"You Have To Let Go"
but it's so hard...
It comes on a suddenly - a sharp, intense agony that radiates through your entire body, leaving you momentarily incapacitated, and gasping for relief. It grips you in its clutches, as your body scrambles to figure out the extent of the damage, and whether it can go on. Your eyes dart left and right, searching desperately for an escape. Your knuckles whiten as your hands curl up into fists, with nails digging into your palm, leaving behind tiny crescents, crying red tears. Your Amygdala is in overdrive -
How will I move on from this?
How will I survive?
How will they manage without me?
Moments that force us to examine who we are, how we function, and what we are holding on to can come on silently - or they can come on with the inexplicably debilitating pain of stubbing your toe. Parts of our body - our lives - that we take for granted, that we don’t necessarily think about because they just exist take on a new layer of meaning when we no longer have access to them - when they lay distorted and swollen in such a way that causes the rest of the system to suffer.
We don’t think too much about our toes - they are there, they do whatever they’re supposed to do, and sometimes we remember to make them look presentable. Yet, when even the littlest one makes aggressive contact with a wall, we feel their presence as if they are the only part of our body that matters. If we have slammed them so perfectly that they are perhaps sprained, or broken - then we realize how significant they are to our entire equilibrium. When the littlest toes aren’t functioning the way they’re supposed to - the whole foot turns on its side, the ankle rotates, the knee buckles, and the hip juts out. When the hip is out of line, our spine curves, our shoulder aches, and our brainstem is constantly ignited - trying desperately to reinstate balance into our body. We try to walk - and we buckle under the pain. We try to do our basic daily tasks - and precious time falls through our fingers as we move unbearably slower - all because of one little toe that is forcing us to change. To slow down. To let go of who we were before.
A tiny toe can sideline an entire training plan. A tiny toe can render the once über-functional, predictable, dependable you into a someone who needs help. The utter shame of it floods your brain, sending your neurons scrambling aimlessly like an egg that has been cracked into a pan that just isn’t quite hot enough. You can’t walk without dragging your foot, you’re compensating for the weakness by leaning into other muscle systems, you do everything you can to appear normal - when inside you are screaming.
Then, the fear grips you - I can’t do this anymore.
Every moment of life is choice - to get up at a certain time, to shower, to strive, to believe, to be in community - or not. If we are lucky enough to have employment, shelter, and family - we choose every day to engage with that structure in ways that can maintain it. We work, endlessly, to make sure that the choices we make don’t take any of it away. We think that our predictability will keep us - and those we love - from harm. We think that if we can just set up this one last meeting, run just one more mile, try just one more time - we will keep our control over our universe. We will keep our minds calm because the though of what could happen when we aren’t in control is crippling, maddening, terrifying.
Then, we stub our toe.
Injury. Illness. Loss. Instability. Natural Disaster. War. Act of God.
Over and over again we come upon the reality that the only guarantee in life is change. We set goals, make routines, ingrain habits - and we feel safe. In a moment, an injury can sideline a goal, an illness can obliterate routines, and loss - of a loved one, of a job, of our home - can infuse our once predictable days with doubt and chaos.
We are the doers. The bosses. The ones in control. We don’t understand people who can just - do nothing. We don’t understand meditation retreats - although we really wish we did. We love it when people notice how much we do, how quickly we bounce back, and how we seem to just move through life with immeasurable strength. Secretly (or not so) we are also tired, worn down, and sometimes - afraid. We are the children who checked the locks of the house to make sure no bad guys could get in. We are the adults that still do that - and set up locks everywhere we can, so that nothing can knock us down. again. We are the survivors. The ones who have lived with insurmountable pain, with debilitating loss, and with instability so severe that we can still feel the ground crumble beneath us when things don’t go just so.
We are afraid of what will happen if we just can’t do it. We are scared to disappear. To be forgotten, irrelevant, weak.
We are those who have survived, and those who try to inspire strength in others - and we are the ones who need the most help in learning to let go.
