September 2026

September arrives with the scent of woodsmoke on the breeze and stars returning a little earlier each evening. This month, Hearthlight celebrates one year around the fire—a season of growth, gratitude, and the quiet communities we build one ordinary moment at a time. Pull your chair a little closer; there’s always room for one more.

A good fire is never built all at once. There are layers that have to be put down before it can catch. It starts with the kindling, then the twigs and sticks can catch, and a flame will build from there, climbing up stacked logs. It’s only when the smoke starts to float up to the stars that the fire is really set. Then you can sit back in your chair with your marshmallows and roast the evening away.

That first hint of smoke in the air, the scent of it, it’s like coming home from a long day. Then, as the stars come out a bit earlier each evening, and the chill in the air settles in, we gather just a little closer to the fire, holding our hands up to the heat.

That first autumn fire of the season is always special.

A year ago, I lit a little fire and wondered if anyone would sit beside it. Some of you have been here since before Hearthlight was launched, when this publication was called Barbells & Poetry, which was a fun experiment, but ultimately unsustainable over time. You trusted the rebrand to Hearthlight, drew your chairs closer to the fire, and stuck around through the migration to Substack. I remember the OG’s who signed up for Barbells & Poetry. Can you believe that Barbells & Poetry’s first publication was in March 2024? How this has changed over the last two years… In such an incredible way.

When I first started thinking “maybe I should have a newsletter”, I honestly had no idea what I was trying to do. I was still in graduate school; I had only one book out at the time; I had very few followers; and I had no direction whatsoever. I was trying to find a way to engage with readers on a more regular basis, to build a base of people interested in what I had to say and how I said it. I had no plans for a community.

But somewhere along the way, around July or August of 2025, I realized that I no longer had the inspiration to write Barbells & Poetry. It no longer fit the kind of writer I was, and I had outgrown that format. It was time for a massive rebrand.

Not only did I redesign my newsletter, but I also redesigned my website and even took a new pen name. It was a massive overhaul that took months to do. In September of 2025, Hearthlight sparked the first ember in 38 inboxes. It stopped becoming about publication or building a following. It became about building a community. So, instead of a stage platform, I built a campfire and asked you all to gather with me.

I didn’t even tell you who I was. I just changed my name, built Hearthlight, and sent it out into the world, hoping that some of you would be intrigued enough to stick around. Many of you have.

Thank you for trusting the process.

While Hearthlight was finding its voice and footing, I finished my master’s degree; I shared more personal stories with you; I became more vulnerable in my essays and in my poetry. Early Hearthlight was about announcements and philosophy, how therapy was rewiring my thinking. Now, Hearthlight lingers on the simple things in life: a cup of coffee, a sleeping dog, an open window, a star in the sky, an ember in the smoke.

With each move, with each change, with each glow-up, you have been here through it, and many of you gathered even closer to the fire through that time. There were months when I wasn’t sure I had anything to say. There were seasons when keeping the fire lit felt harder than I expected. You were patient, and I didn’t lose you. That’s rare.

What surprised me more through this journey is what Hearthlight became. Not a newsletter, not a bunch of stories, not a brand—a community where ordinary lives matter. Where seasons are slowed down, creativity doesn’t have to hustle, grief can sit beside joy, books are friends, and the characters in them are family, there’s time to pet the dog, and small lights matter.

So tonight, as the smoke rises to the stars, remember where you were a year ago. Not as a way to list accomplishments or failures, but to see the growth. And remind yourself where you’re going. Smoke leaves the fire behind, but it also gives us a reason to look up.

If the fire has ever made you feel a little less alone, pull another chair closer. We’re only one year in.

This month, the mantel belongs to you.

For the last year, I have been honoring the people and moments that have left lasting marks on my heart. Now, as Hearthlight turns one, I am turning the mantel around and asking you to see yourself in the mirror. This publication and community would not exist without you.

Thank you for being here with me.

