The Weight of Fall

Cassie McClure
Sat, 08 Nov 2025 23:00:00 -0800
Lifestyle

Fall in New Mexico calls for layers, both in fashion and function. The mornings start with a bracing cold, but by afternoon, you're sweating in the sun, regretting the fit check that didn't leave room for some options. It's a gamble: cute or practical? Will I have peeled off a sweater and made a poor choice in layering as I'm sipping pumpkin spice in 80 degrees?

I've started to think that's what middle age feels like. You leave the house with good intentions, wearing clothing and shoes, and invest in a good combination moisturizer and sunscreen. However, somewhere along the way, life warms up or cools down, and you're stuck adapting anyway. You layer up for uncertainty and weigh down your bag with that extra sweater.

The weight of layers comes up in several ways in our lives. The literal kind, such as a weighted vest that promises to make walking more efficient by building strength through added resistance. And the invisible kind that comes with being a middle-aged white lady who somehow got herself elected to the city council. It's a strange intersection: privilege and pressure, voice and responsibility.
Updated: Sun Nov 09, 2025

Fall in New Mexico calls for layers, both in fashion and function. The mornings start with a bracing cold, but by afternoon, you're sweating in the sun, regretting the fit check that didn't leave room for some options. It's a gamble: cute or practical? Will I have peeled off a sweater and made a poor choice in layering as I'm sipping pumpkin spice in 80 degrees?

I've started to think that's what middle age feels like. You leave the house with good intentions, wearing clothing and shoes, and invest in a good combination moisturizer and sunscreen. However, somewhere along the way, life warms up or cools down, and you're stuck adapting anyway. You layer up for uncertainty and weigh down your bag with that extra sweater.

The weight of layers comes up in several ways in our lives. The literal kind, such as a weighted vest that promises to make walking more efficient by building strength through added resistance. And the invisible kind that comes with being a middle-aged white lady who somehow got herself elected to the city council. It's a strange intersection: privilege and pressure, voice and responsibility.

When you run for office, people talk about the honor of public service. They don't mention the part where every decision feels like it could tip someone's life just slightly off-balance. You start to feel the weight of what you don't know, what you can't fix, and what you must decide anyway. It's not an unbearable weight, but it's present like a vest strapped to your chest.

I've been wearing my weighted vest when I walk the dog. Twenty pounds may not sound like much until you start questioning your own shortness of breath and then remember the weight. It's grounding, a reminder that strength is built by carrying things, not avoiding them. But you'll finish the walk and can debate. Should I leave some of the weight you leave behind on the side of the road you're traveling, or do you keep it because it's serving you and you serve others?

That's public service. Every week, I meet people who want opposite things but the same outcome: safety, dignity, belonging. The weight of trying to hold those truths at once is humbling. You can't please everyone, but you can keep walking with integrity, one foot in front of the other, vest and all.

But, there are still those decisions that don't fit cleanly anywhere, and many keep you awake, wondering if you got the temperature right and if you're prepared for the right fit.

Carrying weight is inevitable, but holding it with awareness is optional. This season, like life, isn't about mastering balance but accepting flux. Cold mornings, warm afternoons, decisions that don't settle neatly. It's okay to keep adjusting, to unzip, to take a breath. I'll keep layering up, shedding down, and hoping to meet the day as it is and not according to anyone's plans.