Autumn: a season of coming home
Autumn has always been a season of quiet truth for me.
A season that asks us not to push harder, but to soften.
Not to add more, but to release.
For months, a book travelled with me everywhere, in and out of hospital rooms, beside my bed, tucked into a weekend bag. Art to Stillness.
I carried it faithfully, yet couldn’t quite open myself to it. Not because I didn’t want to, but because stillness can feel impossible when you are a parent and caregiver, always anticipating the next need, the next appointment, the next advocacy conversation.
That changed on a long-awaited journey with my 18-year-old daughter.
From my hometown in Devon, UK, standing in the wild wind beside my grandfather’s memorial bench on the sixth tee at Westward Ho!, to the crisp blue skies of Edinburgh, where something ancient and familiar settled into my skin. Across the channel to Paris, where history, colour and spirit felt alive in every stone. And finally, back to London, where the moment my feet touched the pavement, a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding released itself.
It felt like home.
Abrupt. Reassuring.
Like a warm autumn embrace.
With it came gratitude. And grief.
Joy and sadness sitting side by side.
As parents of children with additional needs, we live here often, holding pride and love alongside exhaustion, fear, and a quiet ache that few people truly see. We give endlessly, not because we are asked to, but because our children require us to. Because systems are fragmented. Because advocacy never really stops.
There was a moment on this trip when I recognised just how much of myself I’ve given, not from ego or obligation, but from reverence. From a deep calling to improve the lives of others. This calling was born the day my daughter Ruby entered my world, and it has shaped every choice since.
But the cost of carrying this space, or my child, my family, and so many others, is indescribable.
To wake each day thinking of what support is needed, what forms must be filled, what battles must be fought, and how to create a future that feels safe, and then to arrive at a place of surrender, hurts more than I expected. Letting go, even slightly, can feel like failing. Like stepping back when your child still needs you to stand so firmly.
And this isn’t just about work.
This is about my daughter Ruby, the heart of my mission.
It’s about siblings who adapt without complaint.
It’s about partners who hold the fort in quiet ways.
It’s about families who make sacrifices that go unseen and unacknowledged.
Autumn teaches us something vital here.
It is a season of dying and rising. Of harvest, gratitude, and release. Leaves don’t fall because they’ve failed, they fall because their work is done. In their letting go, they nourish what comes next.
In Paris, standing inside Notre Dame, surrounded by light and colour, I felt something close to heaven. I learned how the new pillars were rebuilt, not by pushing upwards from the ground, but by redistributing weight. Strength was taken from shoulders and placed higher, allowing the structure to rise again.
That image stayed with me.
Because parents and caregivers carry so much on their shoulders, vigilance, responsibility, fear, hope. Perhaps this season is asking us to redistribute the weight. To stop carrying everything alone. To allow support, rest, and moments of stillness without guilt.
This journey brought spiritual encounters I hadn’t expected, shared deeply with my daughter. Moments that felt like meeting my own 18-year-old self. Moments of going inward. Of facing what has quietly been shrinking me, the sacrificial patterns so many of us carry as parents and carers.
Putting everyone else before ourselves.
Longing to be protected. To be held.
What surprised me most was the realisation that the safety we search for often begins within. Not in a “woo woo” way, but in the simplest of truths: if we are constantly depleted, we cannot sustain the care our children need.
Autumn invites us to pause.
To ask not only What does my child need from me?
But also What do I need to remain whole?
As I walked beside my daughter, noticing the burnt-orange shimmer of leaves underfoot, I understood this is my season of renewal. A return to self. To presence. To family. To remembering that my worth is not measured by how much I carry.
Of course, I will always be a mum. A carer. An advocate.
But I am also a human being, allowed to rest, to grieve, to breathe.
Life becomes complicated not only because of our children’s needs, but because of the expectations we place on ourselves to never falter, never pause, never ask for help.
Autumn gently reminds us that letting go is not abandonment.
It is love, continuing in a more sustainable way.
About Bec: Rebecca (Bec) Glover is a mum, carer, and lifelong advocate for children with disabilities and their families. Her journey began through raising her daughter with profound and complex needs, giving her an intimate understanding of the daily realities, emotional load, and systemic barriers families face.
Drawing on this lived experience, Bec founded Ruby & Ollie’s All Abilities Childcare and later The Inclusion Network to create practical, compassionate solutions where mainstream systems fall short.
Bec now works alongside families, educators, and organisations to advocate for better systems, stronger support, and a future where every child, regardless of their needs, has the opportunity to be seen, supported, and included. Learn more at theinclusionnetwork.com.au
