Fall Back, Move Forward: The Power of Intentional Living
Updated: 6 minutes ago
Twice a year, most of us living in North America engage in a peculiar ritual. We adjust our clocks, collectively agreeing to either surrender an hour of sleep or reclaim one. In the early hours of November 1, we'll "turn back time" and congratulate ourselves for stealing an extra hour of rest.
At least, that's the plan.
When I lived in Arizona, adding another hour of evening daylight during the extreme summer heat made little sense. So, we Arizonans joined Hawaii in largely ignoring the nation's twice-yearly clock-changing ritual.
Such "rogue" behavior meant continually explaining to friends and family back East that we were three hours behind them from early spring through late fall, then just two hours the rest of the year. It never got any less confusing for my mother.
Now that I'm back in Michigan, I'll once again participate in the ritual, complete with its inevitable catch: darkness arriving an hour earlier, virtually overnight. As if October's diminishing daylight weren't enough, suddenly a 6:30 p.m. sunset becomes a 5:30 p.m. one.
And that celebrated surplus hour? It disappears into the same mysterious void where all our other spare time vanishes.
But I've been thinking about that phrase, "fall back." Perhaps it could mean something more than a seasonal clock manipulation. What if we took it as an invitation to back off the frenzied pace we've been maintaining? To take our foot off the gas long enough to consider where we're going — and why.
When motion masquerades as momentum
Somewhere along the way, we've confused being busy with making progress.
We fill our calendars, create endless to-do lists, and juggle commitments to convince ourselves we've had a productive day. Yet how often do we reach day's end exhausted, without feeling we've moved any closer to the goals or aspirations we once imagined for ourselves?
In a past blog, I revealed my own pack-it-all-in, color-coded calendar, which I considered evidence of a highly efficient and organized life.
At least it looked that way on paper.
My color blocks — boxed in by thick, black grid lines — detailed doctor appointments, project deadlines, birthdays, concerts, and assorted obligations. It resembled a Piet Mondrian painting, with everything neatly contained in its assigned space.
But after a brush or two with burnout this past year, along with some lingering health issues, I began seeing my online calendar less like a Mondrian and more like a Jackson Pollock.
Like Pollock's Convergence (1952), I felt like a lot of confused energy scattered about, with little white space or room to breathe left over.
Not only had my calendar failed to deliver the orderly life it promised, it had managed to suffocate nearly every opportunity for spontaneity.
And too many of those calendar blocks carried veiled threats: don't forget to do, pay for, pick up, or schedule.
Even the occasional balloon sticker marking a birthday looked forced, particularly when bumping up against a flu shot scheduled for the following day — and in bold, stress-inducing red.
My first solution? Schedule leisure time, of course. Using my favorite Google Calendar color — tangerine — I added blocks proclaiming FREE TIME. In all caps, naturally, to make sure they captured my attention.
However, without addressing the unrealistic schedule I'd already created for myself, that time disappeared into the same ether as the annual "fall back" hour. I was scheduling relaxation instead of making it a real priority.
And there's a difference.
When productivity comes at a price
I'm a product of my own overachieving tendencies, certainly. But I also live in a society that rewards productivity and ceaseless activity.
We're encouraged to keep moving, keep striving, keep improving.
Even leisure becomes another obligation. We schedule walks, gym visits, and opportunities to relax as though they're additional assignments to complete. I catch myself checking my wrist to see how many steps I've logged, or feeling guilty about the half-read books stacked beside my bed.
Somehow, even the things we enjoy become things we should be doing.
It's a constant pressure to produce results, to make every hour work overtime — even those illusory ones we think we've earned each autumn.
That's a long way from living intentionally, which is a phrase that's certainly entered our lexicon. But what does it actually mean?
To me, it means understanding what matters most, making our choices align with our values, and recognizing the limits of our resources — our time, money, physical energy, and emotional reserves.
Money often imposes a hard boundary on what's possible. But we tend to treat time and other resources as easier to manipulate.
Work more, sleep less. Push beyond our physical limitations and hope our health doesn't eventually present the bill.
Our values and sense of purpose are what comprise our personal North Star — that guiding light that helps illuminate our way forward — and to pursue what we hold most dear. To be our best selves and live our best lives.
And this brings me to an important distinction between motion and momentum.
Motion is movement, but not necessarily in a direction we want to go. Momentum — at least how I've come to understand it as a coach, and why I named my company accordingly — is movement with purpose.
