When the Forest Grieves: Ash Dieback and Learning to Let Go Gently

The ash trees are dying. Not just one, but whole corridors of them. Branches bare in midsummer, bark flaking at the base. A slow hollowing. Ash dieback doesn’t make headlines, but here, in the woods, it’s changing everything.

There’s an ash I pass every day. I’ve leaned against its trunk on tired days. Picked its leaves as markers of the season. It’s not gone yet—but it’s going. And it hurts more than I expected.

Because we don't just grieve people. We grieve places. Landmarks. Living beings that stood beside us in our quietest seasons.

This woodland is grieving too. A hush has settled in parts where birds once gathered. The canopy is thinning. More light, yes—but not the kind we asked for.

And still, the forest finds ways to carry on. Ivy wraps itself upward. Woodpeckers drum into softened bark. Fungi begin their slow work.

I watch and wonder what this tree is teaching me about loss. About how not all endings are sharp. Some are slow dissolves. Some leave space. Some become habitat.

Even as the ash falls away, it gives. It offers a home. Shelter. Structure.

There’s grief here, yes. But also grace.

And maybe that’s the point. To keep learning how to hold both.

The ash is teaching me that. Not everything that falls apart is a failure. Sometimes it’s just a change. You don’t have to hold it all alone. The roots remember.

Let the falling apart teach you how to begin again.

Sarah