Kalen Olson on The Quiet Magic of Coming Home to Yourself

There’s something quietly beautiful about the changing seasons—an invitation to pause, breathe, and come back to ourselves. Each shift in nature feels like a gentle reminder to listen more closely, to be present, and to find meaning in the little things.

Every autumn, like clockwork, I find myself drawn to the sound of leaves underfoot and the comfort of a warm cup of tea in the crisp air. It’s a season that helps me feel grounded, more at home in my own skin. The colours, the smells, the comfort of a home-cooked meal—they all stir up something deep in me.

As a child, I found magic in the smallest of things. Films like Practical Magic showed me that women could create something powerful out of everyday moments. That magic wasn’t just in spells—it lived in joy, strength, and connection. I saw it too in Sleeping Beauty, mixing potions with woodland creatures in a quiet cottage. I’d walk barefoot in the grass, run through trees, and feel alive in ways I didn’t yet have words for. Looking back, I realise I was learning to be present, to notice, to create.

But as I got older, that sense of wonder slowly slipped away. I swapped art supplies for textbooks and essays. My days became filled with timetables, deadlines, and early morning commutes in smart shoes and bold lipstick. I started asking myself—was this what it meant to grow up? And if it was, why did something feel like it was missing?

There came a moment when I knew I needed to slow down. The achievements I was chasing didn’t feel like home. They looked good on paper, sure—but they didn’t spark that feeling of aliveness I remembered as a child. I began flipping through meditation books, reaching for something I couldn’t quite name.

Then, in 2017, my dad passed away from leukaemia. He was just a month away from retirement. A month away from a bone marrow transplant we had all pinned our hopes on. Losing him broke something open in me. It wasn’t just grief—it was a reckoning.

I started seeing my life differently. The way I was measuring success no longer made sense. The magic I had buried under to-do lists and job titles began to stir again, asking me to come home to myself.

During those first holidays without him, I craved the kind of Christmas I remembered from childhood. I leaned into my Swedish roots and started lighting Yule candles each week. It became a way to honour him—and all those who came before me. The soft glow of each flame helped me feel connected again, not just to my family, but to something deeper. Something timeless.

And somewhere in all that quiet remembering, I realised that the magic I thought I had lost wasn’t gone at all. It had just been waiting—for me to slow down, to look around, to feel.

I began to treat my mornings as sacred. A warm drink. A few deep breaths. A little music. A tiny ritual that reminded me who I am. I let myself play in the kitchen again. I imagined I was creating like I did as a child—no pressure, just presence.

It turns out, the sacred isn’t in the big moments. It’s in the way we stir the soup. The way we notice the sky. The way spring buds teach us patience, blooming slowly, in their own time.

When I pay attention, everything changes. The mundane becomes meaningful. The ordinary becomes beautiful. And I remember—this is what life is for. Not racing ahead, but being here. Feeling it. Living it. With open hands and a soft heart.