I spent a lot of stick seasons in Vermont in my early 20s, and I

The singer and poet Noah Kahan once spoke with the candor of youth and the wisdom of age when he said: “I spent a lot of stick seasons in Vermont in my early 20s, and I was always feeling kind of in-between things in my life — between love and losing love and moving on to the next thing. That spot where you're figuring out who you are and how to reconcile what's just ended with what's to come.” These words, clothed in the imagery of nature, reveal a truth that all who walk the path of becoming must one day face: that life is lived not only in its summers and winters, but in the in-between seasons where identity is shaped in silence.

The phrase stick season speaks with haunting beauty. It is that time in Vermont after the fiery splendor of autumn has fallen, when the trees are stripped bare, their branches like dark bones against the gray sky. It is neither the richness of harvest nor the purity of snow, but an interval of starkness and exposure. In such a season, the land waits, suspended between what has ended and what has not yet begun. So too, Kahan suggests, is the soul of one in their early years — stripped of certainty, yet not yet clothed in new growth.

This in-between state is both painful and sacred. Painful, because the heart still aches with the weight of what has just ended — the loss of love, the crumbling of old dreams, the fading of once-bright hopes. Sacred, because in the emptiness there is room for rebirth. Just as the earth must shed its leaves before winter, so must the human spirit endure its own stick seasons, in which the soul, bare and raw, begins the slow work of becoming.

History gives us countless reflections of this truth. Consider the life of Siddhartha Gautama, before he became the Buddha. He was caught in the in-between: no longer at ease in the palace of his youth, yet not yet awakened to the path of enlightenment. He wandered in uncertainty, a man between worlds, between the attachments he had known and the freedom he sought. It was in that season of questioning — his own stick season — that he forged the insight which would one day move millions.

The meaning of Kahan’s words is that these barren intervals are not to be despised. They are crucibles of identity. It is here, in the silence of what has ended and the uncertainty of what is to come, that one learns patience, humility, and courage. The trees look dead in stick season, yet their roots are alive, reaching deeper into the soil. So it is with us — our strength is often deepened in the very moments when our lives appear empty.

The lesson, then, is this: embrace your stick seasons. Do not fear them, nor rush past them in haste. They are not wasted time, but sacred preparation. In these seasons you will learn to reconcile love and loss, hope and disappointment, ending and beginning. They are the places where you ask, “Who am I?” and begin to find the answer not in the noise of the world, but in the quiet rhythm of your own heart.

Practical wisdom follows: when you find yourself in-between — between relationships, between jobs, between dreams — do not despair. Walk through the season with openness. Journal your thoughts. Spend time in stillness. Allow yourself to grieve what is lost, but also to imagine what might be. Trust that this emptiness is the soil in which new life will root itself.

So remember, O listener, Noah Kahan’s words: “That spot where you’re figuring out who you are and how to reconcile what’s just ended with what’s to come.” This is not weakness, but the very work of becoming. For life is not only the bright harvests and the radiant blooms, but also the bare branches of stick season — where the soul, stripped of its coverings, learns to endure, to deepen, and to prepare for the spring that always follows.