The day leaves slowly, 
like someone reluctant 
to say goodbye

The sun clings to the clouds
Gasping in its last breath
In brilliant shades of gold

Darkness creeps up from the east
As the western sky turns purple
And the stars 

Oh, the stars

I can just see the brightest ones
Flickering in the sky
As the last light of the sun

Lingers

Sometimes the sky says
What we 
Can’t

Tonight it says

	Stay

Think back to where you were one year ago.

What would surprise that version of you about the person you’ve become today? If your life were a campfire, what has been the kindling this past year? What has become the steady flame?

There are few joys more deeply adult than standing in front of a quietly humming furnace and thinking, That’s a good sound. Yet, here I am, at almost 42 years old, admiring a furnace. Not just any furnace, a brand new one that will see its first winter season and keep me warm for another few decades. She was installed a few months back. My last system was over 30 years old, and while it’s sad to see it go after such long and faithful service to this house, it’s also a wise investment in the future. In one afternoon, my entire HVAC system was upgraded, and I can be comfortable knowing that I will have a warm home as the season begins to turn.

Perhaps that’s what this season has been asking of me all along: to tend what will carry me into tomorrow. Sometimes that’s a furnace. Sometimes it’s a poem. The past few months have been full of quiet preparations. Some have happened around the house. Others have happened at my desk, where words planted months ago have finally begun to bear fruit. After several submissions and months of querying anthologies, A Star-Spangled Dream has found a home in the GLAAWC Anthology - Testimonies from the Margins: Writings of Moral Courage and Social Cost.

This quiet milestone came when I was feeling most discouraged. With the amount of loss I have been facing since April, and the work I’m doing in therapy each week, each little rejection was another hole poked into a hot air balloon that was slowly deflating. I understand rejection is part of the process, but I needed a win. And that win came from the incredible people at Great Lakes African American Writers Conference (GLAAWC). I’ll be sure to share the details here once the anthology is released. I cannot wait to hold it in my hands finally.

Meanwhile, Loki and Sigyn have been keeping me company as I roll into the last quarter of 2026. I had always planned for five to six drafts for Victory is Her Name, and as I have just wrapped up the fifth draft, I’m thrilled to say the manuscript is finished. It is now going out to a few beta readers, which is incredibly exciting and nerve-wracking. This is a story I have sat with and poured my heart and soul into for four years. To see it reach a final manuscript of 148,600 words (622 pages) leaves me with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. It’s finally complete. That’s one hell of an accomplishment.

Over the summer months, I continued my work as a poet. I went to Coshocton for the Coshocton Book Festival with a suitcase of my books for sale. I made some good friends at my table and was pleased to donate a copy of The 841 Nostalgia to the raffle. May the copies I sent out into the world go far.

And as we head into the fall, I’m looking ahead to the next big challenge. I don’t know exactly what the next season will bring, but there are things in my life now that are ready to carry me through it.

As summer fades into autumn, may you find comfort in the fires you have tended, the people who have gathered beside them, and the quiet assurance that even the smallest light can carry us through another season. Thank you for spending another month around the hearth with me.

Until the next ember,

Teresa St. George

All images for Hearthlight are AI-generated on ChatGPT

Introduction

In June 1994, at seventy-seven years old, my grandfather, John St. George, stood before the graduating class of McKinley High School and gave his first-ever public speech. This was the Class Response — a speech meant to capture the heart of the moment and speak for every graduate, young and old.

My grandfather’s journey to this stage was extraordinary: more than sixty years after leaving high school, he returned to the classroom, sat through night classes, retook math tests three times, and worked his way to this diploma. His words are humble, witty, and full of gratitude — exactly the man I remember.

I share them here because they are part of his legacy, and by extension, part of mine. In this speech, you’ll hear his humor, his perseverance, and his belief in learning as a lifelong fire we must tend.

This is my grandfather’s Class Response from McKinley High School’s 1994 Graduation Ceremony.

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I’d love to tell you Abbi was reflecting on the changing seasons. In truth, she was attempting to convince me that my sandwich legally belonged to both of us.

Dogs don’t overcomplicate joy. To Abbi, a sandwich is exciting, a blanket is luxurious, a nap is an achievement, and being near her person is enough.