We can expend extraordinary energy going nowhere fast, like a hamster dutifully running its wheel with no destination in sight.
Sometimes the most productive thing we can do is stop long enough to recognize that we're on that wheel in the first place.
Autumn has its own wisdom
Last year, I wrote about the autumn equinox and the season's invitation to pause and reflect. I was struck then, as I am now, by the quiet wisdom of nature.
Trees don't resist the changing season. They don't cling desperately to their leaves, worrying that letting go might somehow diminish their worth. Nor do they apologize for their apparent inactivity during winter.
They simply adjust.
What appears to be a period of decline is actually a remarkable process of preparation. As daylight diminishes and temperatures fall, trees conserve resources, protect what matters, and prepare for the growth that will eventually follow.
There's something reassuring about that. Nature doesn't expect perpetual summer. Why do we expect perpetual productivity from ourselves?
Of course, we can't retreat into dormancy until spring. Families, jobs, and responsibilities don't conveniently disappear with the falling leaves. But perhaps we can borrow a little of nature's wisdom and reconsider how we distribute our limited resources.
What most deserves our attention? What in our daily routines has outlived its usefulness? And what might we finally be ready to release?
Perhaps autumn's changing landscape can inspire us to reset our internal rhythms as well — to question our blind faith in productivity as evidence of progress.
Like the trees outside our windows, we might shed a few of our old leaves, making room for whatever comes next.
Giving ourselves permission to slow down
For many of us, slowing down is surprisingly difficult.
We've become so accustomed to responding, reacting, solving, and accomplishing. Unstructured time can feel quite unsettling. We learn to equate busyness with usefulness, achievement with self-worth, and rest with something we must first earn.
Remember those tangerine FREE TIME blocks on my calendar? Because I hadn't really given myself permission to protect that time, it was the first thing I surrendered whenever another commitment demanded my attention.
Yet, rest and restoration are as important to my long-term well-being as the annual physical I wouldn't dream of skipping.
When we're stressed or overwhelmed, it's especially easy to revert to familiar habits, even those that leave us depleted. We fall back into patterns that keep us busy — but also stuck.
So perhaps the arrival of shorter days offers an opportunity to experiment with something different. Not another ambitious wellness regimen or an elaborate list of self-improvement assignments. but more room to just breathe.
Or to take a walk without counting steps. Read a book without worrying how many chapters remain. Listen to music, spend time with someone we love, or simply enjoy an hour without an agenda.
And if that extra hour on November 1 becomes an opportunity to catch up on sleep, so much the better.
The point isn't how we spend every minute. It's recognizing that we have some say in how we spend our lives.
Fall back to move forward
For the clients I work with who are navigating burnout, major life transitions, or that nagging sense that something needs to change, the seasons may seem irrelevant to their immediate concerns.
But autumn offers a timely reminder that progress doesn't always require acceleration. Sometimes it begins with taking time for reflection.
As the year winds down, we're inclined to focus on what remains undone: the unfinished projects, abandoned resolutions, and goals we haven't yet reached.
We've been living in our new place since April and the upstairs hall is still partially painted. It looks especially stark since we're going from charcoal gray to white. Instead of tensing up each time I see it — like the old me would have, I'm trying something new: I wave hello and promise to get to it someday. Just not today.
What if we considered what we've learned so far this year? What has energized us versus what has depleted us? Which commitments still reflect our priorities, and which have become obligations we maintain out of habit or guilt?
Perhaps, most importantly, what if we if we aim to move toward something meaningful rather than simply keep ourselves in motion?
And we don't need to answer these questions all at once. Nor should reflection become another item on our already overcrowded to-do lists.
Sometimes clarity emerges only when we stop demanding immediate answers. When we slow down and sit in stillness, even if only for a sparse 60 minutes this November 1.
Consider this year's clock shenanigans something far more valuable than just a surplus hour.
Let's embrace it as a time to think. To give ourselves permission to slow down — at least long enough to reconsider where we're headed. Moving forward isn't about picking up the pace. It's about making sure we're navigating toward an intentional destination — one with purpose and momentum.
At Momentum Life Coaching, I work with people navigating life's transitions, challenging old patterns, and rediscovering what gives their lives purpose and direction. Sometimes the first step toward meaningful change is simply creating the space to consider what's possible. If you need help with anything that was shared in this blog, book a Discovery Call below. I'm here to listen and help you map your path forward.
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