real ease: on letting go & equanimity
the truth is, i am scared of letting go. i also know that i love my freedom more than the comfort of my familiar fears.
People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.
â Thich Nhat Hanh
surface-levelÂ
I wish there was a playbook on âhow to let goâ. One that showed me the x number of steps I needed to take, how long, and when I would know that my healing process was complete. Perhaps this would make grief more approachable, maybe even palatable. I am yet to find this playbook.Â
I started this newsletter in a season of pain that I cannot begin to sufficiently describe. I watched myselfâfor monthsâlosing myself. The version of me I had become accustomed to was withering before my eyes and I did not understand what was happening. The things, people and places that once offered me comfort and a sense of security fell away, morphed or distanced themselves from me.Â
No one prepared me for the kind of grief that visits when you no longer recognize who you are and when all the versions of âwho you think you areâ no longer fit.Â
This was the type of grief where I did not know how to ask for help because I did not know what I needed plus, I did not have the language for what I was experiencing. All I knew was that I was breaking apart, breaking open, and breaking away. The unknowns were too deep and vast to come to terms with. Perhaps the closest feeling I can offer as an example is the dread that comes upon you when you wake in the middle of the night and realize that you cannot move your body. Sleep terrorsâbut awake.Â
More than the end of opportunities and relationships, the greatest pain was losing the story of the 'âmeâ I had become attached to. The greatest loss, which in hindsight was also the greatest gift, was losing the identity/version of me that I had played/performed for so long.Â
unearthedÂ
I recall quite vividly one summer afternoon when I came face to face with the feeling of âutter purposelessnessâ. Not hopelessness. Just absolute meaningless-ness. The kind of feeling that snatches any sense of care for life (my own and others). I remember that afternoon when I was curled up on the floor, in tears, and all I could say was âI do not know what to do with my life. I have no purpose.â I cried for so long, until I dried up.Â
To this day, when I remember how isolating, cold, and heartbreaking that moment was, I pause and extend so much compassion and tenderness to that version of me. That version of me still chose to live, even though at the time, she could not identify her place in life.
That version of me chose to live. She chose to stay alive.
She is here; she is stronger, feeling safer in herself, and more secure. She still experiences grief and questions her purpose now and then, but she is committed to her healing and is disciplined about engaging with life. Above all, she has developed a language and renewed relationship with release, detachment, letting go and surrender. And perhaps, through this piece, as she offers you glimpses into her journey, you can touch into your life now and ask:
What/who in my life is asking to be released or needs to be released?
What/who benefits when I refuse to let go?
What breaks/fractures/shatters when I keep forcing myself to hold on?
What experienceâeven if it breaks my heartâwill also allow my heart to break open?
How can I begin to cultivate and practice rituals of grief, alone and in community?
subterranean
It took me years to finally uncover the layer of grief that had been sitting snuggly underneath the topsoil of anger and rage. Often, the most accessible emotion for me was anger. For many years, I had a very fast and flowing relationship with my temper, and that meant I could go hot or cold in a flash. It felt protective, and yet, I feared facing the impacts of my behaviour after âacting outâ. I could tell when the pot within was about to boil over, but I did not know how to stop it. Sometimes, I felt justified in letting the hot steam out of my mouth and piercing people with my words.Â
This went on until the moment when the anger I had carried for so long made me fear myself. Have you ever been thereâat the point of extreme emotion such that you feared what you were capable of doing (to yourself and those around you)?
When I came to terms with this reality of inward-directed fear, it shattered me. I could no longer lie to myself about how âvalidâ and âjustifiedâ my behaviours and thoughts were. I knew that I was hurting more than I could admit and I needed to find healthy reprieve. I needed to let this volcano erupt in a contained environment.Â
This has been years of work. Over the past three years specifically, I have broken down and broken apart in ways I did not know were possible. I have touched the core of the grief that was masked as anger, and parts of me have died along the way. I have been obliterated by heartache, and have had days and nights where I legitimately did not believe that I could bear the burden of such raw feelings any longer. Counting minutes and seconds through the pain is sometimes the only medicine that worked.Â
For every layer of grief that I continue to find beneath the anger, I say âthank youâ.