To me, it’s just lunch. To Abbi, it’s an event. She isn’t thinking about tomorrow’s sandwich or yesterday’s sandwich. This sandwich, this blanket, this moment—that’s enough.

Maybe we could stand to simplify our own happiness every once in a while. A sandwich doesn’t seem particularly exciting as a meal. It’s an easy means to an end. Two slices of bread with meat and cheese, perhaps a condiment. It comes together in a few minutes and is gone just as fast.

But what’s really striking, and what we’ve spent all month really talking about, is that we have stopped paying attention to the simple things in life. Abbi reminds me that sometimes a sandwich and your favorite person are the most interesting things in the room.

Because it’s not really about the sandwich, is it?

It’s about being present. Noticing ordinary pleasures. Taking the time to taste our food, and pet the dog. And, yes… to share a meal.

She didn’t get the entire sandwich. She did receive several apologies for the obvious oversight and was given the last bite, as always.

My yard is fenced in on three sides. Two of them are a privacy fence, and the other is simply a chain-link. The deer can hop over that one and let themselves into my yard to happily munch on the grass that hasn’t been mowed in far too long to be considered civilized. Meanwhile, between the slats on the left, I can see into Steve’s backyard, and it looks a lot different.

Steve’s yard looks immaculate through those slats. I can just barely make out a hobbit hole instead of a shed. It’s adorably painted in a soft goldenrod, with a green door and windows that have shutters of the same color. There are garden gnomes and perhaps even a swing, but I can’t quite tell. Meanwhile, I am standing in a neglected backyard, much like the rest of my house has been for months. The garden lights no longer work, the grass is too high, there are sticks everywhere from the trees, and if I step on one more acorn, I might cut down a forest with my bare hands.

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From one day to the next, a garden often appears unchanged. Green leaves reach toward the sun, a flower blooms, stretching its petals to catch the bees, and the vegetables ripen. We tend to our gardens daily, checking on the tomatoes, watering the sunflowers, smiling when the berries are ready to be eaten straight off the vine.

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In awe of Stephen Hawking

When I hear his voice
Describe the universe 
It’s as if I can see 
A thousand directions

I can envision the brightness
Of an event horizon
As if it’s swirling chaos
And weaving time

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August 2026

August arrives quietly, asking us to slow our pace and notice the beauty that lives between seasons. This month, Hearthlight is an invitation to linger a little longer—to embrace the thresholds, quiet wonders, and gentle transitions that shape our lives.

August always feels like a doorway; one hand still holding the warmth of summer, the other reaching toward whatever autumn has waiting. As we wind down the summer, start planning Back-to-School rituals, and the sun begins to sink lower earlier each day, I realize something fundamental: we are not at the end of summer or the beginning of autumn—we are at the threshold.

Fields have shifted from green to soft gold. Cicadas, crickets, dry grass, and long shadows all make up the atmosphere of our evenings. The fireflies have long departed us for the year. Heat is still present, but it’s subtly starting to change. Our gardens are full, but not ready to harvest.

Most people hurry through thresholds; doorways exist to pass through, not linger. Hallways connect destinations, and waiting rooms are tolerated. Yet thresholds have their own kind of beauty. They’re places where two worlds touch. August asks us to stay there for a little while. Not to rush toward pumpkins. Not to cling desperately to July. To notice where we are.

Nature seems surprisingly comfortable existing between seasons.

Perhaps people could be, too.

Look around: the leaves haven’t all turned yet, the flowers haven’t quite faded, gardens are still producing, and fields are ripening. Yet birds are starting to gather, mornings are carrying a hint of coolness, and even the sunsets are changing. Nothing happens overnight. Nature doesn’t demand immediate transformation. It allows overlap. Here, summer and autumn coexist for a while.

We often recognize thresholds only in hindsight. Things change, and it’s challenging to pinpoint the exact moment a pivot was made. We finish school before knowing what comes next, and we start a new career while still clinging to the old one. There’s a moment of “now what” when something finishes, and it’s uncomfortable to linger in that place. We want to rush through the “now what” instead of seeing the beauty and freedom of simply existing. We often pressure ourselves to “arrive.” Life spends far more time in transition than arrival.

