E10: Lessons From Nature: What a Falling Acorn Taught Me About Change

The company I work for has started shedding branches. Our branch is being outsourced to another company — one that specialises in hospitality. And if I’m honest… it’s about time.

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There are little tidbits of stories that stick in your memory like the smell of someone’s perfume on a scarf — faint, familiar, and capable of pulling you straight back into a moment you didn’t realise mattered. This particular one happened in the autumn, a few years ago. Running errands in the city, I paused to check my phone. Not wanting to block anyone, I stepped slightly to the side of the curb that separated the pavement from the small patch of planted greenery meant to emulate nature. As I’m reading my phone, I feel a small tap on my head — something had fallen from the tree above, bouncing off me before landing on the ground. I looked around and there it was: a little acorn‑like fruit the tree had dropped from its branch.

Now, I’m not a tree expert. I don’t know much about the “algorithm” trees go by when choosing which fruit they drop earlier and which later. All I know is that eventually they drop all of them, just in time for winter. They pull nutrients back from the leaves, lighten their load, and shed anything that might rot and threaten the branch. To survive and blossom the next spring, they let go — of everything they no longer need.

I squatted down to study the little fellow. From what I could see, this particular acorn looked to be in relatively good shape, so perhaps it simply became too big and heavy to hang on any longer. And looking so full and juicy, it won’t be lying around for long. Chances are that over the next few months it will be found and eaten by wildlife that, just like the trees, is gathering energy and preparing for winter.

All in all, it’s not really such a big deal. It happens every autumn. Every leaf and every fruit eventually becomes part of the natural cycle — one way or another.

Nature follows a cycle in which each outcome feeds the ecosystem differently. Some fruit and leaves become food for animals and insects. Others decompose and return themselves to the soil they came from, giving back nutrients, feeding bacteria and earthworms, and helping the ground hold moisture to keep the ecosystem healthy and cool.

It’s one of those quiet, elegant processes that keeps everything running.

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The company I work for has started shedding branches. It comes after decades of growth and expansion — hiring, restructuring, shifting people around. Growth that only truly slowed a few years ago, when nature intervened. Yes, Covid may have been triggered by human error, but it still arrived as a warning from the natural world.

“Slow down. You’re hurting me. You’re not giving me the nutrients I need. I’m being forced to hold far too many acorns for far too long. Help me, or I’ll find another way.”

So we slowed down. We stopped leaving our houses. We stopped rushing around, chasing little metal coins and swapping them for stuff. And that’s when the shift happened.

Slowly, we realised we didn’t need to go out to do our shopping. After all, we were living in the digital age. All we needed to do was pick up a phone, tap a few buttons, and food or essentials would appear at our doorstep. No conversation required.

The shop assistant who once helped us with a smile was replaced by a bot. The civil servant who once guided us through a difficult situation was replaced by an automated call. And while the government seems perfectly content to build on this contactless philosophy, long after Covid has faded, the same cannot be said for the private sector. With fewer customers filling their shops, even the biggest giants of UK retail now find themselves in the position of a tree on the brink of autumn.

So yes — the company I work for has started shedding branches. Our branch is being outsourced to another company. A company that specializes in hospitality. And, if I’m honest, it’s about time.

Because when I lift my eyes from my phone and pay attention to the bigger picture, I can see it clearly, once again.

I am but a tiny acorn hanging on a branch of a giant tree. My branch is full of other acorns. Some are smaller than me. Some are bigger. And some are huge and juicy and long overdue. Some started rotting years ago but managed to hide it for the longest time. With so many of us in such a small space, we bump into each other at touchpoints, and the rot spreads. But nobody moves. After all, the tree is our home, our shelter. And if we let go… what becomes of us?

So we keep hanging on and enjoying the party. And the branch holds all our weight, trying not to snap. But one day, cracks appear. Squirrels that have been eyeing the big, fat acorns start jumping and landing on the branch — just a little harder. And woodpeckers start pecking — just a little harder. C’mon. It’s time.

And the tree itself? Yes, the tree. Last year, a branch on the other side broke off. Too full and too heavy, it could no longer be supported, no matter how hard the tree tried.

Now it’s our turn. Balance needs to be restored, and so we are being outsourced — the whole branch, with all its café workers — to a company that specialises in hospitality. Each of us will feed into the human ecosystem in a different way. Some will let go and join a different company. Some might retire. The smaller ones will grow and wait their turn.

As for me… I’ve matured and grown. And I’m ready to feed back into the ecosystem I came from, albeit in a different way.

So if you bump into me one day, lift your eyes from your phone and take a moment to notice what has become of me. And I’ll pass on the part of my story you’re meant to hear — the same way a fallen acorn whispers its lesson to anyone who stops long enough to look.

Because sometimes a falling acorn shows us that letting go isn’t an ending at all — it’s the first step in becoming who we’re meant to be.