Fall. While I did not plan to start this blog during the fall season (or, rather, at the start of it), it is no coincidence that I did. I realize this only now, in this very moment. I hadn’t really thought very much about the timing, really, until the golden, brown, orange and yellow leaves waving at me outside the window caught my eye. I’ve sat staring at them in a near trance state for the last fifteen minutes or so, frozen, perhaps lost, in some invisible, in-between world.
In between my past and my present? In between my past and my future? I’m unsure, as I refuse to believe that time exists as we have been taught that it does. That classic teaching of time that we have all been given just doesn’t make sense to me. The idea that life moves forward in a single, linear line feels too simple to capture what I experience. Time, as I’ve come to see it, feels more like a spiral—moments circling back to each other, overlapping and intertwining, rather than disappearing into some distant past or distant future.
The weight of old memories and the pull of future possibilities coexist within me, creating a sensation that I’m living in several moments at once. It’s in these layered moments that I often find myself caught—revisiting echoes of past decisions, emotions, and all manner of relationships, while also peering into a hazy, undefined future. Time, in this sense, is not a strict progression but an ever-present force, weaving itself through my experiences in unexpected ways. It doesn’t just move forward; it bends, stretches, and doubles back, demanding that I confront the past even as I try to embrace the future.
As I sit here, observing the dance of the leaves, I can’t help but see myself mirrored in their movement—graceful and chaotic, connected to something larger, yet fragile in the face of the inevitable change. These leaves are living their final chapter, clinging to the branches yet knowing, perhaps instinctively, that their release, while imminent, is not an ending but a transformation. I feel like I, too (or, again?), am at a point of release—of letting go of old beliefs, old roles, and the stories that once defined me.
Fall has always been a season of reflection, a season where the world outside mirrors what’s happening within. It’s not the beginning of an end, but the start of a quiet revolution—a shedding of what no longer serves me so that something new can take root. Yet, this letting go isn’t easy. Just as the tree feels the loss of each leaf, I feel the weight of everything I must release in order to grow. And maybe that’s what this season—this new version of myself—truly represents: the delicate, painful, and beautiful process of becoming. That is where we were – and I was – as we began to play with the idea of starting this blog.
The name The Twin Tree Project wasn’t chosen lightly. Initially, it was meant to represent my partner and me as twin trees—two individuals growing side by side, deeply rooted yet reaching in our own directions. However, as we reflected on this symbolism, we both recognized that the twin trees also mirrored the relationship between each of us and our higher selves. I found myself at yet another crossroad—both regarding this blog and my personal life-journey. We wanted to share our story as a couple, but that suddenly felt impossible to me as I realized just how tangibly this was a journey I needed to explore on my own, for the most part.
While our shared journey remains a significant part of this blog and will be explored regularly, the focus has shifted to my personal journey with my higher self. My partner and I believe that this personal journey is crucial for both of us because being whole and balanced within oneself is the only true path to a healthy, whole partnership. As the primary author, I need to write the majority of what I share here from the perspective of that singular journey—that individual one—because this is the only truly honest experience I can offer.
I find myself on yet another iteration of my journey, one that feels familiar and yet entirely new. The twin trees, while originally descriptive of how we see ourselves as a couple, have taken on a deeper, dualistic meaning for me. They now symbolize two versions of myself—each rooted in shared experiences but reaching in different directions, each branch telling its own story. It came to me as a representation of the duality within me—the parts of myself that exist in constant conversation: the self that navigates this physical world and the inner self, my higher self, that bears witness to all that I experience.
We often think of life as a series of clear-cut stages—beginnings, middles, and ends. But I’ve come to understand that the journey isn’t so neatly defined. Rather, it is full of cycles and seasons, of beginnings born out of endings, and growth emerging from the shedding of what we once were. We are, in essence, a series of selves—each version influenced by what came before, yet distinct and evolving with every new experience. Just like the leaves that must let go of their branches to make way for new growth, we too must let go of past versions of ourselves to evolve into something new.
For me, The Twin Tree Project symbolizes that ever-present cycle of growth, loss, and renewal. It speaks to the idea that we aren’t just starting over, but rather carrying forward all that we’ve learned and lost, each iteration building upon the last. It’s a reminder that each season of life serves its purpose—whether it’s one of bloom, dormancy, or shedding. And in that constant unfolding, there’s a kind of beauty in accepting that we are always in process, always becoming.
I didn’t plan for this blog to start with the fall season, but perhaps it was inevitable. There’s something about the act of letting go that feels urgent in this moment, and something about the hope of renewal that feels necessary. I find myself returning to the imagery of those leaves outside, remembering that their release isn’t about losing what they once were, but about clearing the way for what’s to come. In many ways, this blog is a space to explore that—what it means to let go of what no longer serves us all, and what it means to nurture what’s waiting to grow.
The Twin Tree Project 