Thresholds are uncomfortable because they don’t offer certainty. But they offer perspective. When you’re between seasons, you can still see where you’ve been and begin to imagine where you’re going. Standing between both creates gratitude. You don’t have to force clarity. You don’t have to decide everything today. Sometimes your only work is to stand still long enough to notice what is changing.

This month, I’m inviting you to sit with me just a little bit longer. Notice things you wouldn’t notice. Head into August without rushing the evenings. Spend time in the garden. Let your conversations flow. Maybe observe your routine and see where you can add one little bit of joy. And maybe most of all: observe the quiet endings and small beginnings. Stand in the doorway with me just a little longer.

Abbi Moyer

June 6, 1996 — December 7, 2015

This month, I want to place my dearest friend, Abbi, on the mantel. She was a remarkable young woman whose kindness, laughter, and friendship left a lasting mark on my life. Every day, when I call my dog Abbi by name, I honor the memory of the friend who inspired it and carry a small piece of her spirit with me.

I am also deeply grateful to wear a Tree of Life pendant gifted to me by her father, Rudy. It is one of my most treasured possessions—a quiet reminder that the people we love continue to shape us long after they are gone. Some lives become part of the foundation of who we are, and Abbi’s is one I will always carry with me.

I asked the season for an answer
But it only changed the light
The shadows grow long
The heat lingers

Gold plains stretch out
The wheat yawns 
Crickets sing
Geese honk overhead

Dew begins to gather
Mist clings to the ground
And I sit watching this unfold
With a coffee in hand

On the breeze,
One leaf
Flutters
And falls

The orchards are full of apples
Pumpkin patches are turning orange
I ask once more 
The season answers slowly

It whispers
“Patience”

Where in your life are you standing at a threshold right now? Without rushing toward what's next or longing for what has passed, what does it feel like to simply stand in the doorway for a little while?

As Hearthlight continues to grow, I’ve realized that many of you are joining our little corner of the internet for the very first time. If that’s you, welcome. I’m so grateful you’re here, and I thought this month would be a wonderful opportunity to introduce you to the creative project that has quietly accompanied me for the better part of the last four years.

Alongside my poetry and essays, I’ve been writing a mythic fantasy novel titled Victory is Her Name. Inspired by Norse mythology, the story follows Sigyn—not simply as Loki’s wife, as she is often remembered, but as a woman with her own voice, purpose, and extraordinary journey. While it honors the rich traditions of the old stories, it is ultimately a tale about healing, resilience, family, sacrifice, and choosing compassion in a world that often celebrates power above all else.

The novel has been with me through graduate school, long workdays, seasons of joy, and seasons of profound grief. In many ways, I’ve grown alongside it. Each revision has taught me something new—not only about storytelling, but about patience, persistence, and trusting that meaningful work takes the time it needs.

As I write this, I’m deep into what I hope will be the final major revision before the manuscript begins its next chapter. There is still polishing to do, but for the first time, I can truly see the finish line on the horizon.

Thank you for letting me share this journey with you. From time to time, I’ll pull back the curtain here to tell you more about the people, places, and stories that shape my writing life. Until then, thank you for being part of Hearthlight. I’m so glad we’ve found one another.

Hearthlight Haven is where you can connect with me in a new way. Pull up a chair, gather around the fire, and engage with me! I’d love to hear from you!

Hearthlight Haven on Discord

May this month remind you that not every season asks us to hurry. Until we gather around the hearth again, may you find beauty in the thresholds, warmth in the ordinary, and peace in standing exactly where you are.

Until the next ember,

Teresa St. George

Author & Poet

All images for Hearthlight are AI-generated on ChatGPT

July came in like a convection oven, quickly heating up Northeast Ohio and making it miserable to even open the door. Even sweet Abbi, who is normally a bundle of energy, can’t bring herself to get up long enough to consider going outside.

The contrast between my dog and me is not lost on me. Here I am, in the heat and throes of summer, rebuilding my life. And my dog is asking me, “Have you considered napping instead?”

