Firsts Can Be Hard

September always seems to hold its breath. The days are still warm, but the evenings whisper of change. There is a shift in light, in rhythm, in the quiet turning of the year. And in this turning come the “firsts”—those tender markers that remind us how much of life is lived in thresholds.

The first day of school, with sharpened pencils and oversized backpacks. The first step onto a college campus, where independence feels both exhilarating and terrifying. The first apartment with its mismatched furniture and the thrill of belonging to oneself. The first time a parent waves goodbye to a child stepping into their own story, heart aching with pride and loss all at once.

But not all firsts carry joy. There is the first empty chair at the table after someone we love is gone. The first birthday without their voice singing along. The first holiday where traditions feel heavier than comforting. These firsts are woven with grief, and they ask us to hold memory in one hand and courage in the other.

Firsts come, too, in quieter ways—the first gray hair noticed in the mirror, the first time we realize we can no longer lift what we once could, the first time our roles reverse and we are caring for the very people who once cared for us. These moments arrive without ceremony, but they can change us just as profoundly.

What makes firsts so difficult is their unfamiliarity. They drop us into landscapes we do not know, where the path forward is unclear. And yet, this is also their gift. Firsts stretch us. They remind us that we are still becoming, still capable of beginning again no matter our age or circumstance. They ask us to live awake—to feel fully, to grieve honestly, to celebrate bravely, and to trust that resilience will rise in us even when we doubt it will.

Perhaps the deepest truth about firsts is this: they are not just markers of time passing, but invitations to transformation. They whisper that life is not static, that we are not finished, that something within us is always unfolding. And though firsts can be lonely, they are also universal. Everyone knows what it feels like to stand at the edge of something new, heart racing, unsure of the next step.

So, as September invites us into its season of change, may we approach our own firsts—whether joyous or sorrowful—with tenderness. May we grant ourselves permission to feel the full weight of them. May we remember that each first is not just an ending or a beginning, but a bridge—carrying us, however unsteadily, into the next chapter of our becoming.