The turning of the wheel of the year: Letting go into autumn

Here in Nelson, as wildfire smoke finally clears from our valley, autumn arrives with its familiar paradox—feeling simultaneously overdue and premature. We gratefully breathe the fresh air that we have not taken for granted in recent weeks, a clear sign that the season is winding to a close; the night is nibbling away at the daylight hours; yet until the frost starts to come, we can hold onto the pretence that summer is still here.

Yet we have turned the corner of the Equinox, and there is no mistaking it. There is something decisive about these moments of seasonal ending and beginning. And whereas the Solstices feel to me like a stillpoint (to borrow a term from the craniosacral world), a moment of quietness and pause, the Equinoxes mark the time when change is most rapid. The daytime is giving over several minutes of light to the nighttime each day. This shifting light orchestrates everything else: cooling air, changing leaves, our own energy moving inward. The light leads, and all of nature—including us—follows.

The body knows

Before our minds fully register autumn's arrival, our bodies are already responding. We find ourselves wanting to stay in bed a little longer, based on a deep biological attunement to the diminishing light. That morning grogginess and evening sleepiness aren't deviations from the way you 'should' be feeling—they're your nervous system's appropriate response to seasonal cues.

As autumn progresses, energy naturally moves downward and inward, like sap descending into roots. Where summer pulled us up and out into into social gatherings and adventures, autumn invites us to contract, to gather ourselves back from summer's exuberant dispersal.

You might notice yourself craving different foods, preferring warm drinks even on mild days, feeling suddenly protective of your evening time. Your body is preparing for the conservation months ahead, beginning the slow work of digesting and integrating all that summer brought.

Your autumn constitution

Not everyone relates to autumn the same way, and this isn't about having a good or bad attitude—people also have very real differences in their constitution. Some people genuinely come alive in autumn's coolness. These tend to be the ones who spent summer feeling sweaty, stifled, or slightly overwhelmed, their naturally fiery constitutions finally finding relief as the heat dissipates. They breathe easier, sleep better, and think more clearly. For them, autumn isn't a loss but a breath of fresh air.

Others grieve autumn as a profound ending. These are often people whose bodies run cool, who spent all summer finally feeling warmth in their toes, whose joints and spirits both thrive in heat. As the temperature drops, they feel themselves contracting against the bitterness of the elements. They mourn the aliveness and easy freedom of summer, and perhaps the deep sense of safety provided by the abundant presence of the Sun.

Still others find autumn's earthward energy grounding in the best way. If you tend toward anxiety, overthinking, or feeling ungrounded, autumn's downward pull might feel like a relief—finally, something drawing your energy out of your spinning head and toward the solid earth. The season offers what you struggle to create for yourself: a natural slowing, a mandatory rest.

There's no right way to meet autumn. Recognizing your constitutional pattern helps you work with your nature rather than against it. If you're someone who struggles with the cooling and darkening, you might need to be more intentional about warmth and light. If autumn energizes you, this might be your season for creative projects that summer's heat made impossible.

For some people, the impact of diminishing light goes beyond preference into a struggle to cope. If autumn and winter bring not just sadness but depression, not just tiredness but inability to function, working with your constitution might mean being proactive about seeking out additional resources, such as from a counsellor or therapist. We are not meant to do it all alone. Knowing when during the year you most need support is not a sign of resistance to the cycles of nature, but a sign of wisdom about your particular nature.

Resistance as information

When we notice ourselves resisting autumn's changes—desperately holding onto the pace of summer, defiantly forgetting our warm layer (this is me!), feeling inconvenienced by the earlier darkness—this resistance itself is valuable information. What exactly are we resisting? Often, it's not really about the season itself, but what it represents. Perhaps it’s rebellion against a scarcity of fun and lightheartedness in our routines. Or perhaps it’s disappointment at what we didn’t get around to accomplishing over the summer: the discrepancy between our imagined and actual productivity.

Sometimes resistance points to unmet needs. If you're dreading autumn's interior turn, maybe interiority feels unsafe or lonely to you. If the thought of slowing down creates anxiety, what might you have to feel if you stopped moving so fast? If seasonal change feels like loss, what other losses might be asking for acknowledgment?

Resistance might also simply indicate that your current life doesn't allow for seasonal rhythms. When you have young children, a demanding job, or caregiving responsibilities, the idea of “honouring autumn's invitation to rest” might feel like wishful thinking. This tension between what our bodies need and what our lives demand is real, and it deserves acknowledgment rather than another layer of self-criticism about not being seasonal enough.

If this speaks to you, moving with the season may look like finding the yin within your yang activities: taking a few breaths before plunging into the next chore, spending a moment outside with the sunlight on your closed eyes, and remembering what all the busyness is in service of.

Moving with the season may look like finding the yin within your yang activities.

