From Taro Roots to Jack-o’-Lanterns: Finding My Place in Fall

Nine years in the United States, and I still find myself surprised by the little things.

I grew up in the Philippines, where October meant semestral breaks—no school, family visits, and the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. When I first moved here, Fall was just… pretty.

The leaves changed, the air got crisper, and everyone around me seemed to love it. But I didn’t get it. Not really. I’d tell my husband, "It’s nice, but it doesn’t feel like mine."

Then, this year, something shifted.

Bruce and I planted gabi (taro) last summer. Yesterday, we dug up the roots, saved the leaves, and stems. Our first real harvest.

Holding that taro, I finally understood: This is what Fall is about. It’s about gathering what you’ve grown, celebrating abundance, and preparing for what comes next. And for the first time, I thought, "Okay, maybe I see why pumpkins matter so much here."

The Slow Work of Belonging

I’m Albine. I left the Philippines years ago, chasing dreams and a life beyond what I knew. The first few years were hard—adjusting to the cold, missing home, figuring out how to build something new while holding onto the old. Some days, I still feel like a student in a culture I’m only beginning to understand.

But that’s the thing about living in a new place: You don’t have to love everything right away. Some traditions take time. Some never fully click ... and that’s okay.

Fall, for me, used to be just a season. Now? It’s starting to feel like a story I’m slowly becoming part of.

What About You?

I’d love to know: What’s a tradition—from your heritage or where you live now—that took you a while to appreciate? Or maybe one you still don’t quite connect with?

(And if you’ve ever grown taro—or pumpkins, or anything else—tell me how it went. I’m still learning.)

— Albine