I have always felt the seasons very deeply. Some people notice them only in the weather, but for me they change something more intimate — my mood, my energy, the way I dress, even the way I see myself. Summer usually brings out the lightest version of me. I feel open, spontaneous, almost weightless. I choose simple clothes, softer colors, and that kind of ease that comes naturally when the days are longer and life feels less structured.
But when the colder months arrive, something in me changes too. I become quieter, more reflective, a little more private. I reach for jeans, oversized layers, hoodies, comfortable things that let me disappear into myself for a while. Maybe it comes from where I grew up — a small countryside village where life always felt simple, direct, and very close to the rhythm of nature. The seasons were never just background there. You felt them in the fields, in the light, in the silence, in the way everyone around you adjusted without even thinking about it.
I remember this period of my life very clearly. It was late autumn, almost winter, and I had only recently started working part-time to pay for university. It felt like an important step, one of those moments when you realize that life is becoming more serious, whether you are ready or not. The job itself was not glamorous at all — I was working as a secretary in a law office — but to me it meant independence, responsibility, and the beginning of something real. I liked that feeling more than I expected. I liked being trusted, being useful, being part of a world that seemed organized and grown-up.
At the same time, it was strange. That job required a version of me I was still learning how to become. Tailored skirts, silk blouses, neat lines, polished habits. Everything felt more formal, more contained, more deliberate than the girl I had always been. I was used to feeling free and uncomplicated, still half teenager in some ways, still close to that carefree part of myself that had not yet been shaped by offices, schedules, and professional expectations.
So during that season, it often felt like there were two versions of me living side by side. One was still soft, impulsive, and a little playful — the girl from the countryside who loved simple days and did not overthink too much. The other was beginning to step into the adult world, learning its codes, its elegance, its discipline, and maybe even enjoying the challenge of it. I missed my old ease sometimes, but I was also excited. That was the confusing beauty of it: I was not losing myself, I was expanding.
When I look back at images like these, that is what I recognize most. Not just a mood, not just a look, but a transition. A moment suspended between who I had been and who I was becoming. Between summer light and colder days. Between the comfort of what felt familiar and the quiet thrill of growing into something new.