Column: When the Leaves Teach Us Something
By Antionette Kerr
“Autumn reminds us that change can be the most beautiful chapter of all.”
That line floated across my Facebook Feed as I drove through Davidson County this week, watching sunlight flicker through the longleaf pines that line our roads. It’s easy to think of change as something scary — a new job, an election year, an empty seat at the dinner table — but fall doesn’t whisper, it shouts. It throws color around like a kid with a box of crayons and says, “See? This is what letting go looks like.”
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately as a journalist. In local news, change is our constant companion. Staff move on, grants come and go, the city council votes one way this week and another next month. Readers fuss at us, then cheer us, then fuss again. But like those trees, we keep showing up, rooted in the same soil, trying to make something beautiful with what’s in front of us.
And personally, change has stopped being theoretical for me. Living with a rare lung disease means regular trips to specialists and, most recently, another unexpected hospitalization. I don’t write this for sympathy — I write it because every time I’m hooked to a monitor or forced to pause, I’m reminded that life is still happening out there. The seasons still shift, our community still grows, and the stories are still worth telling. Those moments of vulnerability also sharpen my gratitude for our readers, volunteers, and partners who keep this work going when I can’t be everywhere at once. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, another birthday is around the corner — another reminder that I’m still here, still writing, still rooting for this place.
Our community does the same. We’re adding sidewalks where there were none, carving new bike trails through the land of the longleaf pine, welcoming new neighbors from across the world. Even our beloved food scene is easing into its seasonal close — farmers’ markets packing up for winter, local cooks wrapping up their festival runs and special menus until next spring. Some of these changes feel like a cold wind at first. But often, with time, we see the colors — new businesses thriving uptown, young leaders stepping up at forums, students discovering their voices in unexpected ways.
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So maybe the lesson of autumn isn’t just about endings. Maybe it’s an invitation. To release what no longer serves us. To paint the next chapter bold and bright. To trust that even as leaves fall, roots deepen.
As we head into the last stretch of the year, I invite you to look around at the changes in your own corner of Davidson County. What’s turning gold? What’s ready to drop? What seeds are waiting for spring? And how can we, as neighbors and as a local paper, keep telling those stories — the beautiful ones, the hard ones, and the ones that remind us we’re still in this together.
Because if autumn has taught me anything, it’s this: change isn’t something to fear. It’s part of the story, and sometimes it’s the most beautiful chapter of all.
