The Joy of Letting Go

Autumn reminds us that transition is not always about beginning again. Sometimes, it is about letting go—and discovering the joy that can come with making space.

The trees don’t cling to what has been. They release what is no longer needed, trusting the season to carry it away. There is something beautiful about this. A quiet permission to loosen our grip, to make space, and to see what might emerge.

Francis Weller writes about the importance of making space for grief, recognising it not as something to overcome, but as a natural response to loving what is. Viktor Frankl reminds us that even when we cannot change our circumstances, we retain the capacity to choose how we respond to them—and to find meaning within them.

I wanted to explore this within myself, so I chose a sheet of tissue paper.

It is soft and warm in my hands, beautifully bright and full of colour. I take a moment to enjoy it exactly as it is.

And then I start to tear.

A little piece. Then another. And another.

There is something unexpectedly freeing in it. The gentle resistance of the paper creates a satisfying haptic push and pull. I notice the strength in my fingers, the movement through my hands and arms, the subtle tension held in my shoulders and throughout my body.

I notice, too, how much choice I have.

How big will I make each piece? How quickly will I tear? Will I be gentle or a little rougher? What feelings come up as I tear?

I hold each piece for a moment, appreciating it, before letting it go.

As it falls, there is a tiny burst of energy. The paper flutters, twists and dances towards the floor. I don't know exactly where it will land.

And perhaps that is part of the joy.

There is a little uncertainty. A little resistance. And a need for surrender, which I fight and accept. A willingness to let things land where they land.

I cannot put the paper back together again. I take time to understand this in my body. But I begin to notice something else happening.

The pieces have gathered.

They have begun to create a shape of their own.

Something new is emerging from what has been released. It is more organic. More vibrant. A little wilder. A little more free.

And I realise that letting go can feel heavy, but it can feel so many other ways too. Sometimes it can feel playful. Sometimes it can feel creative. Sometimes it can feel like a breath of fresh air. Sometimes all of these at once.

We can honour what is ending while celebrating what has been. We can feel the ache of what we are leaving behind while also feeling curious about what might become possible.

The trees don't apologise for letting go.

They simply change.

They make space for what comes next.

Perhaps we can give ourselves permission to do the same.

What might you wish to hold dear?

And what might you be ready to release?

Perhaps you could find something colourful and tactile—a sheet of tissue paper, a fallen leaf, a piece of ribbon—and simply play with the experience of letting go.

Notice what happens in your body. Notice the choices you make. Notice what happens when you stop trying to control exactly where everything lands. The falling leaf is not a failure. It is part of the cycle. Perhaps this is one of Autumn’s quiet teachings: change, grief and joy can all belong in the same season, and in letting go we learn to trust what might come next.

If you would like to explore more areas such as this together, please do get in touch via the form at the bottom of my home page. Or call, or text me on: 07856 424 110.