Autumn Stillness: What the Forest Teaches About Letting Go

Every year around this time, I notice the same shift. The canopy thins, mornings bite sharper, and the air carries that faint smell of woodsmoke and damp earth. My dogs tug me further along the path, but I always pause at the same spot, where the hill dips down into Burroughs Wood. From there, I can see the trees give in to the season. Leaves yellowing, loosening, and drifting to the ground without hesitation.

It strikes me how unapologetic it all is. No guilt. No second-guessing. The trees simply let go.

Meanwhile, we, human beings, with our endless to-do lists and relentless drive to perform, cling desperately. To roles. To routines. To old versions of ourselves. Even when they’ve become too heavy to carry.

What if autumn’s lesson is simpler than we make it? That letting go isn’t a failure. It’s how we survive.

The Weight of Holding On

By late September, many of us are running on fumes. We’ve pushed through summer at full tilt, working, caretaking, and showing up. And then autumn whispers: slow down. But instead of listening, we often double down.

We tell ourselves rest is indulgence. That pausing means falling behind. We cling to what’s familiar, even when it no longer fits. Because what if letting go means losing control? What if it means admitting something’s over?

But here’s the wild truth: letting go doesn’t mean collapse. It means clearing space.

The forest knows this. When a tree drops its leaves, it isn’t dying. It’s conserving energy. Creating room for what’s next. Beneath the surface, roots are still expanding, fungi are still networking, and seeds are still waiting. Growth doesn’t vanish in autumn. It just goes underground.

Rewilding Lesson #1: Cycles Over Constant Growth

Rewilding yourself starts here: remembering you are not a machine. You are cyclical. Messy. Seasonal.

Some seasons are for bloom and expansion. Others are for retreat and repair. When you resist that rhythm, when you expect yourself to keep producing, keep pushing, keep glowing like midsummer at full blaze, you fracture.

So what if you stopped seeing low energy, rest, or release as personal failure? What if you named them for what they are: part of your wild cycle?

Letting go is not quitting. It’s making space.

A Trail Tool for Autumn

If this feels hard to live into, try this small practice:

1. Write it down. Take a scrap of paper and name one thing you’ve been clinging to that no longer serves you, a thought, an obligation, an expectation.

2. Go outside. Stand beneath a tree that’s already shedding.

3. Let it fall. As you drop the paper, whisper your own letting-go. Watch the earth receive it, just as it receives the leaves.

No big fanfare. No neat resolution. Just a quiet act of release.

Why This Matters

Letting go isn’t the end of your story. It’s the clearing before something new can take root.

This is why therapy often feels like autumn. You arrive carrying weight you’ve held for years, roles, relationships, self-criticisms that no longer fit. And little by little, in the safety of that space, you let them go. Not all at once. Not neatly. But enough to breathe again. Enough to feel the ground beneath your feet.

The Forest’s Reminder

Autumn doesn’t rush. It doesn’t apologise for taking up space in shades of gold and rust before fading into winter. It doesn’t resist the cycle.

Neither should you.

If you’re in a season of shedding, trust it. The forest always grows again and so will you.

Sarah x