Summer, My Complicated Acquaintance

Summer, My Complicated Acquaintance

I am not a summer person.

Let me clarify: I do not hate summer. Hate is a strong word, and I am trying to be less dramatic in public-facing spaces. But summer and I have an arrangement. We tolerate each other. We exchange pleasantries. Occasionally, we even have a good time.

My real season is fall.

Fall understands me. Fall has structure. Fall has outfits. Fall has a slight chill in the air that makes you feel like your life might actually become organized. Fall says, “Let’s reset.” Summer says, “You’re going to sweat through this and call it a memory.”

And yet, summer has always had a presence in my life that I can’t fully dismiss. Maybe it’s because of the Dominican Republic, where summer doesn’t feel like a season so much as a personality. The heat has opinions. The music is louder. The fruit tastes like it is trying to prove a point. Everything feels brighter, saltier, more alive, and slightly more chaotic than necessary.

Dominican summers do not ask for permission. They arrive with sun, sweat, mangoes, family, music, and the kind of heat that makes you reconsider every fabric choice you have ever made.

So maybe summer was never subtle for me.

Still, I don’t think I truly began to embrace the joys of summer until I had my two daughters. Children have a way of forcing you to notice things you had quietly categorized as inconvenient. Suddenly, summer wasn’t just heat and humidity and the constant administrative responsibility of applying SPF. It was sprinklers. Ice cream. Beach bags. Sand everywhere. Music playing a little louder. Small feet running ahead of me. The kind of laughter that makes you stop complaining for at least three minutes.

Which, for me, is growth.

Because somewhere along the way, summer became less about enduring the season and more about watching them experience it. Their excitement softened me. Their joy made the heat feel less personal. Their ability to treat a regular afternoon like an event reminded me that maybe summer does have its charms, even if it is deeply committed to ruining my hair.

And I’ll admit it: I do get a better pep in my step when summer comes around. I listen to music more often. Not in a meaningful, curated way. More like walking down the street suddenly becomes a scene, and I am the main character, even if the plot is just me going to buy coffee or trying to remember why I opened my phone.

There is something about the longer days that tricks the brain. Suddenly, everything feels slightly more possible. Not easy. Not peaceful. Let’s not get carried away. But possible.

Summer has this annoying little talent for making ordinary things feel cinematic. A song sounds better. A walk feels less like a task. An iced drink becomes a personality trait. The sun hits a building in a way that makes you briefly forgive New York for being New York.

And then, of course, summer humbles you.

Because just when you start romanticizing the season, the humidity arrives and reminds you that you are still a body. A body with pores. A body with limits. A body that must religiously apply SPF and pretend this is self-care and not another full-time administrative responsibility.

Summer is beautiful, yes. But it is also high-maintenance. It demands planning, hydration, patience, shade, and emotional flexibility. It wants you outside, but then makes outside feel like a group project you did not sign up for.

Still, I can admit this: summer brings something out of me.

Not my favorite version. That belongs to fall, obviously. Fall gets the good lighting, the boots, the ambition, the return of soups.

But summer gets movement. Music. A little looseness. A little brightness. A little “why not?” energy.

Maybe that’s the point of summer. Not to become someone new. Not to suddenly transform into a breezy, effortless person who enjoys being overheated. But to let yourself be pulled out of routine just enough to remember that you are still alive, still changing, still capable of walking a little faster when the right song comes on.

So no, summer is not my favorite.

But I’ll give her this: she knows how to make an entrance.

¿Quién sabe?