Why letting go is easier in autumn than in spring

Autumn has a way of loosening our grip. Plans, clutter, even stubborn feelings seem easier to release when the light tilts and the air turns crisp. Spring asks us to add. Autumn invites us to subtract. Which might be why letting go lands softer now than at any other time of year.

The first cool evening crept in without drama. A park bench, a paper cup gone lukewarm, and the light doing that late-September thing where everything turns the colour of toast. A couple nearby sorted summer photos, laughing, deleting, keeping only the ones that still felt true. I tugged on a jumper and felt the season settle in my bones.

The year was exhaling, and so was I. Leaves skittered over trainers, a gull heckled the river, and somewhere a child’s schoolbag clinked with new pens. It felt less like an ending and more like permission. The trees were doing it openly. The bin swallowed a train ticket and a summer promise. The leaves weren’t the only ones.

Why autumn loosens our grip

Summer is all appetite. Barbecues, late nights, “why not” plans that sprawl into Mondays. Then September crosses the threshold and something in the body recalibrates. Earlier sunsets nudge routines back into place. The evenings offer a slower room to think, to sort, to quietly put down what’s been heavy.

I think of Maya, who told me she couldn’t quit her joyless job in June. The sun was loud, everyone was out, and change felt like braking hard on a motorway. In October she walked the long way home under chestnut trees and the decision arrived like a coat handed to her. She drafted her resignation with the kettle on, put her swimsuits in a bag for the charity shop, and slept properly for the first time in weeks. We’ve all had that moment when a crisp gust lifts a thought you were tired of carrying.

There’s a practical rhythm beneath the poetry. Light drops, melatonin rises earlier, and nights ask for gentler calendars. The social tempo cools: fewer weddings, fewer epic plans, more dinners you can leave by ten. Workplaces talk Q4, schools reset, diaries turn to fresh pages in September as if the year begins twice in Britain. Autumn gives permission that spring rarely grants. Spring shouts “grow”; autumn whispers “choose”. The whisper is easier to hear.

Ways to let go when the days get shorter

Try a three-step Sunday ritual for the season. At sunset, pick one shelf, one habit, and one worry. Clear the shelf as if you’re packing for who you are now. Name the habit you’ll retire until March. Write the worry on a card and tuck it in a jar till Bonfire Night, just to see if it still matters. Start small, start seasonal, and stop when it feels tender rather than triumphant.

Go gently. Don’t turn letting go into a punishment or a performance. Let a pile form by the door across a week, not a day, and donate it when the weather breaks. Keep a “maybe box” for items that make you hesitate and check it at the first frost. If you’re ending a project or a relationship, give it a warm goodbye under a tree, not a dramatic speech under a spotlight. Let the season carry some of the weight. Let it carry the blame too, if that helps. Let’s be honest: nobody does this every day.

Language matters; autumn’s words are kindly ones. Say “retire”, “return”, “release”, not “fail”, “waste”, “should”. The body hears the difference and unclenches a little. When you feel the urge to grip again, step outside for one minute and watch what the trees are doing. They’re not in a rush. Neither are you.

“Leaves don’t argue with the wind; they loosen when it’s time.”

• Pick one room to autumn-clean, not the whole house.
• Swap your “to-do” for a “to-don’t” list till December.
• Plan endings with tea and a friend, not texts after midnight.
• Give objects a second life: charity, repair, or lend.

What letting go now can open up

Autumn creates a clearing. Not a void, a clearing. You take away the noise, and what remains starts to hum. A drawer closes and suddenly the evening has space for soup, reading, a phone call you’ve been postponing with someone you miss. It’s mundane and it’s magic at the same time.

Letting go is not the same as giving up. It’s pruning. The rosebush does it without shame; the apple tree does it so it won’t split under its own promise. When you leave a group chat, or step down from a side gig, or stop chasing a plan that looked good for someone else’s life, you aren’t shrinking. You’re reshaping. The season has your back, and your body knows it.

Share your little releases with someone who gets it. Keep a scrap list of what you’ve put down this month: beliefs, tasks, shoes. It reads like a map you’ve already walked. When spring returns, you’ll plant with intent rather than impulse. Until then, there’s a quiet, golden corridor between now and winter. It’s wide enough to walk without bags.

FAQ :

• Is autumn really better for big decisions than spring?Often, yes. The social and biological pace in autumn supports reflection and choosing, while spring pushes expansion and adding.
• What if autumn makes me sad?That can happen. Keep your releases small, increase light and walks, and ask for company while you sort. Mood and momentum can coexist.
• How do I let go without regretting it?Use a “maybe box” and a 30-day pause for non-urgent choices. If you don’t miss it by the first frost, it’s ready to go.
• Can I still start something new in autumn?Absolutely. Clear one thing, start one thing. Ending and beginning work best in pairs when the days shorten.
• What if I prefer spring energy?Use autumn to edit lightly, not overhaul. Keep notes for spring planting. You’re working with your own weather, not a rulebook.