Enjoying the Summer While It Lasts

A Gentle Reminder to Be Fully Present for the Season You're In

By Rachel Y. Hill, DNP, FNP-BC, PMHNP-BC, AHN-BC, HWNC-BC

There is a particular kind of ache that shows up in late summer.

Not sadness exactly.

More like the feeling of sand slipping through your fingers a little faster than you'd like.

The light starts changing before you're ready for it to.

The evenings shorten.

Somewhere around dusk, the cicadas begin their chorus a little earlier each night.

And somewhere in the back of your mind...

A small voice starts counting down the weeks.

It is easy to spend an entire summer this way.

Half enjoying it.

Half mourning its ending before it is even over.

We do this with more than seasons.

We do it with vacations.

With our children's childhoods.

With good years in our health.

With easy seasons in a difficult career.

We rush ahead to the grief of losing something before we have finished living it.

This post is an invitation to do the opposite.

To be here.

In the summer that is actually happening.

For as long as it lasts.

And to notice that what looks like an ending is often simply a season doing exactly what it was created to do.

Lessons Hidden in Fireflies and Cicadas

What Nature Already Knows

If you want a lesson in how to hold something beautiful without clinging to it, you don't have to look any farther than your own backyard at dusk.

A firefly spends one to two years underground before it ever produces a single flash of light.

Years in the dark.

Growing.

Preparing.

Then, for only a few short weeks...

It flies.

It glows.

It fills warm summer evenings with wonder.

The weeks of light are not separate from the years underground.

They are the reason for them.

The cicadas teach the same lesson.

Depending on the species, they spend years beneath the soil before emerging for only a handful of weeks.

They do not spend those weeks grieving that they will soon disappear.

They simply sing.

Fully.

Completely.

For exactly as long as they have.

Neither the firefly nor the cicada spends summer worrying about autumn.

There is wisdom in that.

The Fullness Found Near the End

The Beauty in What's Ending

Late summer often gets described as the season that's fading.

But look more closely.

It may actually be the fullest season of all.

The cicadas sing their loudest now.

Fireflies gather in their greatest numbers.

Gardens overflow with tomatoes, squash, and corn.

Nature isn't winding down.

It's reaching completion.

What looks like an ending is often a culmination.

The fireflies of future summers are already growing beneath the soil.

Next year's cicadas are already beginning their journey.

Autumn doesn't arrive because summer failed.

It arrives because summer completed its work.

“There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature.”
— Rachel Carson

There is comfort in remembering that every season has always returned.

Summer has never failed to come back.

Why We Rush Past Beautiful Moments

Much of this happens because life is busy.

Work.

Family.

Responsibilities.

The endless list of things still waiting to be done.

Presence is often the first thing we sacrifice.

But sometimes we rush because we've known loss.

When you've experienced enough heartbreak, joy can begin to feel dangerous.

You start holding beautiful moments loosely.

Preparing yourself for their ending before they've fully arrived.

That instinct may once have protected you.

But a summer evening isn't something you need to brace against.

You're allowed to enjoy it completely.

Presence Doesn't Require More Time

What Presence Actually Looks Like

Presence isn't complicated.

It rarely asks for more time.

Only more attention.

It may look like:

• Sitting outside intentionally to watch the first fireflies appear.
• Listening to the cicadas instead of tuning them out.
• Eating one meal outdoors.
• Leaving one evening unscheduled.
• Putting your phone away during the golden hour.
• Saying yes to one invitation you might normally decline.

Small moments.

Deeply noticed.

A Summer Practice Worth Keeping

The Summer Inventory

At the end of each week, ask yourself one simple question:

What is one thing from this week I want to remember?

Maybe it was:

• A conversation on the porch.
• The first tomato from the garden.
• A hammock nap.
• Fireflies dancing over the grass.

The goal isn't to create extraordinary memories.

It's to train your attention to recognize ordinary beauty while it's happening.

For Those Who Spend Their Lives Caring for Others

If your work—or your family—centers on caring for others, this reminder matters even more.

Rest isn't something you earn after everyone else's needs are met.

Enjoyment isn't indulgence.

It is part of what allows you to keep showing up with compassion.

You don't have to wait until life slows down.

Because it probably won't.

Take the moment now.

Imperfectly.

Right in the middle of your beautifully unfinished life.

The Quiet Signs of Change

Other Signs the Season Is Turning

Nature gently announces every transition.

Look closely and you'll notice:

• Goldenrod brightening the roadsides.
• Katydids joining the evening chorus.
• Tomato vines pouring their energy into ripening fruit.
• Earlier sunsets.
• Spider webs sparkling with morning dew.

None of these are signs of decline.

They are signs of completion.

Every living thing is doing exactly what it is meant to do.

Including you.

A Two-Minute Evening Meditation

The next time dusk arrives...

Pause.

Let your shoulders soften.

Notice the changing light.

Listen to the evening sounds.

Wait for the first firefly if it's the right season.

Take one slow breath.

That's all.

The practice isn't meant to fix anything.

It's simply a way of remembering:

You were here for this moment.

Holding Joy and Grief Together

Not everyone is reading this from a season of ease.

Some are carrying grief.

Loss.

Illness.

Uncertainty.

If that's where you are...

This isn't an invitation to pretend everything is okay.

It's simply permission to notice that joy and grief have always been capable of existing together.

You can miss someone deeply...

And still smile when the fireflies appear.

The beauty doesn't erase the sorrow.

It helps you carry it.

Passing Wonder to the Next Generation

Some of my favorite moments now come from watching my grandchildren discover the world.

The first firefly.

The first cicada chorus.

Their wonder reminds me that every life cycle has value.

The years underground matter just as much as the weeks spent shining.

Children learn these truths naturally.

Adults often spend decades rediscovering them.

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can pass on isn't advice.

It's simply being present beside them while they discover the world for themselves.

Living This Wisdom

What Living This Wisdom Looks Like

Living this wisdom means practicing presence.

Again and again.

It looks like:

• Returning your attention to today instead of grieving tomorrow.
• Enjoying beautiful moments without measuring how long they'll last.
• Trusting that endings make room for beginnings.
• Giving yourself permission to live fully while this season is still yours.

Like the cicada...

You don't have to apologize for singing while it's your time.

Questions for Reflection

1. What has been the most beautiful part of your summer so far—and have you fully allowed yourself to enjoy it?
2. Where in your life do you hold joy at a distance because you're afraid of losing it?
3. What small pleasure could you still experience before this season ends?
4. What feels like an ending in your life that may actually be a completion?
5. What is quietly growing beneath the surface, preparing you for your next season?

--Dr. Rachel