People who go out of their way to step on crunchy leaves often display these 12 unique traits, according to psychology

Confession: I’m one of those people who veers off the sidewalk in October just to find the crispiest leaf.

Not because I’m trying to be cute. Because the sound—the tiny crk underfoot—feels like a micro-celebration I can create on demand.

Over time, I’ve noticed a pattern. The folks who light up at that same sound tend to share certain traits. It isn’t about being childish. It’s about how you engage with the world—what you notice, what you savor, what you choose to do with two seconds of your day.

Here’s what that simple, crunchy detour often says about you.

1. Playfulness

Crunching leaves is low-stakes play for grownups. No score, no app, no audience—just a tiny game you invent and win by participating.

In psychology, adult playfulness isn’t immaturity; it’s a flexible way of reframing everyday moments so they feel interesting or fun.

People high in playfulness reliably report more positive emotions and life satisfaction. That little step isn’t random; it’s a micro-dose of levity on purpose. 

2. Curiosity

Leaf-crunchers tend to be the “What happens if…?” crowd. You notice a patch of amber and wonder about the sound, the texture, how different leaves respond. Curiosity nudges you to test your hunch instead of walking past it.

As psychologist Todd Kashdan has argued, curiosity fuels richer interactions and more engaged living—it pulls you toward small experiments that make ordinary days feel alive.

3. Openness to experience

If you seek out novel, sensory moments (even tiny ones), you’re probably scoring higher on openness—the Big Five trait tied to trying new things, enjoying aesthetics, and tolerating the unfamiliar.

You don’t need a museum ticket to express openness; sometimes it’s a half-step into a pile of gold and rust because you’re chasing a sound you like.

That impulse says, “I’m available to small bouts of wonder.” 

4. Savoring

There’s a name for the skill of stretching good moments: savoring. It’s the capacity to attend to and enhance positive experiences so they leave a bigger imprint.

People who savor aren’t luckier; they’re more deliberate.

Pausing your podcast to angle your foot just right? That’s savoring disguised as a stroll. It’s a micro-ritual that trains your attention toward everyday delight, which in turn supports well-being. 

5. Attention that restores

Nature doesn’t shout; it invites. The Kaplans called this “soft fascination”—gentle, absorbing features of natural settings that rest your directed attention and help you mentally recharge.

The crunch is part sound, part sight, part memory of fall air and schoolyards. That two-second detour is a tiny attention reset in a day full of screens and deadlines. It’s not a hike in Yosemite, but your brain recognizes it as a nudge toward restoration. 

6. Sensory awareness

If you aim for the crisp leaf and avoid the soggy ones, you’re running a quick sensory scan: color, structure, dryness, density. That’s attunement. People who enjoy crunchy-leaf season often have a broader appreciation for tactile and auditory details—wooden spoons on cast iron, gravel under bike tires, the first crackle of a fresh baguette. You’re not just in the scene; you’re tuned to its texture.

7. Comfort with small joys

A lot of us were trained to chase big wins and dismiss small pleasures as “silly.” Crunch-seekers opt out of that. You’re okay with happiness that doesn’t need justification. That comfort matters because tiny joys are abundant and under your control. If you can collect five seconds of delight on a sidewalk, you can gather enough of them to shift the color of a whole day.

8. Low self-consciousness (when it counts)

There’s a social risk—however tiny—in aiming your step at a leaf. Someone might notice. Someone might judge. Doing it anyway is a quiet expression of “I choose experience over impression.” You don’t need to perform your joy for anyone; you just allow it. That’s confidence in a small, humane form.

9. Micro-rituals that anchor mood

Leaf-crunching looks spontaneous, but many people make it a seasonal ritual. Rituals—even tiny personal ones—anchor mood because they add predictability and meaning.

They say, “When I do this, I feel a little better.” You don’t need incense and chanting. You need a repeatable cue and a response that nudges your day half a degree toward good.

Research on rituals shows they reliably regulate emotions, steady performance under stress, and strengthen social connection, which is exactly why these micro-acts feel calming even when they’re simple. 

10. Present-tense attention

To land the crunch, you have to notice where your foot is now, not where your mind wants to wander. That’s a miniature act of mindfulness. Present-tense attention isn’t just for meditation cushions; it lives in these micro-choices. The more you practice it, the less your day blurs into background noise.

11. A bias for participation over observation

Plenty of people enjoy fall colors from a distance. Crunch-seekers want to be in the moment, not just around it. You’re wired to interact—with the season, with the soundscape, with your own sense of play. That bias tends to spill into other places: you stir the sauce, you request the song, you ask the question in the Q&A.

12. A resilient style of joy

Stepping on a leaf won’t fix your life. But it’s a proof of concept: even inside stress, you can manufacture a second of genuine delight with what’s already available.

People who practice that kind of joy tend to be better at bouncing back. You’re not pretending things are perfect; you’re reminding yourself they’re still textured, still capable of offering you something real.

This lines up with the broaden-and-build theory of positive emotions—micro positive moments broaden attention and action in the short term and build social, cognitive, and physical resources over time, fueling resilience.

A quick story that made this click for me

Last November, I took a walk with my friend Maya after a long writing day. My brain felt like a buffering wheel. She was telling a story about her dad—funny, tender, a little sad—and mid-sentence she veered off the path to stomp a single, ridiculous maple leaf. It popped like a tiny cymbal. She laughed, kept walking, and finished her sentence without missing a beat.

I watched the tension fall off her shoulders. We both started scanning the ground, making minor course corrections, sharing the good ones out loud: “Left!” “Two o’clock!” We weren’t chasing childhood. We were co-creating a soundtrack for a gray afternoon. Twenty minutes later I felt more human than I had all day. No big talk, no productivity—just a handful of crunchy notes and the feeling that the world still had pockets of generosity if we bothered to look.

That’s when I started paying attention to who does this and why. It’s not immaturity. It’s an applied philosophy: notice, participate, repeat.

How to lean into it (without becoming “that person” on the sidewalk)

• Give yourself permission. You are allowed to enjoy simple sensory things in public.

• Stay situationally aware. Don’t dart in front of strollers or block the whole path to harvest one perfect crunch.

• Make it a ritual. Two good crunches on the way to work. One on the way home. That’s enough.

• Share the moment lightly. Point out a crisp patch to your walking buddy; let them decide whether to play.

• Let it be small. If you treat every tiny joy like a performance, it stops being joy and starts being content.

The deeper point

We live in a culture that apologizes for delight unless it’s expensive or “productive.” Crunching a leaf is a rebellion against that. You’re announcing—mostly to yourself—that you’re still available to the world as it is, not just the version filtered through screens and to-do lists.

From a psych perspective, that one step captures a cluster of strengths: playful reframing, curious engagement, open-minded sensing, restorative attention, and the practiced art of savoring. Those strengths are trainable. You can build them with pocket-sized acts that take less time than a yawn.

This autumn, let your shoes write a little music. Call it silly if you want. Then notice how your shoulders drop, how your eyes sharpen, how the loop in your head loosens by one notch. That’s not nothing. That’s a nervous system remembering it has options.

Crunch wisely.