Letting Go

The Wisdom of Leaves

A month ago, in autumn, I was watching leaves fall from the trees. Each one different:
yellow, red, brown, orange, black, still green. A mosaic of colors telling a single truth:
life is always changing.

Trees have known this for millennia.
And they do not resist it. They do not cling to their leaves out of fear of losing them, they do not try to hold on because “once they were beautiful,” they do not judge themselves for changing—they follow it.

Leaves do not fall all at once.
First they turn red, then yellow, then brown. Every phase is a language, a step, a rhythm.
Transformation is not a mistake: it is how life prepares the ground for what is to come.

We too move through inner seasons. At times we stubbornly try to stay green when inside we are already red, or to remain red when it is time to let go—because we believe that being consistent means never changing. Trees, instead, do not resist the flow; they welcome every change of color as part of the journey.

When the leaves fall, the tree does not become less itself, it does not lose its identity. It simply makes space, lightens its load, entrusts itself to the process.

There is a quiet, serene strength in this gesture: the awareness that what falls is never “wasted.”

We, on the other hand, fear emptiness, separation, endings. We fear that by letting go of something… we will lose an essential part of ourselves.

But nature whispers another truth to us: what falls, nourishes.

Leaves, once on the ground, are not dead. They become shelter. They become protection from the cold for the roots during winter and for small animals that hibernate. They become nourishment when they turn into the soil that will allow the tree to be reborn.

The same happens within us.

What we let go of—a relationship, a role, a habit, an idea of who we are—does not disappear. It transforms; it becomes compost. It becomes fertile space for something more authentic, more truly ours.

There is nothing useless in letting go. Even pain, when welcomed, becomes humus.

Trees are not in a hurry to turn green again. They allow themselves the time of rest, of silence, of emptiness. They know that every season has its purpose.

They let fall what must fall, they protect the roots with what remains, and they wait for what is new.

In this simplicity there is ancient wisdom: life never takes anything from us that cannot be reborn in another form.

Letting Go to Bloom Again

When we stop holding on to what no longer lives, when we allow our “inner leaves” to fall, we find space to breathe.
And to grow.

Trees remind us that letting go is not the end, but an act of trust. It is the invisible bridge between who we have been and who we can become.

Because every leaf that falls prepares the ground for a spring we cannot yet see—
but that is already beginning to stir within.