The Gentle Shift

The Gentle Shift

By Heather Shoning

It always sneaks up on me—somewhere between the last thunderstorm of July and the first dry breeze that carries a whisper of September. It’s not quite a chill, not yet. Just a feeling that something is shifting.

I haven’t bought a backpack in years, and there’s no back-to-school lunchbox in my house waiting to be packed. Still, the end of summer moves me. Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe it’s something in the light. But as soon as the air changes, so do I.

Every year, this is when I start reaching for structure again. My favorite pen resurfaces. My journal, long ignored during more carefree days, gets pulled from the nightstand stack. I start making lists—not because I’m behind, but because I’m ready. There’s a quiet joy in the ritual of setting new intentions, and something uniquely grounding about doing it when the world is still green but beginning to lean toward gold.

Here in Boulder, we get to experience this shift in high definition. Mornings are crisper on Sanitas, where early-
risers and dogs chase the sunrise, shadows long and breath barely visible enough to notice. At the market, I find myself hunting for those last, perfect Palisade peaches—the ones that feel like they’ve soaked up every hour of sun they could get. The ones you eat standing over the sink, juice trailing down your wrist, because it would feel wrong to do it any other way.

And yes, I’m still making time for summer’s final rituals. There’s still magic in a lazy afternoon along the creek, toes in the water, sun on your face, the world reduced to water, sky and laughter. These are the moments that beg us to pause. Not to rush the shift, but to witness it.

I think that’s what I love most about this time of year: the duality. There’s movement and stillness. Anticipation and savoring. We are both looking ahead and holding on—choosing our next direction while soaking up what’s left of this one.

This is the season for gentle resets. Not the January kind that demand reinvention, but the quieter kind that asks us to listen in. What’s calling to be completed? What’s nudging to begin? I start asking better questions: How do I want to feel this fall? What routines will support that? What habits have served me this summer that I want to keep carrying?

And while anyone who knows me knows I’m all about productivity, this season calls for a different kind of focus—one rooted in presence. Can I build a rhythm that gives me time to notice the way the Flatirons glow at dusk? Can I protect space for walking my pups without my phone—instead listening for evening crickets and distant conversations drifting from porches?

Boulder County makes this kind of living easier, if you let it. We’re a collection of tight-knit towns that values
awareness—not just of the self, but of the season. You can see it in the crowds thinning at the creek, the quiet determination of early morning runners, the subtle wardrobe shift from tank tops to light fleece. You can feel it in the hum of students returning, their energy seeping into the air like espresso brewing in a crowded café. It’s all a reminder: Life is happening, ready or not. Might as well greet it intentionally.

So, I’ll keep grabbing the last of the peaches. I’ll linger on the patio with friends a little longer, even if I need a blanket over my knees. And I’ll open that fresh journal—still stiff at the spine—and write what I want to carry forward because something about this season makes me believe I can actually do it.

Fall is coming. But it’s not here yet.

And that, right now, feels like a gift.