The Quiet Season

Since returning from our holiday last week, we noticed changes along the river, and several absences.

The swans, once a regular presence, have disappeared after a failed nesting attempt, and the geese, goslings, mallards, and ducklings that were once impossible to miss are now nowhere to be seen.

The bank swallows that had ducked and dived over the ponds have vanished.

Many of the birds that had filled spring with movement, song, and activity seem suddenly absent.

At first, it felt as though the riverbank had become quieter and less alive. But the longer we watched, the more we realised that wasn't quite true.

Not everything had disappeared. Reed buntings still sang from the reeds, skylarks poured song into the sky, and yellowhammers called from distant hedgerows. Yet the character of the season had unmistakably shifted.

The season hasn't ended; it has simply changed.

The frantic activity of spring has given way to something less visible, yet even more important.

The birds haven't disappeared. Many are incubating eggs, feeding chicks, or protecting nests that are hidden away from view. A pair of carrion crows reminded us of that as they repeatedly mobbed a buzzard that ventured too close to something they clearly considered worth defending.

Life continues to unfold, though not always at centre stage.

Perhaps we're not so different from the wildlife around us.

• There is a time for visible growth

• And a time for hidden growth

• A time for movement

• And a time for nurturing what comes next

There are seasons in life when progress is obvious, when we have:

• New jobs

• New relationships

• New projects

• Big decisions

• Visible change

Other people notice - 'we' notice.

Then there are quieter seasons where the work moves beneath the surface. When life asks us to nurture rather than strive.

To consolidate rather than expand. To prepare rather than perform.

• The season after burnout, when recovery looks less like progress and more like rest - like taking long walks, journalling, or simply allowing yourself to pause

• The early months of a new business, when foundations are being laid and so much is taking place behind the scenes but little is visible from the outside

• The slow rebuilding of confidence after a difficult experience

• The careful repair of trust

• Recovery from exhaustion

• The slow emergence of a new direction

• The patient work of becoming

From the outside, it can appear as though nothing is happening. Yet often the most important growth takes place during these quieter periods.

Yesterday, I was reminded of this in an unexpected way.

As we stood beside the River Ouse at low tide, a large eel suddenly emerged from the silty water. For a few seconds it rose from the murky depths, twisting near the surface before disappearing beneath once again.

We've visited that stretch of river almost daily and had never seen an eel there before.

But of course, eels haven't suddenly arrived – they have been there all along, hidden from view.

The eel’s fleeting appearance felt like a reminder that not everything important is immediately visible.

Sometimes growth is happening beneath the surface long before we can see evidence of it, and nature seems to understand this instinctively.

As I watched the eel disappear back into the river, I found myself wondering:

What in my own life am I judging too quickly?

Where am I assuming nothing is happening simply because I can’t yet see the results?

What foundations am I laying that may only become visible weeks or months from now?

Can I trust the process enough to keep going, even when progress feels hidden from view?

Perhaps those questions arose because, as a coach and a new business owner, I'm navigating some of those quieter seasons myself.

We live in a world that celebrates visible outcomes and quick results, where success is measured by what can be seen, counted, and shared.

Yet, nature seems to operate to a different timetable.

The geese and mallards have disappeared from the riverbank, but they haven't stopped raising their young.

The crows haven't abandoned their nest because a buzzard passed overhead.

And the swans, despite a failed nesting attempt, remind me that a setback is not necessarily the end of the story.

Nature rarely treats a setback as a verdict.

Life continues.

Growth continues.

Often quietly.

Often unseen.

Perhaps that is one of the things coaching can offer.

Not a way to force growth before it's ready, but a space to notice what is already changing.

To recognise progress that may otherwise go unseen.

And to trust that quiet seasons have value too.

Perhaps the challenge for us is learning not to mistake quietness for stagnation.

Not every season needs to be loud to be productive, and not every step forward needs to be visible.

Sometimes the most important work is happening where nobody else can see it.

And sometimes, if we're patient enough, we catch a brief glimpse beneath the surface and realise just how much has been happening all along.

In every quiet season, there is a hidden rhythm of growth - trust it, nurture it, and let it guide you forward.

Are you navigating a quiet, hidden or uncertain season in your life? If you'd like a supportive space to pause, reflect, notice, explore, and uncover what’s next, I’d love to invite you to a discovery conversation.