The art of letting go has proven the most challenging part of my existence over the last two years. Mostly because my need to let go wasn’t because of circumstances that were bestowed upon me, but because of decisions I made for myself, forcing me to continuously dance with small deaths of my own self and identity.
My personal search for truth began with a massive leap. Its depth required me to completely restructure how I oriented my thoughts around where to live, how to live, and how to support myself while in pursuit of said “truth.”
It seems that each jump gives birth to another. Bit by bit, I jump a little, let go a little, jump a little, let go a little. And then, standing at the bottom of these metaphorical cliffs, I’m forced to let go of what I intentionally jumped away from.
While I’d like to announce I’ve successfully made it into the depths of where I know I’m supposed to go with a clean break from everything I left behind, that has not been the case.
Each initiation — each jump — has profoundly changed how I think and want to exist in this world. And while I feel good and grounded and like myself after each jump, I can’t help but also feel a little bit of FOMO as I watch people I love blissfully dancing back in the places I chose to leave.
