I used to think that the season you called your favorite revealed something profound and immutable about you. As a kid, since I got sunburnt so easily, I found warm, bright weather forbidding. That ruled out summer. Since I hated snow (peers were even harder to turn into friends when they were pelting snowballs at you, and ice impeded an easy getaway to the refuge of the indoors), I disliked winter, too. That left me with autumn and spring. My birthday sat squarely in the former, making it the easy choice between the two.
And so, sometime during high school, I began to conceive of my personality as autumnal. I came alive during October, and the high stayed with me well into December. Exultantly, I wore deep colors, consumed all things pumpkin spice, and collected especially beautiful fallen leaves into a little brown vintage purse. I bemoaned any warm days that lingered from summer, wearing my favorite sweaters long before they were climatically appropriate. I took pleasure in horror movies, ghost stories, dark forests—anything that could be classed as spooky (spoopy, for millennials). I made sure everyone knew that I was a Scorpio. In short, I crafted my entire personality around the stereotypical associations surrounding a mere quarter of the calendar year. If I was basic, I didn’t care. It was easy to take autumn’s personality for my own: Whenever I had to choose between films, or foods, or outfits, or modes of expression, I could just go with whichever had the most palpable fall vibe.
But then what would happen when, against my will, I found myself enjoying the other three seasons? Was I allowed?
As I got older, dreaded recess hours in the dead of New England winter were no longer scheduled into the school day; hence, there were fewer snowball fights to dodge. I could pretend that winter, with its cold weather and people’s acceptance of staying inside during it, was an extension of autumn. I could keep wearing my sweaters and drinking hot drinks.
The warmer seasons, however, were harder to reconcile with my perceived personality. At least during summer, my beloved autumn was not far away. In a matter of months, temperatures would fall, and I would be back to my full form.
Spring, though. Spring was tough.
It was bad enough that I was at least six months from my preferred time of year. But to add insult to injury, I was doomed to a fate of itchy eyes and sneezing in intervals of thirty seconds.
Spring wasn’t for me. It was for other people—people who did not turn beet red as a result of ten minutes spent in the sun, people who had vast groups of friends to sit out on lawns with in public.
Here’s where I may sound a bit bitter. My first couple of years of college, instead of greeting the first days of spring weather with an urge to sit out with, seemingly, the entire school on the Main Green, I felt more anxious than ever. Walking to class, with the dense crowds in the bright sun and the cacophony of yelling and dissonant songs playing from different speakers, unnerved me. I longed for the days of cool and rainy autumn, when my daily walk was just me and the fire-hued trees.
I know. I’m a monster. I realize that the springtime Main Green bustle is a huge and, as many seem to feel, heartwarming part of the Brown experience. And I didn’t fully comprehend why I was like this at first, either. It’s not that I didn’t have amazing friends, or access to sunscreen, or noise-cancelling headphones. But I could not, no matter how many times I tried, enjoy it. I cursed the entire season of spring and all that it stood for.
The first true feeling of spring in 2025 came one day a couple of weeks ago. And instead of cowering in my room with the blinds down and a woody candle lit, trying to pretend that outside a gentle rain was pattering against orange leaves, I decided to challenge myself. In the early morning, I took myself on a walk. The air felt fresh on my skin, the sun gently warming, and, against my will, I had to admit to myself that it was nice, especially after a long string of cold days in layered clothing. The thing about nice weather is that it is indiscriminate. It doesn’t stop being nice just because someone has sworn themselves to a life favoring autumnal gloom.
Later that day, when I had to walk past the Main Green to get to class, I breathed a little easier than on previous years’ first spring day. I had already taken the small step of going for a solo walk, breathing in and enjoying, and in doing so, claiming the spring weather for myself. Even the dense crowd couldn’t make me feel like it was not mine.
Then, I tried going through the motions a little more. I laid under a tree on the Quiet Green later in the day and listened to the birds chirp. I took a picture of a patch of blossoming flowers. I sat in my backyard until the sky grew dark and smiled as a rabbit scurried across the grass. I tried, even as the autumn within me protested, to do what normal people did. And again, I had to admit that spring was pretty.
So, I made a list of things to embrace. Daffodils. Using the firepit in my backyard. Outdoor seating at bars. Birdsong. Walks in the woods. Reading. Wearing more skirts. Et cetera. Whether they’re available year round, or only in the spring, they’re experiences I can look forward to this season, even if it’s not—by my own standards—my season.
As if in resolution to enjoy my spring this year, I bought allergy medication and strong sunscreen. I began to make immediate plans with friends to go hiking, and, more generally, to spend time together.
Maybe part of what’s making the transition to spring easier to digest this year is a broader self-growth, an assurance that comes with age that I can tackle things that are initially hard. Maybe it’s that I’ve found that spring and fall aren’t so different. Both are transitional seasons when my best light jackets are optional, both feature beautiful scents (even if during spring I risk punctuating my deep inhale with a sneeze), and both feature flora that bloom (or die) in the loveliest of colors. Or maybe it is an understanding that I, like anyone, and at the risk of sounding cliché, contain multitudes. I can resonate with the personality and aesthetic of fall while still enjoying the undeniable bliss, the floral fragrance, of spring. I can look forward to my favorite season while still feeling the sun shine on me even as I’ve scorned it, and the feeling that the world is beginning to bravely bloom once more.