A Brilliant Red Leaf Falls From the Tree

The Autumn series mirrors my own growth—a time to honor the vibrant path behind me. This season asks me to loosen my grip—on the loss of my mother’s physical presence, on old roles—and lean into the quiet courage of letting go, one small leaf at a time. In these yarns, I’m learning to trust what my mother planted in me and to find a quiet, tender beauty in beginning my next season.

Why This Matters

Autumn is the season when we learn to live with what we’ve lost and still keep loving what remains. Caring for my mother, honoring her choices, and then learning to stand without her has reshaped how I lead, create, and show up for others.

This piece—and this story—are for anyone:

• navigating the death of a parent,

• stepping out of long‑held roles, or

• wondering who they are now, in their own late‑in‑life “Autumn.”

If my knots and words can help someone feel less alone in that in‑between space, then this season of letting go is also a season of giving back.

Embracing the Autumn

By the time one enters the autumn of their life, they have probably experienced the loss of significant loved ones. My father died 30 years ago, at the same age I am today—67. Way too soon to pass in his own autumn. So I take nothing for granted.

Life is a gift. Life with your mind clear, your memories intact, and without chronic illness is the greatest gift you can hope for. Thankfully, my mother, Shirley, was sharp as a tack when she died—and she made her own decisions about how she was going to leave this world.

My grandmother lived to just hours before her 100th birthday. I knew that was not going to happen with Shirley, but I hoped she would see 94. Even at 65 (my age at her death), I was not ready to let her go.

For decades we shopped until we dropped. I needed retail therapy. We shopped for clothes, art at estate sales, plants, antiques, décor—you name it. If there was a sale, we had to check it out. There was always time for one more shop. I wish I had the same enthusiasm for burning calories at the gym as I did shopping with Shirley.

I moved more than twenty times after college across five states. Shirley helped with most of them. That meant decorating, shopping, arranging—all our shared passions. She helped me declutter, shred files, and used every move as a chance to review my finances.

After I became a mother, she moved to Seattle to support me and my son, both physically and emotionally. She was my backup when I traveled as a consultant.

In 2018, I followed her back to Michigan to return the support and friendship she had given me. I needed to be close to her—as much for me as for her. I wanted more years of shopping, lunches, and manicures ahead of us. And just because I was almost 60 didn’t mean I didn’t need her wisdom and support through the remaining years of my career.

As I wrote in my “Sunset Series,” my final years as a leader were spent in a retirement community, working with folks my mother’s age. I worked a lot and had a 90‑minute daily commute. At 65, I decided it was time to devote my efforts to my own parents. It was a blessing that gave me the freedom to see my mother often during the last six months of her life.

Out of nowhere, two days after celebrating Thanksgiving, Shirley became ill with an obstructed bowel. She had emergency surgery, was in an induced coma for 48 hours, and spent her last two weeks in intensive care. At first, the prognosis was favorable. Then, day by day, her recovery slowed and stopped.

Eleven days into her hospital stay, I still believed there would be a recovery. Death was not on my list of options. Then a leak in her bowel was discovered. Shirley decided she would not endure another surgery. This meant eventual sepsis and death. No surgery, no options, and no timeline—just comfort care.

I was devastated. How could this be happening? Two weeks earlier, we had just participated in a puzzle tournament and celebrated Thanksgiving. Life was good. I wanted her to fight, not give up—but I realized that pushing her to fight was not honoring her autonomy and choices.

I spent the night in the hospital near her bed the evening she chose death. At 5:30 a.m. the next morning, she rallied and spent 90 minutes giving me final instructions for all of her financial accounts. This was so Shirley—the woman who practiced what she preached about women needing to establish financial independence.

Then she stopped talking. No more discussions. She retreated inside and mentally prepared to die. She listened but did not speak. I took this to mean: Shirley has spoken, she is in charge, and she is not interested in our emotional baggage about her decision.

I know she was listening and aware for the next three days. At one point, after she stopped talking, I tried to discuss a memorial service. Shirley’s hand shot up immediately and she shook her finger at me. Without a word, her message was clear: there would be no memorial service.

Shirley Jansen Peel died on the 114th anniversary of her mother’s birth, with my brother in the room. We honored her wishes. There was no memorial service. She was cremated.

The Story does not End There

Although I promised there would be no memorial service, I did memorialize her life in a 110‑page book titled SJP, filled with her memories, pictures, achievements, friendships, marriages, and artwork and essays from ten family members and friends.

In my research, I not only found my Communion dress (see Yarns About Life, “Always Be Different”), but also newspaper articles, awards, mementos, her master’s thesis, and other important artifacts of her life. So many discoveries we never spoke of. I wish I had started the book the day I retired so I could have shared these moments with her again and anew. Now these memories and life stories belong to her family and friends in a colorful retelling of her life. The book helps us revisit with Shirley and keep her close.

The SJP book helped me express deep gratitude for her love, guidance, and support—everything that helped me become the person I am in the Autumn of my life.