She is a mermaid. A mistress of darkness. A howler at the moon. A truth-seeker.

She is forged from Persephone’s fateful descent. She is made of fire and water—and the balls it takes to live in our hearts.

Born in the subtle space that quietly erupts when summer becomes fall, she wakes up. When the air gets crisp and wild and the scorching humidity settles—it is replaced with something dark, seductive, and mysterious.

This is when she comes alive.

In the sapphire blue of the sky just after twilight when the sun fades and a new sort of silence seeps into the atmosphere, she stretches her weary limbs and dives in.

She speaks to shadows and slips into the places of your heart you have been told to hide.

The places you’ve come to believe are “too much:” too sensitive, too broken, too loud, too quiet, too weird, too intense, too emotional.

Because she knows that so often, the very parts we have been told to hide…

Well, they are the most beautiful parts of all. 

They are often our gifts. 

She loves the stunning paradox of that. She loves the way it makes no sense to our minds. She loves the power in reclaiming what was once lost.

Because she knows what it is to break. To die. And come back to life. She’s done it a dozen times.

Her smile speaks of that wisdom; it reflects the light so characteristic of autumn—golden yet strewn with shadows, speaking of deaths to come. All the necessary transformations we must go through.

And so it is.

She knows the magic of those dark, nurturing places—the underground caves within where we go to renew. To shed our skin. To become whole again.

She does not fear the darkness, but she reaches out to it for reassurance.

As night spills into the sky like velvet, she slips it on, a familiar cape, and returns to the rhythm forged inside her bones.

She sings—

Deeper.

Slower.

Deeper. 

She breathes hungrily into the stunning, starlit silence of night—and under the half-moon, she breaks open the mysteries of this life.

The confusion. The trauma. The resilience. The hope. The messiness. The healing. The unbelievable tenderness of being human.

What is God?

What is love? 

What if happiness is just shiny distraction—a candy-wrapped lie?

What treasures might we find packed in our pain if we look carefully enough?

She’s not really one for small talk.

Small talk feels like summer—too hot and bright and obvious.

She likes conversations cast by candlelight and fused with the way our eyes give us away.

The kinds of conversations where tears are shed and truths are released like birds, formerly trapped inside our rib cages for far too many years.

Her favorite thing of all is when masks slip off—and authenticity fills the air, like smoke and sweat and nakedness. Those moments when we just fill up space and say—

“Here I am.” 

As she learns to do that, to really be here, embodying her wildness, wounds, and wisdom—others look at her with a mixture of envy, confusion, and respect through their furrowed brows. They say maybe she should just relax and have fun—why does she have to think about things so damn much?

But to her, this is fun.

She yearns for the depths. The truth. This is what sustains her.

So to love this autumn woman—a woman kissed by the blush of changing leaves; a woman whose heart exists in a thousand shades of russet, ruby, and citrine? A woman whose presence feels like the promising, sexy gust of a late September breeze?

You will be invited to sit in the jaws of your truth and face yourself.

You will be invited to find a new kind of bravery—one that lives in your heart.

For loving her is like letting go of all illusions, as the leaves blaze in a final, vivid display—and then die.

Like those trees, she will shed her skin a thousand times. So will you.

Is it frustrating? Maybe. But to her, it’s electric—pressed into the musky perfume the dirt exudes in late autumn, telling us it’s time to go within. To coil inside our bones once again.

She sings—

Deeper.

Slower.

Deeper.

She spirals around her soul—learning, weaving, playing.

She wants to drink in every ounce of growth this life can give her.

So love who she is now—and the crisp breeze that speaks of who she is becoming. The not-yet finished portrait of change she is leaning into, as the maple trees are painted in fiery, jeweled splendor, one leaf at a time.

For she is a layered woman, forged from an intensity she longer cares to hide.

Her thirst for truth is delightfully insatiable. She will never stop. To her, there is nothing to arrive at; no final destination. Life is a mystery to surrender to. And so is love.

Loving her? Well, it is brazen, ruby-lipped, and wild.

It is an opportunity for a hundred sweet transformations and the kind of adventure that breathes fresh, zesty life into you.

It is sealed in the horizon, like thick, silver fog crawling through the emerald undergrowth of the forest.

It is spoken in spicy wine that stains your mouth cherry red; it is written in the cozy orange glow of a crackling bonfire, as you lay next to her in a passionate embrace, bodies strewn naked across the cool earth.

To love a woman who comes alive in autumn to the crunch-crunch of dried leaves beneath her bare feet?

Buckle up. Or don’t.

You will be invited to know yourself more deeply than ever before.

It won’t be easy. It will be challenging and delicious.

Prepare to be loved fiercely and completely.

She will drink you in like rum on a chilly night.

Ever-wanting to know you anew.

So love her fiercely and completely.

Love who she is now—and the crisp breeze that speaks of who she is becoming. The not-yet finished portrait of change she is leaning into, as the maple trees are painted in fiery, jeweled splendor, one leaf at a time.

~