The two weeping figs my Mother and I purchased together back in 2019 are (in my case, miraculously) still alive. Hers is thriving, and resembles the tree I had hoped mine would grow into. I remember looking through my Plant Society book for something that was tree-like, that could actually survive indoors. It turns out, unsurprisingly, that the book was right, and in my Mother’s case, the weeping fig can grow to be quite a large, happy, indoor tree. I’ve somehow managed to lose that book amongst my things, but my weeping fig is still alive.

This past weekend I gave my fig to my Mother because she offered to repot it and take care of it for a while; to nurse it back to health. The sole reason ours had taken such dramatically different appearances, I believe, is because hers has been repotted over the years, whereas mine stayed more or less in the similar pot size I kept it in back in 2019. Coupled with the fact that during last year on weekends spent sleeping in, nursing a hangover, my cat Tinsel would chew on its leaves in an attempt to wake me up. It worked every time, annoyingly. While walking into Coles together, my Mother asked what my weeping figs name was — this is something I don’t tend to do with my plants — so I had assigned the task to her. She christened it Autumn, because of how sparse its leaves were in comparison to her own weeping fig, lovingly named Benjamin. We laughed at this as we walked through the security gates. But it made me think.

Autumn. What an interesting season. A season I’d characteristically spent a long time hating. My hatred of the cold seasons was no secret, in fact I was very vocal about it. Everyone and anyone who knew me knows that Summer is my favourite season, that it stands on the shoulders of all other seasons, and that I put — however misplaced — unwavering faith in the power of a Summer, and its ability to change oneself. With such high hopes and pressures on one transitory season, it usually winds up ending in disappointment.

During the Autumn of 2021, I was deeply in love but embarrassed about the ‘poetry’ I tried to write. I’m not sure I ever read this to my boyfriend at the time, and can in fact remember shielding my phone away from his gaze as I typed into my notes app, on a crowded train to the city. Inspiration had struck on that train while looking at the skeleton-like branches of the trees quickly passing us by, and the warmth I’d felt inside, despite the cold, at being in love, being with him, listening to Cocteau Twins together, who he’d introduced me to. Somewhere between the Sunday afternoon when my Mother had christened my weeping fig Autumn, and taken it home with her, and sitting down in bed to write this piece, I was reminded of that very poem. Because it was still in my notes app, I easily retrieved it, along with various information about the things I was doing on the day I wrote it.

It goes like this:

I used to be discouraged by Autumn and Winter

seeing the bare trees made me sad

but it’s not depressing like I thought

It’s not weakness and death

It’s perseverance and strength

It says I have survived last season

I will survive another one

I would certainly write it differently now, however, there is something that rings true in this piece for me years later; as if looking at my own reflection in a pond. It is my reflection staring back at me, but it’s abstract under the circumstances. It was, in short, blurry and unfocused. This little collection of words that I’d jotted down on a digital note pad, years later appeared acutely clear to me and I now felt to be quite idiosyncratic. I could not have known that at the time of writing the final couplet:

It says I have survived last season

I will survive another one

that the words could directly apply to me, and not simply just the trees and their leaves.

A week after my Mother had taken my weeping fig, on the following Saturday after hiking with my family, we all stopped at Bunnings to browse plants. I did not want to spend much yet ended up spending the second highest amount out of all of us, for the least amount of items, typical. This was because I’d stumbled upon discounted trees at another customers enticement at the same plant section. The thrill of buying this tree, repotting it at my Mothers with her, then struggling to fit it into her car, driving to mine and placing it on my balcony cannot be understated. I mean, it was only a small tree, a maple, I did get it for a cheap deal I’d reasoned, though I also knew it would require some care to bring it back to the best version of itself. But it completely changed the beauty of my balcony. I became obsessed with it. Being a live tree, as time went on, its leaves began to change colour and drop off. For once, unlike my weeping fig, this was through no fault of my own. It was simply experiencing, and changing with the seasons. It was doing what all trees must do in Autumn, to ensure their survival. My friend Lou was the one who had truly encouraged me to embrace all seasons, even the cold ones, and not just my favourites, for without the dark, we cannot have the light.

I had thought for a long time that Mitski summed up my feelings about the seasons the best on her seminal album Bury Me at Makeout Creek, where she sings:

“And Autumn comes when you’re not yet done with the Summer passing by”

Which was how I felt in 2025, but I no longer feel that way now. I’m ready to witness Autumn, to enjoy it, to welcome Winter, to exist within it. Finally, I accept the seasons changing, despite spending a long time digging my feet stubbornly into the ground. Fighting the change. Being headstrong. And like the maple tree on my balcony in Autumn losing its leaves, I accept that I lose pieces of myself too. In order to be nurtured once again, to buckle down and survive a season, so that I may survive the next one, whatever that may bring.