A month of college has gone by.

As the days have passed, I’ve found myself looking out the window. The windows in this room are small, narrow. They’re lined with a screen, and they don’t open all the way. They determine the temperature in the room. They decide how bright it is. When the weather changes, so does the room.

The room began bright, filled with sunlight, filled with hope. The green of the trees in the courtyard outside highlighted the green in my sheets, infected the white of my pillow. Hannah’s hanging crystal refracted the light outside and created color around the room, created life.

As the leaves began to turn, as the sky began to darken, I expected to become somber. I always hated the shift from summer to autumn, I always wished for some kind of delay. It meant that summer was leaving me, and taking with it the joy that the beaches of Barcelona and the time with friends brought.

But this year, something changed. My summer was defined by angst, by tears, by trauma. My summer was defined by boredom, by lack of reason, by lack of life. The abuse, the name-calling, the guilt-tripping, and the wrist-gripping of Barcelona drowned out the sand under my feet, drowned out the joy of seeing my friends again. The hours I spent wishing I had an assignment, a purpose, sunk me into my couch and left me feeling empty and ungrateful.

This year, I needed a change. I needed summer to leave me. I needed autumn to come.

So I find myself looking out the window.

The gray skies are somewhat of a symbol of comfort, comfort in things that are not sunny and bright. Rain meant tears, tears that were necessary for growth. The leaves changing meant I was changing too, accepting the novelties of college life and independence, accepting that the people around me–the other leaves–were changing in the same way, and while some developed earlier, we all were developing together.

My mom has always loved the changing of the leaves; the colors always reflect in her eyes, almost more pigmented through her lens. My friends love the rain; they think it enhances any cup of tea or book, bringing them a comfort that it never brought me.

Now, I’m learning to take the change of the sky and the leaves and the light and refract it into the life I want for myself. The same way the view out of my window decides the aura in my room, I decide the way I perceive the world around me.

Today I walked with my mom under the pergolas of orange and red. We stopped to admire the falling leaves. We stopped to think about how far we’ve come. We stopped to be thankful for the serendipity of our presence.

Today I skipped through the drizzle with my friends. We let the water run through our hair and seep into the fabric of our clothes. We left our jackets at home and embraced the drops of independence that rested on our cheeks.

Today I slept until the sun crept in. I banished my worries to my dreams and let the numbness of sleep be absorbed into my pillow. I welcomed the day with gratitude.

Today I am grateful for my mother and my friends, for the smell of Hannah’s cupcakes in my room, and the taste of coffee in the morning. I am grateful for big hoodies wrapped around me, and for the sound of Maya‘s laughter in the hallways. I am grateful for Steph’s gentleness. I am grateful for Kate’s humor. I am grateful for Nitai and Owen’s comfort (and their couch).

I look out my window to look into myself, to find myself surrounded by the company I always wished I could have, to find myself surrounded by safety and contentment, to find myself surrounded by joy of life, by goals for success, by dreams that overflow the halls.

I look out my window to embrace change and let it embrace me.