Autumn is my favourite season.
I don’t often have favourites. Ask me what my favourite music is and I’ll probably tell you it depends on my mood, the day, whether the sun is shining, and how I woke up that morning.
But autumn? Autumn is different.
I love the changing colours. I love the sound of crisp leaves under my feet — on those rare Northern Irish days when they’re actually crisp rather than soggy. I love watching the squirrels racing around Antrim Castle Gardens, gathering and preparing for winter. I love seeing children hunting for conkers, sometimes accompanied by very determined dads wielding extremely long poles.
I love cosy jumpers, darker evenings, and having an excuse to curl up in front of the fire.
And, of course, autumn means Strictly is back on a Saturday night.
But there’s something else I love about autumn.
The trees let their leaves fall, unashamedly.
They don’t cling desperately to every leaf because somebody might think less of them if they let one go. They don’t look at the tree beside them and wonder why it seems to be holding everything together better. They don’t worry about being judged.
They simply let go of what they no longer need.
And perhaps there’s something in that for us.
The September pressure
September can feel like a fresh start.
Schools go back. Clubs start again. Football, rugby, ballet, swimming, meetings, appointments, and work commitments — suddenly, the diary that looked relatively manageable over the summer is full again.
I remember that feeling well.
When Catherine was young, September often came with an unspoken promise I made to myself:
This year I’ll be more organised.
I’ll be a better mum.
I won’t be rushing in the mornings.
I’ll remember everything.
And when the school or an organisation asked for cakes, I’d make them. Proper homemade ones. Because somehow, turning up with shop-bought buns felt as though somebody might look at them and think I hadn’t tried hard enough.
Looking back, I can see how much pressure I put on myself.
I was a working single mum. Catherine was in crèche, and we often weren’t home until after six. Then there was dinner, baths, getting ready for the following day, housework, appointments, family responsibilities, illnesses, cars breaking down, and all the ordinary things life throws at us.
There were also things I didn’t understand then.
Neither Catherine nor I knew we were neurodivergent. I didn’t know how much energy I was using simply trying to keep up, fit in, and appear as though I was coping.
But other people didn’t see all of that. They saw a tiny snapshot of my life at the school gates, church, GB, or wherever our paths crossed.
And I worried about what they saw.
What if they judge me?
Perhaps you know that feeling.
From the outside, you’re the capable one. You work. You organise. You remember birthdays. You get people where they need to be. You answer the messages. You make the appointments. You keep an eye on everyone else.
And somewhere underneath all of that can be the feeling that you should be doing it better.
That everyone else seems to be managing.
That you should be more organised. More patient. Healthier. Calmer. A better mum, partner, daughter, friend, colleague, or business owner.
Except nobody else knows everything that’s happening behind your front door.
They don’t know how you slept last night. They don’t know who you’re worried about. They don’t know about the appointment you’re waiting for, the argument you had yesterday, the bill that arrived this morning, the parent who needs you, the child who’s struggling, or the hundred other things taking up space in your head.
So perhaps, as we move further into autumn, there’s something you can let fall.
Not another responsibility, necessarily. Maybe just an expectation.
Give yourself grace
One question I sometimes ask women I work with is:
If your best friend was going through everything you’re going through, what would you say to her?
We are often extraordinarily compassionate towards the people we love. We tell them they’re doing their best. We tell them to rest. We remind them that they don’t have to do everything. We tell them that shop-bought buns are perfectly fine.
Then we turn around and demand something completely different from ourselves.
What might happen if you offered yourself the same grace?
Not because you’ve earned it. Not when you’ve finally finished everything on your list.
Now.
Give yourself permission to be who you are, without trying to impress everyone else or constantly trying to fix yourself.
And if somebody judges you? They may have judged you anyway.
Your buns could have been homemade, and they might not have liked the flavour. Your clothes could have been different. You could have been thinner, taller, quieter, more organised, or less organised.
You can’t build a peaceful life around avoiding somebody else’s judgement.
What matters most is how you’re doing, and how the people you love are doing. Are you okay? Are they okay? Are you as happy and healthy as you can reasonably be within the circumstances you’re living through?
And if you’re not, perhaps the answer isn’t to try harder.
Perhaps it’s to ask for help.
Autumn reminds us that letting something fall isn’t failure. Sometimes it’s simply making space for the season we’re in.
So, as the leaves begin to fall, perhaps ask yourself:
What expectation am I ready to stop carrying?
Whatever your answer is, give yourself a little grace.
Let the leaves fall.
A gentle next step
If you’re tired of holding everything together and would like a supportive space to work out what you need, you’re welcome to book a free Calm Conversation. There’s no need to know exactly what’s wrong or what kind of support you need before we talk.
You might also like to read The Women Nobody Realises Are Struggling, another reflection on what can sit beneath the capable exterior. For practical ideas on managing stress and supporting your wellbeing, visit the
NHS Every Mind Matters mindfulness guide.