The rituals that bring me back

Fall always feels like a pause I didn’t know I needed. The air shifts from the sticky ends of August to something sharper and quieter. It feels like a change that pulls me back to focus on myself and escape the chaos. Between long study nights, half-finished conversations and the constant rush to keep up, I forget what it feels like to just be.

But then I slow down. I start reaching for the small things that help me breathe again, the habits that make the world feel a little less heavy. They’re not perfect routines or planned moments of reflection. They’re just the things that remind me I’m still here, that even in the middle of all the noise and motion, I can find a sense of calm that’s mine alone.

1. Pouring it out: Writing my way to clarity

When my mind starts spinning – to-do lists, emotions, conversations I keep replaying – I open a blank page. Sometimes it’s a notebook, but often it’s a Google Doc, because my thoughts move faster than my hands can write. I type everything out, every anxious sentence and unfinished thought, until the noise in my head starts to form patterns.

Then, I organize the chaos. I group my worries into categories – academic, emotional, personal – and start to make small, actionable plans. If I’m stressed about a test, I’ll write out a detailed study plan: what I’ll study each day, who I’ll review with, which methods work best for me. If I’m upset about something, I’ll ask myself why. I’ll write out every option I have: maybe I’ll reach out to the person, explain what I meant, or maybe I’ll sleep on it and check in with myself tomorrow.

Once it’s all there in words, I feel lighter. Having a plan, even a small one, makes the world feel less unpredictable. Writing turns my mess into something manageable. It’s not just journaling; it’s me taking my hands off the chaos and saying, okay, let’s breathe.

2. The sun as sanctuary

There’s a certain kind of therapy the sun gives that nothing else can. I grew up in Southern California, where sunlight is routine, golden and steady. During winter break once, I was so overwhelmed that even journaling, the one thing that usually helps, felt impossible. So I went outside.

I lay down in the sun and let the light spill over my skin. I didn’t move. I didn’t think. I just existed. Slowly, I began to notice the world again – the warmth soaking in, the faint hum of wind, the distant sound of birds. For a few minutes, all the pressure melted away and the sun reminded me that the world keeps spinning, even when I feel stuck. In the quiet, I remember that nature binds us together and that provides me healing in its truest form. Even if it lasts only a few minutes, it’s enough. It settles a quiet hope in my chest until I am strong enough to start again.

3. Curating calm

My Pinterest board is like a digital reflection of my soul: filled with golden retrievers, Buddha quotes, watercolor art, ranches bathed in sunlight and little fragments of mindfulness. It’s a world I’ve built for myself, and I’ve always believed that the world we live in isn’t just the one we’re born into, but the one we create.

So I create mine with care. When I’m overwhelmed between classes or studying, I’ll take a few minutes to do something small and grounding. Sometimes I grab a henna cone and doodle across my hands, swirls and flowers that disappear in a week but bring me calm instantly. Other times I’ll rip the edge off a paper I’m reading and draw whatever I’m feeling – maybe an image of a place I wish I could escape to, maybe just shapes that make no sense but somehow soothe me.

I’ll listen to songs that sound like how I want to feel: Mirrorball by Taylor Swift, Silver Soul by Beach House, Her by American Dawn, Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve. For a few minutes, I’m somewhere else – in a world I’ve built from sound and color. These small creative acts remind me that even when life feels chaotic, I still have control over how I see beauty.

4. The art of resetting

If there’s one thing I’ve learned to do well, it’s to reset. After a hard exam, a bad score, an argument or just a weird day where nothing feels right, I know how to start again – not by running away from the feeling, but by rebuilding from it.

My reset always starts with cleaning. I make my bed, wipe the counters until they smell faintly of lemon, vacuum the floor, wash the dishes, fold the laundry. I want every surface to feel new, like the day can begin again. Then I sit down, journal, and make a new to-do list. I remind myself that I’m allowed to try again, that every day is just another version of starting over.

Sometimes, I talk to myself like I’m my own best friend. I remind myself of my strength, my courage, the challenges I’ve already faced. I call my loved ones to ground me, to remind me of what really matters. And then, most importantly, I sleep.

I’ve learned to respect rest, to understand that my body is constantly working to keep me alive and balanced, even when my mind is scattered. I remind myself that existing, breathing, making it through the day – that’s already enough. Health and happiness aren’t luxuries; they’re the foundation. Because what is success worth if you aren’t here to feel it?

Epilogue: Returning to myself

Each of these rituals; writing, sunlight, art, cleaning, is a way back home. They remind me that even when I lose track of myself, I’m never too far gone to return.

Fall teaches me that letting go isn’t always an ending. Sometimes it’s clearing space for peace to grow again. My rituals are my leaves – small, quiet acts of surrender – and when I let them fall, I always find something softer underneath.

This is my memoir – not of accomplishments or milestones, but of moments that brought me back to myself when I needed it most.

Eesha Bellad is a sophomore majoring in Neuroscience from Orange County, Calif. She is a Copy Editor for The News-Letter.