I blinked, and suddenly it’s December.

The past six weeks were a whirlwind—five conferences, thousands of miles, and more name tags, microphones, and hallway conversations than I could possibly count. Every fall, I know this rhythm is coming, and somehow it still surprises me. I left Silverton in late October when everything was brown and waiting for winter, and I returned to snow creeping down from the high peaks and a quiet that feels earned.

Silverton in late fall is a study in patience. Everything is brown—fields, hills, rooftops. The town holds its breath, waiting for snow, for the season to shift. I’m busy, restless, reflective. There’s a quiet that hums louder than the usual clatter of summer, and it makes me notice the small things: the way light hits the mountains, the bark on the aspens, the promise in the air.

This past weekend, Phen came home for the first time since heading off to boarding school. It was so nice. My mama's heart felt regulated for the first time since he left, with all my babies under the same roof. Knowing the next time he might be home is Christmas — and that he will certainly need his winter gear before then — we had an annual hurdle to tackle.

This was the first week with all three kids back in school—and the first week with Phen gone. It wasn’t an immediate adjustment. Monday, after dropping him off, I was wrecked. I cried ugly tears and let myself feel it all.

But here in my forties, I’ve learned to practice grace with myself. I took a walk. I called my mom. I sat in his room for a while. And then I pulled myself together enough to be present when the other two came home. That was my daily practice—falling apart a little, and then finding my way back.