The Equation of Letting Go: A Hard Truth I Needed to Hear
Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: the lie I told myself for decades about letting go. I used to believe it was a simple act—like releasing a balloon into the wind. You just stop holding on, and the weight vanishes. The philosophers called this "non-attachment," and I taught it as a quiet grace, a gift to the soul.
Then came the shattering. My wife, Eleanor, was gone. Not a balloon, but a living, breathing presence I’d held onto with every fiber of my being. I’d tried to "let go" by avoiding her empty chair, by pretending the silence wasn’t a scream. But the grief didn’t lift. It only grew heavier, because I’d been clinging to the idea of her, not the reality of her absence. Letting go wasn’t about releasing her; it was about releasing my own desperate grip on the idea of what I’d lost.
The hard truth? Letting go isn’t passive. It’s not a single act of release. It’s the daily, painful work of unclenching your fist. It’s realizing the thing you’re holding—whether it’s a person, a dream, or a regret—isn’t the problem. The problem is the grip. The way you’ve been squeezing it, making it the center of your world.
I learned this pruning roses in my garden last spring. I’d been trying to save a dead branch, twisting it back toward the plant, ignoring the rot. The gardener told me, "You don’t save the dead part. You cut it away so the living part can breathe." Letting go isn’t about the branch; it’s about the cut. It’s the courage to see the rot for what it is, then to make the clean, necessary severing.
Now, when grief whispers, I don’t ask, "How do I stop missing her?" I ask, "What am I holding onto that isn’t serving me anymore?" It’s not about forgetting. It’s about making space for the life that remains.
The equation isn’t: Let go = freedom. It’s: Let go = the work of seeing clearly, then acting with care.
— Ray Bates, still asking questions
Written by Ray Bates — 12:23, 14 January 2026 (CST)