The autumn paradox

Here's the challenge particular to autumn: just as our bodies call us toward rest and reflection, external demands often intensify. The garden needs to be put to bed before frost. Projects must be completed before snow makes them difficult or impossible. The academic year ramps up just as our energy wants to ramp down. We're simultaneously trying to harvest, preserve, prepare, and rest.

This dynamic is certainly true in Nelson, where the difference between summer and winter is stark enough that autumn preparation feels urgent. So we push ourselves through these darkening days, trying to be productive even as every cell in our body whispers “slow down.”

The medicine isn't in choosing one side of this paradox over the other—it's in acknowledging both truths. Yes, there are real tasks that need completion. Yes, your body genuinely needs more rest. Most of us don't have the luxury of fully surrendering to seasonal rhythms, but we can still make small adjustments. Allowing yourself to feel tired without immediately reaching for something to fix it is such a valuable practice to cultivate.

Balance is the essence of this season, and we're all doing our best to balance what must be done with what our bodies are asking for. Life is dynamic, and so is balance: we cannot attain or remain in perfect balance, because the flow of life is in constant flux.

Grief as autumn's teacher

Look at a bare tree against the sky and you'll see the branching patterns of lungs, of breath, of what remains when everything extra falls away.

In Chinese medicine, autumn is associated with the lungs and with grief. Look at a bare tree against the sky and you'll see the branching patterns of lungs, of breath, of what remains when everything extra falls away. There's profound intelligence in this association. Autumn teaches us about letting go and the necessity of release and decay.

Some of us will feel this grief acutely as summer ends. We don't need to pretend we like all seasons equally, feigning non-attachment to the one that is dwindling. At this time of the seasonal cycle, other griefs may arise to be witnessed and held.

But grief, as anyone who has grieved knows, is not separate from love and gratitude. We grieve what we love. The depth of sadness about summer's ending is directly related to how much we are aware of its gifts. In this way, autumn's grief is also autumn's grace—it shows us what mattered and what we want to remember and integrate as we move into the darker months.

If that grief is tinged with regret, it shows us something about how we feel we might have more fully experienced the summer season. That regret is a nudge to do things differently the next time around.

Grief prepares us for the next cycle. By fully feeling and releasing summer, we create space for what autumn and winter might bring—different gifts, quieter perhaps, but gifts nonetheless. The trees don't hesitate or apologize when dropping their leaves. They know that holding on would prevent next year's growth.

Finding your dynamic balance

As we stand at this Equinox moment—equal light and dark, balanced on the pivot between seasons—we have the opportunity to get in touch with our own dynamic balance.

Start by simply noticing. How is your body responding to the changing light? What time do you naturally feel sleepy now? What foods are you craving? What activities feel sustainable versus depleting? This basic awareness, without judgment, is the foundation for seasonal alignment.

Then, make small adjustments where possible. If you are happiest in summer, take steps to prepare yourself for the upcoming changes. Begin your warming practices now—you likely know what works for you. I use a far-infrared heating pad on my lower back when I feel the need for some added comfort. I also recall my uncle’s sage advice: if you’re not keeping your legs warm, your feet will be cold.

Think about which friends and activities will support you to remain connected during the shorter and darker days. Consider which forms of movement will be a part of your routine in the colder months. I have found that breathwork, including the simple reminder to take fuller breaths when life is busy, helps promote blood circulation.

If the cooler weather energizes you, harness this energy for creative work while respecting others' need for quieter rhythms. Keep rocking those shorts a little longer!

Regardless of your seasonal comfort zone, make an effort to spend adequate time outdoors as the weather gets colder. Nature and exercise have an instant effect on mood! Also consider setting up your environment to emulate the natural outdoor lighting conditions. Using a full spectrum light and/or bright ceiling lights during the daytime, and dimmer, warmer, eye-level lights in the evening after sunset, can help promote healthy cycles of alertness and restfulness.

An invitation to depth

Ultimately, autumn's inward turn isn't a problem to be solved but an invitation to depth. As the external world becomes less hospitable—colder, darker, wetter—we're naturally drawn inward, not just into our homes but into ourselves. This interiority, which summer rarely allows, offers its own gifts: time for integration, for reflection, for discovering what remains when the external festivities quiet down.

Sometimes this inward journey benefits from companionship—a therapist, counsellor, or guide who can help explore what emerges as we become stiller. I am available for counselling, somatic therapy, and craniosacral work. If something is stirring in you that wants to move through this season, please feel free to book a consultation to discuss working together.

Not every season can be summer. Thank goodness. We need the full cycle: the exuberance and the quieting, the expansion and the contraction, the light and the dark. In learning from this, we find ourselves not just surviving seasonal change but finding intelligence and grace in the turning of the year.