The Summer's Rhythm

When I was a child, summer meant lots of books, lots of nature, lots of kittens to rescue, grandparents' Saturdays, and forest strawberries. And the sea. It was the time for all my favorite things.

Growing up, becoming a parent and a self-provider, life transcribed into following the expected train of things: autumn, winter, and spring—work, work, work; summer—get it all, preferably with a long-haul trip or at the very least a homeland visit.

This June, our flights to a favorite spot in Spain got cancelled. "Shame," I thought, as the word wandered through the rooms of my mind for about three minutes. Then came the sigh... with a secret YES!.

Luckily, one of my favorite travel partners—who was supposed to come with me—was just as happy. For the first time, he could enjoy summer like an ordinary town kid: ice cream, bikes, skateboard, long evenings, computer. And repeat.

What happened? What was this weird satisfaction from a failed trip?

Did the Body Know Better Than the Mind

Was that secret "YES!" in fact my body overriding years of cultural conditioning? We've been trained to think of summer as a time for vacation, and vacation – a recovery time. A little as if we're machines that need scheduled maintenance. But what if this framework is fundamentally flawed? What if the need for recovery already signals that we've gone too far?

Did it actually happen that "someone" (the higher power?) knew better what I needed? Was it time to shake off the habits and expectations - my own and others' of what summer SHOULD be about? Or was it a quiet call from the ancestral memory – echoes, hidden in my genes, of a time when summer was for working and winter for slowing down? Or something else entirely?

Finding The Art of Listening

In my practice, I see people who come from a different background, but with uniting reason -  often the ability to tune into their own rhythms has been forgotten. They've followed the cultural script so completely—work hard, then recover—that they no longer know what their body communicates. The external schedule has become so loud that their internal wisdom has been silenced. I’ve been that kind of person too.

This disconnection isn't just about vacation timing. It's about a fundamental split between what we think we should need and what we actually need. The "autumn, winter, spring—work, work, work; summer—get it all" pattern trains us to ignore our body's signals in favor of ours and others’ expectations.

I've often thought—and said—that it's a pity to leave Finland in summer. It's one of the best times of the year here, with all the light, the green, the lushness in the garden. What I had to happily admit, however, was that I love working in summer.

I love the long days—when you leave the office and still have so many hours of light ahead (in our case, light all through the night). People (clients too) are somehow lighter minded, more open, more reachable. It's as if the brightness of the season brings a breeze into the communication (with self and others), ventilates those long-standing closed doors of thought patterns and shaped beliefs, and gently questions them.

The Therapeutic Rhythm of Light

I’ve been thinking, that there might be something profound happening here that goes beyond personal preference. In summer, I notice that the talks (with friends and with clients too) about challenging experiences are still deep, but light-blue deep. The extended daylight seems to create a natural expansion—not just of time, but of psychological space. Could it be really possible, that people are more willing to explore, to question long-held beliefs, to step outside their usual patterns? Is there more space for that?

If so, it actually aligns with what we know about seasonal rhythms and their impact on mood and cognition. But more than that, it suggests that fighting against our natural rhythms—whether by forcing ourselves to rest when we're energized or work when we're depleted—may actually contribute to the very burnout we're trying to prevent.

Redefining Recovery

This summer will be different, because I've decided to embrace a different relationship with work. Long weekends and short workdays. No travels (possibly excluding the wheeled ones - Lapland is almost a must, obviously). Lots of books (that's not new, but the place to read them is). Crafts (not just planning, but actually doing them). Eat a salad without worrying about complicated meals. Learn a few more mushrooms to pick, birds to spot. Do some late-night fishing and listen to a concert—at the lake shore or deep in the woods. And all of that after a day at work. Living the light and the weather, just as it comes.

The Professional Is Personal

As someone who works with the consequences from burnout more than with prevention (unfortunately), I'm convinced, that exploring this kind of body awareness might be as important as any technique I could suggest to my clients trying. When we try to notice what it looks like to trust our own rhythms—even when they go against cultural expectations—we give ourselves permission to have a chance at letting our bodies lead the way.

The ancestral memory I mentioned earlier isn't just poetic metaphor. Our bodies carry the wisdom of generations who lived in closer alignment with natural cycles. Before electric light and global industrialism, summer was indeed a time of extended activity, while winter called for rest and reflection. Maybe that cancelled flight wasn't a disruption of my plans, but a return to something deeper.

Listening Forward

I’m more than aware, that the challenge isn't just individual—it's cultural, societal, economical and more. We've created systems that demand consistent output regardless of season, mood, or natural rhythm. But perhaps the path forward isn't to accept this as inevitable. Perhaps it's to model another way, one person and one summer at a time. Naïve? May be, but giving it a try anyways.

This summer, I'm conducting an experiment: What happens when we trust the body's wisdom over the calendar's demands? I’m guessing, that the secret "YES!" that emerged from my cancelled vacation trip wasn't just about this summer—it was about a different way of being. A way that honors both the work I love and the body that makes it possible. A way that understands that sometimes the most radical act is simply to not act, but listen.