You feel it, don’t you?
That strange mix of possibility and dread. The scent of pencils that haven’t been sharpened in decades. The urge to buy a backpack you’ll never use. A craving for fresh starts and crisp edges, even as your inbox mocks you with the same stale to-dos.
September is coming. And for those of us no longer tethered to the academic calendar, it still manages to drag us back into a familiar emotional loop. It’s back to school season, whether we like it or not.
Only now, there are no new binders. No class schedules. No first-day jitters (unless you count that Monday morning all-hands where Steve insists on a trust fall).
Now, there’s just... you. And the quiet, persistent feeling that it’s time to get serious again.
The adult version of September
There’s a collective delusion that September is when adults finally get their act together. That the messiness of summer—literal and metaphorical—should now be swept away to make room for order, ambition, and three months of hyperproductivity before the holidays hit like a pie to the face.
Suddenly, you’re expected to level up. Sign up for the masterclass. Hit your stride at work. Schedule your flu shot, renew your driver’s licence, and finally fix whatever’s going on with your bottom left molar.
It's like your inner guidance counsellor comes back from sabbatical and starts asking questions about your goals.
Except you don’t want to talk about your goals. You just want to eat a tomato sandwich and sit in the sun.
We were conditioned for this
If you grew up in a school system that ran on bells, benchmarks, and midterms, it makes sense. Your body remembers what September means, even if your life no longer runs on semesters.
It’s hardwired. New beginnings. New outfits. New rules. You were taught to reset, reassess, reinvent. So it’s no wonder you start looking at your own life with the same measuring stick you used for math class.
Am I on track?
Should I be doing more?
Why don’t I have a five-year plan written in bullet journaling script?
And maybe more urgently—when did everyone else become the teacher?
There’s no report card coming
That’s the hardest part, maybe. As adults, we don’t get a lot of clear feedback. There’s no grading rubric for midlife. No “A for effort” if you managed to make dinner, answer three emails, and only cried once.
The external validation systems that once governed us are gone. And yet, we continue to assess ourselves like someone’s going to collect our homework.
But no one is. You’re the teacher now. And maybe the student, too. Which makes the whole thing a little absurd.
Because what if the course you’re enrolled in this fall is something quieter? What if your curriculum isn’t about maximization but meaning?
If there were a syllabus...
If we were really going back to school this fall, I’d want the course list to look something like this:
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How to Hold Two Truths at Once (Advanced)
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Learning to Care Less About Things That Don’t Matter
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Intro to Soft Deadlines and Flexible Ambition
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Creative Risk-Taking for Overthinkers
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Nap Practicum (3 credits)
Office hours would be optional. Participation would not be graded. And if you dropped the course halfway through, you’d still pass.
That’s the kind of learning I’m interested in now. The kind that doesn't come with flashcards or certificates, but leaves a mark all the same.
New season, same you (and that’s not a failure)
The problem with “back to school” is the underlying premise: that who you were wasn’t enough. That you need a new plan, a better version, a tighter routine.
But maybe—stay with me here—you don’t.
Maybe this season doesn’t require a reinvention. Maybe it just needs your attention. A little space to notice what’s actually working. A little courage to admit what’s not. A little grace for the parts that are still figuring it out.
Maybe this fall, you don’t need to be better. You just need to be here.
An invitation, not an obligation
So if you’re feeling that familiar urge to reset, go ahead. Buy the planner. Sign up for the thing. Set a few intentions if it feels good.
But don’t let September boss you around.
You don’t owe anyone a new version of yourself just because the calendar flipped. You don’t need to perform progress. You don’t need to optimize your morning routine unless your current one is actively harming you (looking at you, cold showers).
You’re not behind. You’re not late. You’re just living. And that’s enough.
Class dismissed.