The Season of Shadows and the Things We Must Release

I know most posts this time of year lean into the rhythms of the season — cozy corners, autumn, a time to slow down and turn inward. I almost wrote about the dark; there’s so much meaning there... But then I went to Home Depot.

And among the towering aisles of skeletons, zombies, ghosts, and vampires, I realized: every single thing that’s meant to be scary has one thread in common — death.

The scariest things we scatter across our lawns and dress up as throughout October are all connected to dying and decay. And, if the character is not frightening enough, we just make a dead version of it. I remember one Halloween from my childhood, saying as a kid, “I want to be a pirate. But a dead one, so it’s scary.” Want to be a princess? If she’s dead, she’s terrifying. 

Isn’t it curious? That our collective image of fear and horror is so entwined with death itself. Our fascination with that shared shadow compels us to dress ourselves in it - to literally wear it on our bodies, and for a night, become death.

It feels important to name that — to go there and to peek around the corner and explore what this collective shadow might be pointing us toward.

So instead of writing about falling leaves and slowing down, we’re heading into the land of the unliving.

So, death.

There’s the unbendable, unsolvable truth that awaits everyone who lives: part of living is dying. It’s a hard reality — filled with uncertainty, loss, and the demand for deep meaning-making. It presses against all of us.

That same inevitability shows up again and again in life. Things that once felt alive begin to fade, and that space between dying and death can be deeply uncomfortable. In that in-between, it’s very human to twist and contort ourselves to keep something alive a little longer, telling ourselves it can still work, trying harder, holding on. In that liminal space, self-doubt grows wild. Anxiety hums. Or sometimes, we just have this quiet discomfort we can’t quite place.

It’s natural to see this process in relationships, roles, ambitions, and belief systems: all things we may have cherished at one point. And like a physical death — with the same shadow of uncertainty on the other side — knowing when to let something die is hard. It can keep us clinging long past the moment of its natural conclusion.

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In times like these, guiding images or symbols can be such good companions. Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés tells the story of La Calavera in her mini course, The Power of the Crone. This story has wrapped me in its wisdom as I’ve examined in myself the things that are asking to die.

She tells of Old Godmother Death — La Calavera — who is all bones, the most essential self she will ever be. She knows the reasons people cling, yet her wisdom lets her know when something must live, and when it’s time to let what is dying, die, and she’s not afraid. She knows that between two days, there is always a night. And after death, there is life. 

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As the story unfolds, Dr. Estés offers a loose template for the life, death, life cycle, a pattern that moves through all living things.

It begins with something new, vibrant, full of heartbeat and promise. It might be an idea, a relationship, or a calling, and with that new life, it grows roots, takes shape, and begins to live on its own. There’s energy and expansion, talk and hope and excitement about this new thing that’s emerging.

And then, inevitably, something shifts. The shine fades, and entropy arrives quietly, tilting the energy downward. What once was alive and bright begins to feel heavy or hollow. Things as they are are no longer working. We might lose interest or feel disappointed. We begin to notice, consciously or not, that it no longer fits.

This is the beginning of death: the shadowy middle. The point in this cycle where we begin to ask, is this still what I want? What drew me here, and does it still hold?

And then, if we allow for it, clarity comes. Sometimes softly, and other times as a rupture, and we start to imagine what it might be like to let go. Perhaps this relationship, this project, or this role has lived out its life. Maybe it’s time to let it die. 

And yet, the beautiful truth of the life-death cycle is that new life always waits on the other side. In the bones of what remains, there’s a spark ready to take root and take new form. A relationship as it was may die, but beneath it, something new begins to breathe. An abandoned project may stir to life again in a different shape.

So, as we enter this season where our fascination turns us toward what we fear in death, I invite you to turn inside, and to tune in:

What in you, or in your life, is asking to die?

And what stands in the way of allowing that to happen?

You might begin by asking yourself:

•  What’s weighing me down and no longer fitting who I’m becoming?

•  What once felt precious but no longer brings life and energy?

•  What am I dragging behind me, out of habit or fear, that’s beginning to decay?

• You might recognize it by a sense of heaviness, restlessness, or quiet discontent.

Consider your roles, relationships, patterns, habits, or systems of belief. Where do you feel yourself clinging?

And if you find yourself standing in that in-between space — the one between what’s ending and what’s not yet born — I want to send you care, and validation that I know that dark part of the night is uncertain and unsettling, and every path looks a little different. But there is always a night between two days, and something that is so alive is waiting for you on the other side. Trust that what awaits is good, and while it’s not the same, that’s the point. Because neither are you. 

Written by Jessica Downs