Sometimes happiness looks like slowing down instead of rushing ahead.

Every year, around the third week of September, I do something a little early: pumpkins on the porch, spooky lights in the windows, and the whole house looks incredible.

Going first gives me a head start on joy before the seasonal rush begins. It is my way of setting a calm, warm tone before the world speeds up.

But this year is different. For the first time in years, I am not rushing into fall. The bins remain in the closet, and the artificial pumpkins are safely stored.

September is here, yet there are no scarecrows by the front gate, no signature ghost swaying outside, and no scented candles flickering in my kitchen. The days are still long and warm, the evenings soft, and—truthfully—I am not ready to pack away summer. While every store is already shouting pumpkins and cinnamon, I am still walking around with an iced coffee from my favorite spot in town.

Fall can wait. I am soaking up what is left of this good season.

Summer Gave Me Back a Piece of Myself

This sunny stretch surprised me. I embraced the season by picking up two new hobbies—canoeing and surfing. These experiences became a source of joy and inspiration. I keep my curiosity alive by trying new sports, so for the past few months, I have been learning to balance on a board and paddle across the Texas Intracoastal Waterway along the Gulf Coast. It has been thrilling and humbling. I fell. I wiped out.

And I laughed—alone in the middle of the water—while joy bubbled up in the most unexpected ways. There is something so liberating about being a beginner again, especially as an adult. You cannot fake it. You show up, let go of the idea of being perfect, and meet yourself where you are. Out there, I did not need to “win” at anything. I only needed to listen—to the water, to my breath, to that small pulse of joy that shows up when you try something new and let it be messy. It reminded me that being a beginner is enough—that joy comes not from having all the answers but from showing up. Too often, we rush from one season to the next—literally and emotionally. New month?

New goals. New season? New expectations. Even joy gets scheduled, filtered, posted, measured. It can feel like we are running a race we never signed up for.

Stores move holiday displays earlier every year, and sometimes we move with them, decorating our homes—and our lives—months ahead, as if arriving first means we will feel better sooner. This rush can lead to burnout, a sense of never being able to catch up, and a loss of the simple joy of living in the present moment.

What if we paused? What if we allowed ourselves to experience what is here entirely?

This year, I have a wealth of new interests to occupy my mind, enabling me to walk past the cobwebs and the six-foot skeletons with an empty cart. I have chosen to let summer finish its sentence, to stay with the moment before moving on. I will always cherish fall—cozy sweaters, lattes, cinnamon sticks on the stove, early nights, cooler air.

I will get there—probably the first week of October. But by waiting a little longer, I am giving myself something I have missed: a complete experience. And when I finally unwrap the familiar pumpkins, they will mean more—not because I got there first, but because I came to the moment.

I can soak in the last golden breezes. I can feel the sun on my shoulders when I am surfing or paddling my canoe one more time, and sip my latte without a deadline. I can let this season hold me for a few more days—and not feel guilty for needing that. Staying present helps me feel happier than any quick fix.

I am choosing to let go of the rush and welcome peace. I am becoming more adept at listening to myself. Maybe it is the ocean. Perhaps it is the sun. Or maybe it is the lesson—after these last few years—that choosing peace over pressure does not make you lazy or behind. It makes you human. It is a powerful choice that can significantly impact happiness and well-being.

There is a quieter truth I keep learning: when I slow down, the people around me feel it too. My conversations get softer. My evenings stretch. I am not missing out—fewer perfect plans, more simple joys.

The best is not in the next season—it is right where I am when I stay a little longer.

So, for now, I will let summer linger—one more paddle, one more breeze, one more cup of iced coffee in the sun.

Happy summer.

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