The heat of July has certainly shaped Abbi’s routine. We don’t spend as much time outside in this heat, for fear of burnt paws on the pavement. We spend more time in front of the air conditioner or the fan, and on the couch, trying to keep ourselves from roasting in the summer sun.

Abbi is my heart animal; she’s a reflection of me, and in turn, I am a reflection of her. I found her in a shelter, waiting for her forever home. And when I brought her home late in February of 2023, she was shy and meek. I worked with her over these last few years and have discovered her sweet personality comes from her big heart.

Now, I have a sixty-five-pound log on my legs every night, whether it’s hot or not, because that’s where she sleeps. So, on very hot nights, we migrate to the living room, where the airflow is better and the heat of the day isn’t trapped by the roof.

Yet, during the day, I have work. So she migrates around the living room, usually landing on the far side of the sofa, where she sighs as if she’s spent the last hour creating spreadsheets, and falls asleep, little paws twitching in a dream.

I think we can all glean something from this behavior. Abbi does not regret the rest. In fact, she doesn’t even question if the rest is worth it. She doesn’t scold herself for being lazy. She just lies down and falls asleep in the comfort and safety of her home.

There is nothing odd about slowing down. It’s just as nature intends on hot summer days. Today, Abbi is asking you, “Have you considered napping? Perhaps you should.”

Banner is AI-generated using ChatGPT

Every morning when it’s time to drive to the office, I stop at my local Dunkin’ Donuts for a large iced coffee. They overcharge me by a dollar, and now they have started asking for tips at the drive-thru, which is an annoying step that slows me down when I’m just trying to get to work. But it’s just part of the architecture of my daily living. My iced coffees have become a load-bearing wall.

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It’s like watching a movie you know very well, but suddenly you see something you never noticed before. I recently realized there were other people on the shuttle Han flies to Endor with Luke and Leia. I have seen Star Wars: Return of the Jedi so many times that I can recite it, but I never looked behind the action in the cockpit until just now, and see there are at least eight other people on board!

That’s how I remembered I was a summer child.

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I’m so excited to participate in the 2026 Mid-Ohio Indie Author Book Expo!

There’s something wonderfully ordinary about meeting readers face-to-face.

For so much of the year, writing is a solitary craft. It’s early mornings with coffee, notebooks full of ideas, and stories taking shape one sentence at a time. Author events are where those quiet hours become conversations. They’re a chance to share books, swap stories, and meet the people who remind me why I fell in love with writing in the first place.

If you’re in central Ohio on August 8, I’d love to meet you. Whether you’re already part of the Hearthlight community or simply wandering through in search of your next favorite book, I hope you’ll stop by my table and say hello. There’s always room for one more chair around the fire.

I’ll be signing copies of Just as Heavy and The 841 Nostalgia, chatting with readers, and looking forward to an afternoon filled with books and good conversation.

I wiggle my toes in the grass
And recall a time when the world 
Wasn’t so small and scary
When magic could be caught in a jar

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His brand is forever burned
Into my ankle
I see it every morning
When I put on my shoes

I’m covered in ink
And it’s still not all the stories
That still need to be told
That still need to be drawn

Grandpa always branded
The jewelry he made
I figured
I was one of his gems 

Images AI-Generated using ChatGPT

The spring came and went without a word from me or an issue of Hearthlight in your inbox. Sometimes there are seasons where tending a fire becomes a wholly personal and private matter. Energy must be spent tending to the heart, and extra work must be set aside.

Having lost friends to both conflict and death, April, May, and June were all in progress, but I was never pleased with what I wrote. You, as my readers, deserve the best of me—not me phoning in the work. I couldn’t do that to you. The fire you expect from me simply wasn’t there. I was in the dark night of the soul.

Grief has a way of clinging to the walls, staining the carpet, and making a person numb to everything outside of their direct line of sight. Days become measured not by appointments and deadlines, but by seconds ticking by. Creativity is suspended in favor of survival.

The fact is, I had nothing beautiful to offer because I couldn’t find the beauty in myself.

