The Strength of Softness
What Autumn, Grief, and the Earth Reveal About Quiet Resilience
The air changes before the leaves do.
Autumn begins not with a crash, but a hush.
Today, on September 11—a National Day of Remembrance—I find myself turning to the quiet strength of the Earth to make sense of what cannot be made sense of. Some memories come loud. Others whisper. But both deserve attention.
I lived in New York City at the time of the 9/11 attacks. I breathed the toxic smoke for two weeks while the remains of the Twin Towers burned. Shortly before the event, I even worked in them for a time.
This reflection is deeply personal for me—one that is difficult to write.
This morning, I watched light filter through a tree just beginning to change. The breeze moved softly across the branches, not seeking notice, but offering presence. That’s how grief works, too—it often arrives when we least expect it, carried by memory, by a scent, by the turning of the season.
We live in a culture that rewards hardness. Push through. Toughen up. Stay strong. Especially on days like this—days when we carry the memory of loss—there’s a quiet pressure to hold it all together.
But the Earth shows us something different.
The trees let go when it’s time. The leaves don’t grip tighter. They release in beauty.
Softness doesn’t mean collapse. Softness means trust—trust in the cycle, the turn, the falling that makes room for newness.
A Walk With Grief
I remember walking a long and arduous stretch of the Camino de Santiago in June. The trail curved through quiet farmland. I was alone, my feet sore, my pack heavy, my thoughts louder than I wanted them to be. I remembered other difficult periods in my life, and rather than hope to forget them or chase them away, I walked with them.
They are a part of me, and I am a part of the Camino. As I gradually picked up and placed down small stones—a visible sign of my being there—suffering and the effort to release it became part of the process.
Two nights later, I spoke with a fellow pilgrim easily twenty years my senior, nearly 700 miles into his multi-month walk. He shared that he was walking in honor of his daughter,Too often, we confuse resilience with resistance—as if the strongest among us are those who never bend, never cry, never pause. But the Earth never taught us that. Trees do not resist the wind by stiffening. They survive storms because they sway.
I’ve come to see that resilience—the kind I trust—is not about powering through. It’s about staying rooted when everything else is moving. It’s about knowing when to rest, when to release, and when to reach again toward light.
On the Camino, I used to think strength meant pushing through blisters and fatigue without complaint. Now I understand that real strength is found in the decision to stop and care for your feet. Or to ask for help. Or to sit beside a fellow pilgrim and say nothing at all, except, “Let’s walk together a little while.” who had died over a decade ago. He choked up as he spoke, naming a weight he had carried with him ever since.
After that, we did not speak much. Holding space for silence was the most powerful comfort either of us could offer.
That silence taught me something sacred: presence is often more healing than performance. I didn’t need to say anything wise. I just needed to be there.
Softness Isn’t Weakness
It is being present without needing to fix. It is listening without rushing to respond. It is giving the body rest. It is letting the heart open—even on a day that hurts.
The Earth models this beautifully. After storms, moss returns. After fire, green shoots emerge. Grief is real. But it does not have to harden us.
There is space to remember. There is space to feel. There is space to soften.
On This Day of Remembrance
Service becomes a way to soften what hurts.
Kindness offered quietly. A candle lit. A hand extended. A neighbor remembered. These aren’t small things. They’re sacred.
To serve is not always to do big things. It is to respond from a soft place—one that still hopes, still remembers, still opens.
Let this day shape you—not by what it demands, but by how it invites.
Resilience Isn’t Resistance
Too often, we confuse resilience with resistance—as if the strongest among us are those who never bend, never cry, never pause. But the Earth never taught us that. Trees do not resist the wind by stiffening their branches. They survive storms because they sway.
I’ve come to see that resilience, the kind I trust, is not about powering through. It’s about staying rooted when everything else is moving. It’s about knowing when to rest, when to release, and when to reach again toward light.
On the Camino, I used to think strength meant pushing through blisters and fatigue without complaint. Now I understand that real strength is found in the decision to stop and care for your feet. Or to ask for help. Or to sit beside a fellow pilgrim and say nothing at all, except, “Let’s walk together a little while.”
Grief, Service, and Sacred Attention
The longer I walk—both in pilgrimage and in life—the more I see how grief reshapes the landscape of the heart. It makes us tender. If we allow it, that tenderness can make us more available to others.
Grief is not something to hide from. It’s a teacher.
In moments of collective remembrance, like 9/11, we’re reminded how much we long to belong to one another. Sometimes the smallest acts—holding a door, checking in on a neighbor, walking slowly beside someone in pain—become gestures of healing far beyond what we know.
This is where service begins: not from obligation, but from sacred attention.
To serve is to notice—who is hurting, what is needed, and where love wants to go.
Service doesn’t need to be grand to be sacred. It only needs to be true.
Not the End, Just the Next Step
Autumn reminds me that strength and softness aren’t opposites. They’re companions.
Every falling leaf is an act of courage. Every tender word is a seed of healing. Every quiet step on the path is a way through the wilderness.
You don’t need to harden to be resilient. You don’t need to hide to be brave.
Stay soft. That’s how the light gets in.
Something to Walk With This Week
Is there something you’ve been holding tightly that you might now release gently?
Could service—or remembrance—be a way of softening today?
What would it look like to meet this week with tenderness instead of tension?
As always, I’d love to hear what this opens for you. I read and respond to every note. 🌿
A Gentle Invitation
Whether with a friend walking through grief, a fellow pilgrim on their own path, or someone learning to soften in a complex world, your voice helps our community grow.
If you’d like to keep walking with me, subscribe for weekly reflections on pilgrimage, presence, and living in kinship with the Earth.
Every step forward is sacred. Let’s keep walking together.
You are right about this post's timing, Jeffrey. This is very meaningful today. Thank you, my friend' for these words.