We think we can handle it all by sure willpower and controlling the most minute details - but we don’t realize that we are actually set up to fail. Our brain systems are created for our survival, and but that doesn’t always mean it feels good. We also create new pathways in our brains based on our behavior - so if we are used to controlled, predictable, will-power driven decisions, our brains will seek that out as comfort. The kicker is that just like the little toe is essential for the balance of our entire leg, the parts of the brain responsible for this equilibrium are also tiny. The Amygdala - our fight or flight center - is the size of an almond. The Habenula - the part of the brain that plays a crucial role in regulating emotional, motivational, and cognitive behaviors - is a tiny strip of skin the size of a pea. When these structures are active, it takes over our entire being.
Remember that time you realized you made a decision that had reverberating consequences in your life in such a way that others were impacted? That removed a little bit of the veil of perfection? That made you feel vulnerable? Can you feel again the heart palpitations? shallow breathing? clammy skin? - you can thank those tiny structures for that. They ignite and blind us with flares exploding in our eyeballs.
So how do we let go? How do we cope with major life changes - either brought upon us, or ones we make?
If you’ve made it this far in your reading, then you know that it takes several layers of letting go. When we are forced to stop and examine the way we structure of life, we start to realize the places where we’ve actually held ourselves back - out of fear. Our brains dwell on unfinished tasks, which means they get recirculated through our short term memory, and coming back - every morning, maybe even every hour. The process of letting go of a carefully curated version of who we are means letting go of goals, habits, and “certainties” that we’ve created around it. If I may go back to the stubbed toe - an injury can redefine who you are in terms of your physical body, which means temporarily letting go of goals around it. When we leave a job or relationship, letting go means dismantling habits we formed around it. Who am I if I’m not clocking in every day at 8am?
Letting go and rebuilding ourselves is a form of healing - it means making room for forgiveness, acceptance, self-compassion, and psychological flexibility. Recognizing these patterns in ourselves is challenging, as they often stem from a deep-seated desire for stability and predictability, making them seem more like necessary habits than controlling behaviors. When something destabilizing happens - our choice or not - it brings up all sorts of fears and old voices, some even from our early childhood years. If I’m not the boss, who will listen to me? Sitting with these voices, asking them why they’ve emerged, and integrating the answer into facing the fears behind them is how we let go, how we move forward. It is how we tell our young selves that we are, indeed, able to handle it now. Forgiving ourselves for mistakes we’ve made along the way - not just once a year - but at crucial moments of shifting and change. It takes changing the language we use to talk about ourselves -
Instead of: “I am predictable, in control, and strong all the time,”
Try: “I am a person who values predictability, structure, and strength”
Understanding what matters to us - and why - teaches our excitable brain structures to iterate: to create versions of ourselves that are flexible enough to try things out. The answer to despair isn’t happiness, it is actually gradual shifting of variables until we can ease into the change. This is the science behind successful addiction recovery, behind moving out of destructive patterns. Even in a big life shift, gradual acceptance is the way to let go and move forward. We cannot willpower ourselves into being okay with it, but we can shift bit by bit, taking time to reflect on what we are currently learning. We can hear the thoughts emerge, and we can slowly let in that acceptance, and eventually gratitude. For what was, for what we learned, and for who we will now be as we move forward, iterating and integrating.
Importantly also: seek out the people who see your core truth, and support you for it. You know the people who will “yes” your productivity - but this is the time to seek out those who will “you go girl” your messy process. Sometimes they are those who do both, but often - they are those special people who will be willing to look at your stubbed toe and say “that sucks, and you’ll grow from this, and still it sucks, and I love you.”
We can breathe, we can teach our Amygdala and Habenula that they do not have to freak out, that we are still okay - even if the ground is a little shaky, and our balance is a little off right now. right now - not forever.
Going through a big life shift or a moment that didn’t go as planned? Here is your gradual:
Wherever you’re sitting or standing - close your eyes and take some deep breaths. Uncross whatever body parts are currently crossed. Drop your shoulders, fill your belly. Let the breath out in long, noticeable exhales. Do this a couple of times.
Ask yourself: What am I holding on to, right now?
Notice the answers - and where in your body they emerge from.
Write it, draw it, move it around.
Tell yourself “I see this, I hear this, and I am still okay"
Say “thank you” - Let the tears come.
Repeat gradually over a few days until those thoughts feel lighter and quieter.
Remember, it only hurts right now, but it won’t hurt forever.
right now, not forever.
