Deep Release: Trusting the Falling Away

Not everything is meant to be carried forward.

Some things loosen their hold without warning, like a leaf that drifts before you’ve noticed autumn on the air. Others demand a slow unravelling, thread by thread, until your hands finally let go.

Release is never tidy. It doesn’t arrive on a schedule. It rarely bows to logic. But if we soften into it, if we trust the falling away, it becomes less about loss and more about space.

This week, with the waning moon leaning towards her dark face, we’re invited to release without needing to name what comes next. To trust that the earth beneath us knows what to do with what we lay down.

The Sacred Gift of Release

In nature, release is everywhere. The tide pulls back to make way for the returning swell. Trees drop their fruit so seeds can scatter. Even the body releases daily, trusting the rhythm of renewal.

And yet, when it comes to our own lives, we often cling. We fear the pause between what has been and what might come. We mistake letting go for emptiness, forgetting that fallow soil is what makes the harvest rich.

What if the pause isn’t a threat but a gift? What if the empty space is where your soul can finally breathe?

Ritual for Falling Away

This ritual is simple, and it works with whatever is already present in your life.

You’ll need:

• A bowl of water (to hold release)

• A small handful of grain or seeds (to honour what is still fertile)

• A slip of paper and pen

• Sit with the bowl of water before you. Write down one thing you’re ready to let fall away. It might be a belief, a tension, or simply a weariness.

• Fold the paper and dip it into the water, letting the ink blur or dissolve.

• Take your grain or seeds in your hand. Whisper over them:“As I release, I make space. As I let go, I remain whole.”

• Scatter them onto the soil outside, or into a pot if you live indoors. Let what was heavy become food for what is yet to come.

A Priestess’s Whisper

PThere’s a rhythm to release. It’s not about rushing to rebuild. It’s about listening. About letting yourself be held in the in-between, where possibility hovers like mist over morning fields.

This is the heart of priestess work: to sit in cycles, to learn from both the ripening and the falling away. It’s why our ancestors marked these moons not only with harvest, but with remembrance and pause.

If you’re longing for a path that honours those rhythms, there are spirals unfolding soon where we walk these mysteries together. Some are year-long, woven through the land’s turning. Others rise and fall with the moon. But the essence is the same: to trust that the falling away is never the end. It’s the threshold.

Release is not weakness. It is not easy and it is not something we should feel drawn to do over and over again.

It’s participation in the great cycle.

It’s what allows the soil to rest, the womb to renew, the tide to return.

So if you’re in a place of unravelling, of loosening your grip, of letting one small thing go, know this: you are not breaking. You are becoming.

And in the pause that follows, the seeds of your next becoming are already stirring.