I spent my nights in the aftermath of tremendous loss, working through my grief in a series called Write Your Grief—a thirty-day collection of prompts meant to help guide someone through it. I am not finished with the series. I wrote little poems, short pieces of prose, expressed my pain, and leaned into getting as much help as I could.

I am fortunate to have an incredible support system around me. When I could not tend my own fire, I found people willing to poke the embers and keep them smoldering for me. And when I had pockets of normalcy, I could pick up the phone and ask for more support. Over these three months, I discovered the embers were still hot enough to catch again. I simply needed the right kindling.

I found a grief therapist. I found an equine therapist, where my entire job is simply to be present and pet a horse. I stopped speaking to people who no longer serve me. I quit smoking. I found a new CrossFit gym and joined it. Each of these small victories helped keep my spark alive.

Little by little, the warmth of the fire—and the warmth of summer—soaked back into my bones. Before I knew it, I was no longer counting seconds or measuring my life in isolated moments. I could look forward to an event again. None of these things made the grief disappear, but they made it something I could carry.

I’m remembering who I was.

I feel it in my careful workouts, where I don’t put too much weight on the bar, I don’t reach for the heavy kettlebell, and I don’t even try hanging from a rig yet. I’m remembering who I was before grief soaked me to the bone.

I’m not healed, but I am healing.

I am a summer child who belongs in the sun, barefoot in the grass, with the dog. I deserve evenings reading outside while the fireflies come out. I have returned to my handwritten journal, which had been gathering dust since February 20.

I’m so glad you’re here with me to rediscover the summer months.

I’m inviting you to sit beside the fire once more and share your stories.

Because the fire is burning again.

It may not be a roaring bonfire, but beneath the midsummer light, there’s more than enough warmth to gather around.

Images generated by one-of-a-kind prompts through ChatGPT

This happened
It shaped me
And now it sits
at a distance
I can measure

Not in feet or miles
Not in ounces or pounds
But in the shape of things
Unseen

I mapped the landscape
The landscape mapped me
And together
We created a world
No, a whole universe

Each stanza a star
Poems a constellation
Words as light

I am the architect
And these are my blueprints
I give them to you
The carpenter

Now read them
And build your world
From the tear drops
On the page

Artwork generated by one-of-a-kind prompts on ChatGPT

Hearthlight first lit its embers in September 2025 as a newsletter, and since then, I have been traveling the analemma of the seasons. As we celebrate the summer solstice, I find myself overwhelmed—in the best way—by change and hope.

Today, I’m delighted to bring Hearthlight from Patreon to Substack, where I plan to share the same essays, poetry, stories, and conversations my readers have come to love while opening the door to new friends around the fire. Whether you’ve been here since the beginning or this is your very first visit, welcome. I’m so glad you’ve found your way here.

Stories have always been important to me. As a child, I filled notebooks with “scary” stories that, in hindsight, weren’t frightening at all. Poetry came later, after I faced mortality in a very real way by standing before the casket of a young woman my own age. Experiences like that change a twelve-year-old forever.

Words have been my constant companions ever since. The challenge of arranging them into something meaningful has become a kind of embroidery, each sentence stitched together with care. My love of storytelling truly blossomed when I returned to writing as an adult and spent several years participating in the heyday of NaNoWriMo. Poetry found its way back to me more quietly, beginning in the pages of my journal before eventually becoming my first published collection.

Since then, writing has led me down paths I never expected. I’ve published two poetry collections—Just as Heavy and The 841 Nostalgia—earned a Master of Humanities in Creative Writing from Tiffin University with distinction, and completed the manuscript for a third poetry collection, The Avalanche Effect. My novel, Victory Is Her Name, which began as my graduate capstone project, is currently deep in its fifth draft.

This little corner of the internet is where all of those paths come together.

Here you’ll find essays about creativity, grief, books, nature, mythology, and the quiet work of building a meaningful life. You’ll get glimpses behind the scenes of my writing process, updates on current projects, the occasional poem, and, I hope, a place that feels a little like coming home after a long walk.

So pull up a chair, get cozy by the fire, and pour yourself a mug of cocoa.

I’m so glad you’re here.

Images generated by one-of-a-kind prompts on ChatGPT