Harvest
Fall is the season of gathering, but also of letting go. The trees release what they no longer need, and in that surrender they prepare the way for new life.
Harvest is both hands open to receive and hands open to release.
For a long time, I resisted this rhythm. I clung to roles, habits, and even beliefs that had outlived their season. I kept carrying more than I had capacity for, afraid that if I set something down, I would lose my place.
My life looked full, but it did not feel fruitful.
Have you ever carried something long past its season? A project that no longer excites you. A belief that keeps you small. A habit that once served you but now holds you back.
Letting go is never easy, but holding on often costs more than we realize.
My own harvest began when I started asking different questions. What is worth carrying forward? What must I release so something new can take root?
I remember stepping back from a committee I had once been proud to join. It felt like failure at first. I worried what people would think, whether I was letting someone down.
But every meeting left me depleted. The moment I released it, I felt both lighter and more honest. In the space that opened up, I found time to paint again, to walk outside, to breathe without rushing.
That small release reminded me that harvest is not only about what we gather. It is also about what we lay down.
Fall also asks us to think about legacy. The seeds we scatter, the habits we practice, the systems we uphold — all of it shapes the ground for those who come after us.
This is where my research came alive. What began as a personal search for well-being became a deeper question about how schools and workplaces could be reimagined as ecosystems of renewal rather than systems of extraction.
My story was not unique. It mirrored the experience of countless teachers, leaders, parents, and children who had been taught that depletion is the price of belonging.
But it does not have to be this way.
We can learn from the trees. We can create environments that make space for quiet winters, messy springs, full summers, and the release that comes with fall.
We can reimagine education not as a factory of output, but as fertile ground where creativity and well-being take root together.
We can see ourselves not as separate from nature, but as part of it, bound to its rhythms, responsible for its flourishing.
The harvest of my work is this: well-being is not a private achievement. It is not something we earn after we have proven our worth.
It is a shared responsibility, woven into the health of our classrooms, our families, our communities, and our Earth.
Just as winter taught us rest, spring renewal, and summer wholeness, fall invites us to harvest with wisdom and intention. Together, these seasons form the heart of the Flourish the Forest framework I have developed.
This rhythm reminds us that harvesting wisely — choosing what to keep and what to release — is essential for sustaining both creativity and well-being over time.
Burnout is what happens when we refuse to release. Flourishing is what happens when we do.
Imagine what it might look like if our schools, workplaces, and communities honored these rhythms.
Classrooms where rest and creativity were valued as much as output. Workplaces that supported cycles of renewal rather than endless performance. Families and communities where well-being was recognized as shared, not individual.
This is the vision fall leaves us with: a world where what we carry forward nourishes not only ourselves, but also future generations.
What will you carry forward, and what will you lay down so that something new can grow?