What you hear in the pause

Tara Turner Lockhart

3 days ago

5 min read

The leaves are letting go, and I've cut the last of the herbs to dry inside. What they can teach us about release and what it truly means to set something down.

By Author: Tara Turner Lockhart · 5 Mins Read · Autumn 2026

There is a week every November when the trees along the road let go almost all at once. One windy afternoon, the branches are half bare, the ground is gold and copper underfoot, and the garden smells of damp earth and woodsmoke. I always stop at the window when it happens. Nothing in me wants to rush past it.

The trees don't struggle with this. They don't hold on to the last leaf out of loyalty or worry about what letting go says about them. They stop feeding what has finished its work and let it fall. It's how they make it through the winter, and it's how they make room for spring.

Most of us find it much harder. This is such a busy time of year. The calendar fills, the evenings draw in, and it's very easy to let the overwhelm get the best of us: to keep going and forget to stop and enjoy the season and the beauty of nature turning just outside the window.

So I've learned to let autumn slow me down. I love the smell of the outside at this time of year and bringing the herbs in from my garden, with the last of the hibiscus flowers to dry for potpourri. I love lighting the first fire of the season, and my newest obsession is scattering a few whole cloves on it: warm, sweet, and a little peppery; the smell of mulled wine and bread sauce; and a British Christmas on its way.

None of these are big things. They're small pauses. And that is where letting go begins, because you can't set anything down while you're still rushing.

When you stop hearing yourself

Your body speaks long before you admit you are tired. It speaks in the shoulders that live up near your ears, the breath that stays shallow all afternoon, and the heaviness that settles when you say yes and mean no. Most days you're moving too fast to hear it.

Listening is a skill you may have set down somewhere between the school run and someone else's deadline. You became fluent in everyone else's needs. You can tell from the way a door closes that someone has had a hard day. Your own signals get drowned out, and what you no longer need stays with you because you never stopped long enough to notice it was there.

A pause, even a short one, is where listening begins again. Five minutes of quiet, and something that has been waiting very patiently will often speak.

The realm of Release

At Welltress, Release is one of our four realms. It isn't a season or a date on the calendar. It's an emotional state, a place within you that you can return to whenever something is ready to be set down, in spring as much as in November.

Autumn makes it easier to see. The falling leaves, the earlier evenings, the beds cut back, and the garden lying quiet. Nature isn't failing in November. She's setting down what she no longer needs so that she can rest and so that something new can grow.

You can do the same at any time of year. Release is where you notice what you've been holding on to and choose, gently, to let some of it go so that something new has room to grow.

Nature isn't failing in November. She's setting down what she no longer needs.

What it truly means to let go

Letting go is often misunderstood. It isn't forgetting, and it isn't pretending something didn't matter. You can let go of grief and still love whom you lost. You can let go of an old version of yourself and still honor everything she gave you.

To let go is to stop gripping. It's to stop spending your strength holding something in place that has already finished its work. It's choosing, on purpose, to set it down—the way a tree releases a leaf rather than tearing it off.

And it rarely happens all at once. Sometimes you set something down and find yourself picking it up again the next morning. That's all right. Release is a practice, not a single moment. The trees do it every year.

I know this from my own life. This time of year holds the anniversary of my mother's passing, and for the first few years I couldn't even look at the handwriting in her recipe books.

What I saw by the fire

At our last gathering, By the Fire, as the evening drew in at the Carriage Barn, our kindred community wrote down the things they were ready to release. Then we gave those words to the fire.

It was very emotional, and it was beautiful. What I'll remember most is the support that filled the circle and the relief I saw in the faces of the women who were there as the paper caught and was gone. Something held for a long time was finally set down, and no one had to do it alone.

That is what kind, kindred women give one another. Letting go is possible on your own, but it is gentler in good company.

A small ritual for this evening

In the last hour of the day, find somewhere quiet. If you have a fire burning safely in its grate, scatter a few whole cloves on the embers. If not, a small pan of cloves and a strip of orange peel simmering on the stove will fill the room just as sweetly. Keep an eye on it. Rest one hand on your breastbone and let three breaths out a little slower than they came in. Then ask yourself one question:

What am I ready to set down?

Wait for the first word that comes, and write it on a small piece of paper. Don't explain it or judge it. If you have a fire lit or a candle and a heatproof dish, you might let it burn with care. If not, tear it gently and let it go. Either way, notice how it feels to have named it.

That's all. One word is a complete practice.

Come and pause with us.

If you'd like to pause in company, we gather on Tuesday evening for Gathering in Gratitude, with Rebecca Weinstein, Holistic Healer, at the Carriage Barn in New Canaan.

Reserve your place here.

Like the leaves, you don't have to hold on to everything. Let a little fall. There is room in you for what comes next.

With love and intention,