What’s My Favorite Month of the Year? A Journey Through Time and Self

I have often been asked this—  
as if I store months in labeled drawers,  
like carefully folded scarves of different moods,  
pulling out one to match the day’s longing.  

What’s your favorite month of the year?  
they ask,  
and I hesitate—  
not because I lack an answer,  
but because I have too many.  

Time, to me,  
is not a calendar hung on a wall,  
but a river—slow, mutable,  
with bends that remember how light fell  
and how my heart beat against the sound of it.

***

January.  

The first inhale of a new year.  
Cold light brushing against my skin,  
a silence that hums like a prayer found after noise.  
I like January for its emptiness—  
clean, unmarked, unjudging.  

It waits,  
like a notebook waiting for a first word.  
The air tastes of beginnings and restraint;  
I promise myself not to rush—  
to sip from the cup of possibility,  
one careful drop at a time.  

Yet beneath the frost of resolve,  
there lies an unspoken vulnerability—  
the knowledge that intentions are fragile,  
like frost patterns on window glass,  
gone at the first warm breath of reality.

Still, I love that vulnerability.  
It means hope is alive.

***

February.  

Short, yet filled with both sleep and awakening.  
This is when I reach for affection—for warmth,  
for the hand that reminds me I belong  
even when the world still wears its gray coat.  

The sky begins to loosen.  
Birds return in fragments of sound,  
as if rehearsing spring’s overture.  

Love, in February, is more than romance.  
It is the slow thaw of memory,  
the forgiveness of last year’s impatience,  
the rediscovery of rhythm.  

I write late into night,  
wrapped in wool and half-formed dreams,  
learning that love’s softest language  
is simply staying through the cold.

***

March.  

A turning.  
The scent of possibility on the breeze,  
earth whispering upward through roots and shoots.  

March makes me restless.  
I open windows, rearrange rooms,  
rename my sadnesses.  
The sunlight lengthens—  
and with it, my hunger for living.  

Yet March hurts a little.  
Too new to trust, too close to the edge of memory.  
Some days, winter lingers like doubt;  
others, summer already burns at the horizon.  

Still—if there’s a word for renewal  
that doesn’t rush or erase—  
March invents it quietly each morning  
when the first bud decides to open.

***

April.  

Now this month, I confess,  
wars for my heart.  

Everything is tender, yet fierce—  
petals falling as if the earth cannot contain beauty for long.  
Rain against glass like a language I've known in dreams.  

I walk outside without reason.  
I let wind speak through hair,  
and puddles mirror my unguarded face.  

In April, creation forgets inhibition.  
It bursts, it believes,  
it paints over hesitation with color too bright to name.  

The child in me wakes fully—  
asking nothing but to climb trees,  
to feel mud between fingers,  
to plant something that will outlive the afternoon.  

Maybe my favorite month begins here.  
For April doesn’t demand perfection—  
it only asks that I bloom a little too.

***

May.  

A sigh after the rain.  
Heat beginning its quiet conversation with endurance.  

In May, the air smells of both effort and ease.  
The fields shimmer, the hours stretch,  
and the days feel stitched together by sunlight.  

Sometimes I write less and live more.  
Sometimes I fall silent  
because the wordless radiance of being  
is louder than thought.  

It’s the month of lilacs and late mornings,  
of laughter that doesn’t need translation.  
I like May because it teaches balance—  
joy without excess, warmth without burn.  

The heart, I realize, is seasonal too.  
It learns to ripen without losing tenderness.

***

June.  

Ah, the solstice month—  
light at its longest,  
shadows at their most honest.  

I feel both abundance and ache.  
There’s something melancholy  
in knowing the days will now begin to shorten,  
that brightness cannot sustain forever.  

June is a mirror of joy and surrender.  
The winds smell of mangoes and dust.  
Children chase kites; adults chase deadlines.  
Everything hums with the awareness of being alive—  
too vividly alive.  

The fireflies arrive,  
flickering philosophies into the dark:  
what burns briefly still matters.

***

July.  

The rains arrive like forgiveness.  
The parched land drinks with closed eyes.  
I, too, learn to pause,  
to listen to the heart of water against tin roofs.  

July softens all edges.  
It blurs yesterday’s ambitions  
into small, gentle truths.  

It gives permission to write badly,  
to feel deeply,  
to dream after failing.  

My notebooks curl at the corners;  
words bleed where raindrops fell accidentally.  
Yet somehow, it’s perfect—  
proof that beauty needs imperfection to breathe.  

If I could pick my favorite month  
from the language of healing—  
it would be July.

***

August.  

Fullness, saturation.  
Fruit heavy on branches, air thick with stories.  

The year feels half-written,  
and everything within me  
wants to edit and begin anew simultaneously.  

August is when nostalgia begins to flicker—  
because time starts whispering of endings.  
But there’s glory in its golden core:  
fields waving under a sky too vast for worry.  

I spend evenings watching the horizon—  
the slow ballet of day into dusk.  
A symphony of gratitude plays quietly somewhere,  
and I know then:  
the art of living is the art of noticing.

***

September.  

The shift again—  
half-summer, half-memory.  

The air carries whispers of cinnamon,  
of books reopening, of scarves folded back into use.  

September steadies me.  
It’s the month that reminds me  
to harvest, to gather, to make peace  
with both what grew and what didn’t.  

The colors begin to turn inward,  
and so do I.  
Writing now feels sacred again.  
No showing off, no chasing.  
Just the wish to record truth before it fades.  

I love September’s quiet elegance.  
It’s an interlude—  
a reminder that transition itself  
is a kind of grace.

***

October.  

If the soul had a favorite light,  
it would be October’s.  

Amber, low, forgiving.  
Every leaf tells a story of letting go,  
each one a whispered acceptance of change.  

I walk among falling leaves  
and sense something eternal.  
Death here is soft,  
like a lover saying, “Rest, you’ve done enough.”  

I bake, read, listen, dream.  
The nights lengthen like unrolled tapestries,  
filled with starlit conversation and inner knowing.  

October taught me to find beauty  
not only in beginning,  
but also in ending well.  

If I were to answer the question today,  
I might say—October is my favorite.  
Because it loves without clinging.

***

November.  

Smoke scents the air.  
The year begins to fold its wings.  
I light a candle and open old journals—  
to see what the year has written through me.  

November feels honest.  
No pretense, no rush.  
Just simple truths in muted colors.  

Gratitude grows here,  
not in excess but through recognition.  
Each moment feels unwrapped,  
bare yet complete.  

The heart understands solitude differently now.  
It is not loneliness;  
it is listening.  

Perhaps November is my favorite  
for its depth of silence—  
a silence that shelters wisdom.

***

December.  

The last page.  
The hush before another beginning.  

Everything feels both distant and near—  
like memories layered in frost.  

Lights appear on windows,  
not just for celebration,  
but to promise warmth in darkness.  

I spend time in reflection,  
but not in regret.  
I write letters never sent,  
breath slow poems into the cold.  

December, to me, is a reconciliation—  
the circle closing, the story pausing  
before it begins again.  

I love how kindness grows here,  
how strangers smile for no reason,  
how endings feel less tragic  
when lit by small acts of love.  

Maybe this is the answer:  
my favorite month changes  
depending on what my soul needs.  

Sometimes, I crave the birth of January.  
Sometimes, the forgiveness of July.  
Sometimes, the wisdom of October.  

But beneath all that choice  
lies one unspoken truth—  
each month carries a version of me,  
and loving them all  
is the closest I’ll ever come  
to loving time itself.