The Seasons Within Us: Learning to Navigate the Emotional Shifts of Autumn

I’ve been feeling sad and overwhelmed with life lately, and I can’t quite pinpoint why.

Tasks that once seemed easy somehow feel harder, and my motivation to do them has shifted. Knowing that changing seasons can affect my mood and mental health, I’ve been prescribing myself some of the self-care practices I know can help me move through these cycles with a little more acceptance and ease.

One of those practices is moving my body to release stress and stimulate energy. Yesterday, when I had a break between clients, I decided to go for a walk. I wanted to get outside, connect with nature, get my heart pumping, and allow my mind to expand toward the horizon rather than remain focused on the device in front of me.

As I walk from my office toward downtown Excelsior, I pass an assisted living center. Across the street is a green space with a pond, a place where I often stop. Overlooking the water is a bench where residents and their families can frequently be found sitting together or alone in quiet contemplation.

Whenever I pass this bench, I feel grateful that there is a place for people with limited mobility to connect with nature. I imagine it offers a connection to the outside world and a sense of solace for those who may be experiencing limited freedom and longing for a connection to something greater than themselves.

I, too, like to sit on the bench and feel connected to all the people who have found themselves sitting there. I enjoy gazing at the peaceful pond, watching squirrels scurry about, listening to the birds, and feeling the wind against my face. I imagine others experiencing these same simple pleasures, and the thought brings a soft smile to my face and heart.

Yesterday, as I approached the bench, I was surprised to discover that the trees and bushes had grown so thick that I could no longer see the pond beyond them.

I felt momentarily disappointed. I hadn’t realized how much I had been looking forward to the peace I usually feel when gazing out over the water. In that moment, I recognized an expectation I hadn’t even known I was carrying: that the view of the pond would somehow help me feel better.

And that’s when I had a realization.

This is what depression can feel like for me. Knowing that peace exists somewhere within reach, yet feeling as though a veil stands between me and the ability to experience it. Wanting to feel better. Wanting things to be different. And, perhaps, believing that because I had done what I was “supposed to do”—taken a walk, gotten outside, connected with nature—I should somehow be rewarded with a sense of peace.

But that isn't always how it works.

As I sat there contemplating this, I realized that the leaves will eventually fall. The seasons will shift, the view will open up, and perhaps the changing landscape will bring a shift in my mood, too.

Until then, I can practice simply sitting with the view as it is. I can accept that the pond is still there, even when I can’t fully see it. Its presence hasn't changed simply because my ability to see it has.

Maybe our experience of peace is like that sometimes. It doesn't disappear just because we can't access it in the way we once could. It doesn't mean we have failed at self-care or that we aren't trying hard enough. Sometimes, there are things obscuring our view that we cannot immediately change or understand.

And maybe the practice isn't always about finding a way to clear the view. Maybe it's about allowing ourselves to sit with what is, without judgment or expectation, trusting that the landscape will change in its own time.

For now, I can sit on the bench, listen to the birds, feel the breeze against my face, and remember that the pond is still there.

And there is great beauty in that, too.