The Lessons of the Woods

Georgia Hurst is a fierce patient advocate for those with Lynch syndrome. Catch up on all of Georgia's blogs here!

There's a trail near my home that I frequent with my dog. It's a quiet stretch of woods — where the rhythm of life is visible in slow, deliberate changes. In spring, the woods awaken with an urgency and excitement I can almost feel in my chest — the crocus pushing through frozen soil, the first buds trembling on bare branches, the air scented with promise. By summer, the trees stand full and confident, their leaves a canopy of green that shields the forest floor with life.

But it is autumn that teaches me the most. Walking in the woods this past week, I noticed some maples beginning to glow red -- each tree seemed to be preparing for something essential -- the art of letting go. The trees release their leaves not with despair but with purpose, each one drifting to the forest floor, a final gift that nourishes the soil for what comes next. There is grace in that surrender, and it is accompanied by a wisdom in knowing that holding on is not always the answer.

The changing seasons have become a mirror for my own life. The woods remind me that transformation is natural, that resilience is not about clinging to what was, but about preparing for what will be. I've had to learn this in ways both ordinary and profound. Some lessons came through loss — by a best friend's death, the lingering shadows it cast over spring — and some through my own health, the vigilance that comes with being a Lynch syndrome survivor. The forest, patient and enduring, has offered guidance without judgment.

Watching the trees shed their leaves, I think of the ways we must release parts of ourselves to survive and thrive. Letting go of grief, of fear, of expectations, of the version of life we thought we would have — all of it becomes a kind of nourishment for the seasons ahead. There is courage in falling. The forest does not resist winter; it prepares for it, knowing that beneath the cold and the stillness lies the potential for renewal.

I notice small details that remind me of this every time I walk the trail. These walks reveal small, yet important lessons. I am reminded that preparation may ensure one's survival while I observe the squirrels gather acorns with instinctive purpose. Leaves fall and scatter across the underbrush, providing a crunchy blanket protecting hidden roots while the world above sleeps. Even the bare branches seem alive, holding the memory of summer's abundance as they wait patiently for spring; the woods are a masterclass in the art of patience.

Resilience, I've realized, is similar. It is about tending to yourself quietly, even when life is harsh or uncertain. It is about honoring cycles of growth and rest, action and reflection. I think of Nicholas and how he has navigated his own losses — his father, his grandparents, and the absence of my best friend, aka Auntie Catherine. Standing beside him through his milestones, I have come to understand that strength often reveals itself in consistency, in the daily choices to prepare, to heal, to let go, and to begin again.

Autumn teaches me that letting go does not erase what has come before. Just as leaves drift to the ground and decompose, they nourish the soil — just as the lessons we release nourish our own growth. Endings can hold a quiet, subtle beauty, not despite the sadness they carry, but because of it. The woods move with this truth, embracing both decay and renewal, each essential to life's rhythm. You notice it in the crisp crunch of leaves beneath your feet, in sunlight slanting differently through bare branches, in the wind's gentle murmur that carries both goodbye and the promise of what is yet to come.

Even as the woods prepare for the long, quiet of winter, I feel hope because I know that bare trees are not empty; they are resting, gathering strength for the next burst of life. So are we. Each season in the forest mirrors the seasons in us: spring for courage and beginnings, summer for abundance and engagement, fall for reflection and release, winter for rest and renewal. Paying attention to these cycles teaches patience, humility and grace.

This year, as I watch the woods transition, I am reminded that life does not demand perfection, only presence. The trees do not resist change — they lean into it. The forest does not mourn the loss of a leaf -- it trusts the season. I am learning to do the same, trusting that the leaves I release — the fears, the grief, the expectations — will nourish the seasons to come. Standing in the woods, I feel both grounded and expanded.

These jaunts in the woods have helped me discover a resilience in myself I didn't fully recognize before -- the woods teach me that change is not only inevitable but necessary and that each season reflects a part of life within us — our growth, the lessons we carry, the courage it takes to let go of what no longer serves us. Like the forest, which rests through winter, sheds its leaves in autumn, and bursts forth again in spring, we too can slow down, release what weighs us, and begin anew.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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