I also ask it âWhat are you here to teach me?âÂ
Yesterday morning, above the grief was an ice sheet of jealousy. And above the jealousy was a wave of defeat. Yet, below grief was also an almost imperceptible sliver of hope. And running all through these layers of emotion was a promise of freedom. It was just another morning which offered me a gentle reminder that emotions are non-linear, textured, and tangled.Â
On days like this, sometimes, it is one deep breath that helps me trace the throughline connecting my emotions, thoughts and behaviours. It sounds simple, but it is not easy.Â
So, here I am. Writing while grieving. Angry and somehow hopeful. In awe of the journey past, present, and to come but also navigating anxiety. Curious about what I do not yet know.
I live in the complexity and nuance. I want to run away from it sometimes and build my dwellings in the binaries of this world. The âeither/orâ story plays tricks on me. But the more I consider moving through life as a dichotomy, the less I desire that approach. As much as I want something as sure as A or B, I want my freedom more.
I am committed to my liberation more than the temporary pleasure of instant relief.
And at this time, freedom is asking me toâone by oneârelease my grip on resentment, jealousy, anger, and grief. Not to turn away from these difficult emotions, nor to pretend that they do not exist. Rather, freedom is asking me to face each of them; to observe how strongly I have wrapped my fist around each of them; to slowly undo one finger at a time; and, to ask of each layer of emotion, âWhat are you here to show me? What do I need to know?â
It is in letting go that we begin to see facets of us we had missed before. We find new ways of looking at the same old thing. We notice how tired our bones are from carrying a load invisible to everyone else but us. We begin to create space for a different possibility and allow for something else to colour our lenses.Â
Beloved, do you know what it is you are so strongly gripping onto?Â
Will you allow yourself to take note of how fatigued you are from clutching so tightly?
How long will you keep holding your breath?Â
When will you realize that letting go is not a failure?Â
bedrock//foundation
I spent 10+ hours in class this past weekend and my teacher reminded us of how we can easily manifest the thing we think we want only for it to turn to dust in our hands. One of my favourite poets, Billy Chapata, says it so well:Â
(the universe has a great sense of humour)
sometimes the universe will let you manifest what you want,Â
just to show you that you deserve better.Â
This is why, as I wrap up this year and transition into another, one of the core practices I am heavily investing in is equanimity. Alongside all other practices I have been honing, I want to structure within myself the templates of stillness in the midst of it allâpeace in the eye of the storm (present with the chaos but not swept by it).Â
This is not indifference nor bypassing.Â
Equanimity calls for active and ongoing presence and engagement with the elements of life. It is not âlove, light and crystalsâ. This is showing up for the messy, tragic, chaotic gunk and also being with the possibility of a balanced and centred response. It is the space that bridges; it is the âboth/andâ.Â
I invite you to imagine the possibility of spaciousness you could create by unclinging yourself from certainty. I invite you to consider the gifts that might emerge from choosing to release.
Do you have room in your basket to contain the gifts of your incoming harvest, or will you insist on picking up and carrying everything that lies on your path to freedom?Â
As we mark the transition into a new season and year, I hope that you are supported to navigate the âmessy middleâ. I hope the liminal has breathing room for you. I hope you can face yourself every dayâwhether you are proud of your actions and decisions or notâand extend yourself the grace to keep showing up for the version of you that you are aspiring towards.Â
I also hope that you know that you will probably need to grieve this current version of yourself and that it might mean that your surroundings, habits, and relationships evolve. I am holding a flame to your path to remind you that your choice to let go, one day at a time, is how you will create space and structure to receive more of what you need.Â
Beloved, thisâgreat, good, bad and terrifyingâwill pass.Â
Equanimity is a balanced mind that remains tranquil and steady no matter what we encounter. It is not apathetic indifference that builds walls to protect us from pain. Equanimity allows our spiritual practice to stay on track, without being buffeted around by excitement or intense emotions. Clinging to nothing, equanimity gives space to appreciate everything.
â14th Dalai Lama, Gyalwa Rinpoche
âI said: what about my eyes?
God said: Keep them on the road.
I said: What about my passion?
He said: Keep it burning.
I said: What about my heart?
He said: Tell me what you hold inside it?
I said: Pain and sorrow.
He said: Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.â
â Rumi