable. The ground turns to mud, the sky grows heavy, and yet we still go out — we walk into the rain, step over the puddles, play with the dead leaves, collect them, photograph them. Because even in the mess, there’s beauty. Even in decay, there’s life.
Today, I went for a walk to my favorite spot in the park — a yellow volleyball net glowing against the deep green. I’ve photographed it before, but never in this season. Surrounded by fallen leaves and the faint smell of rain, the net felt like something more than a game — it felt like a symbol of what holds when everything else changes.
Fall is a brief window to grieve the summer, to admire the beauty of endings, and to prepare for the cold ahead — trusting that spring will return.
The yellow net stands for that same promise. It represents the human network — fragile, imperfect, yet capable of lasting far beyond seasons and generations.
Melissa’s message helped me see that fall is not the end of the year, but the proof that life knows how to recycle itself. It’s the universe reminding us that even in decline, there is meaning — and even in loss, there is connection.
So I took a photo and called it Threads of Hope. Because that’s what we are: threads — brief, bright, messy and woven into something larger that keeps renewing itself.
Roumani Line 