100 things I learned to let go of to become the woman and writer I've always been
To mark 100 weeks of publishing on Substack, a list of all the things I learned to let go of in the seasons of my becoming, through divorce, caregiving, death, grief, healing and reinvention. Part 1.
When we cling to that which doesn’t serve us, we become diminished, living much too small a life. Our hearts and spirits contract. That's no way to live. I hope this list culled from my own tumultuous yet wondrous life these past two years will remind you of the power of letting go. It is my gift to you to celebrate 100 consecutive weeks of publishing on Substack. I am presenting it in two prettily wrapped parcels, this week and next, because 100 things is a long list! (And if you’d prefer to listen, that’s why I personally record each week’s essay).
When I began writing personal essays two years ago this October, I had no idea how much my life and my sense of self, my relationship to others and the world would expand through this ritual of meeting myself on the page every week. That expansion of mind, heart and spirit occurred only through a letting go.
At age 63, when I launched Living in 3D (then with its subtitle: Divorce, Dementia, and Destiny), I was newly divorced after 33 years of marriage and overwhelmed by caregiving for my mother with dementia, all while still holding onto the belief that this is not where my story ends (hence, the destiny part). I had one mission when I hit publish on my first essay—to be honest with myself and my readers about the messiness and surprises and joys of a midlife in transition. Through that truth-telling, life lessons began to emerge, bearing witness to a wisdom I’d had all along. I began to listen that voice which whispered, louder and louder: LET GO. That voice led me to the woman and the writer I am today, and I am so grateful I have let her speak at last.
The 100 Things I Learned to Let Go of To Become The Woman and Writer I’ve Always Been
The fear that I wouldn’t survive leaving my marriage; as it turned out, finding my own way in this world was the only thing that would save me.
The self-critical voice telling me I’m not enough: writing letters from my voice of unconditional love taught me otherwise; thank you
Not asking for help as the primary, at-home caregiver of my mother with dementia because of misguided self-reliance. When I did, so much love and support from family and friends was ready to hold me in a fierce embrace.
A resistance to solitude cemented by years as a social butterfly. It’s when I’m alone that I hear my truest and wisest self, the smartest voice in the room.
Ending my long and destructive love affair with alcohol in 2021 (this woman loved her wine). Sobriety led to every positive change that followed.
A refusal to rest and a worship of productivity. Now I know that rest tethers my humanity, offering resilience, renewal; a quiet, potent form of rebellion.
The idea of home being defined by a marriage, a house, a community fixed in a certain place and time. Home is now a fluid concept, centered within me.
Publishing a novel is the only thing that will “really” make me a writer. 130+ essays, three completed novels and a fourth underway, I’m a damn writer!
A fixed idea from childhood that conflict will make me crumble. When stepping up to tense conversations with my ex-husband to negotiate our marital settlement agreement, I was a fierce warrior; not once did I crumble.
The “good daughter” identity that would surely kill me, especially in the exhausting, heart-breaking work of caring for a parent with dementia. I didn’t need to be good; I just needed to be there and hold my mother in love. A good daughter cares for her mother and herself.
Being in my happy place is not an indulgence. In my caregiving years, beach walks soothed my restless soul. The sea was always there to keep me afloat when life felt unbearable; my harbor and my anchor, I am safe in its caress.
Living only in the present can make me feel stuck. The practice of writing letters to my future self keeps me grounded. It’s a reminder that when she and I meet, a year or a decade from now, we’ll have written a story that we couldn’t have predicted but which unfolded exactly as it was meant to.
Resentment and regret over choices made and paths not taken in my marriage, blaming my ex-husband. Our friendship today is founded in love and affection, and the good stuff in our long marriage; there was plenty.
Scarcity thinking: too little time, too old, too little talent, too many people to take care of; not enough success to go around. Abundance is the antidote to scarcity. Choosing to live with an abundance mindset, anything is possible.
The belief that a divorce must mean severing oneself from the family one married into. Approaching my ex-husband’s family in love and vulnerability, they responded in kind. There are blood ties and love ties; the latter are just as strong.
No more running; no more ticking clock in my ears. In consciously slowing down these past few years, I am able to truly savor people, moments, and my own evolution. I learned to embrace meditation, now a daily practice.
Assisted living for my mother doesn’t mean I failed as a daughter. Assisted living can be assisted loving, with a team trained in memory care to keep her safe and tend to her many needs, so I could return to being her daughter. We were able to widen the circle of love because of my mother’s grace: she gathered the love toward her, allowing all of us to hold her as best we could.
Not being “allowed” to grieve the end of a marriage you initiated and wanted. Letting in my grief and sorrow for all that could have been, I began to heal.
Squeezing my body into a box small enough to fit the societal messaging I’d received all my life. I’m aging naturally, healthily and exactly as I want, without deprivation and self-castigation. I busted that box, once and for all.
Ignoring the outcry from the parts of me that I didn’t want to see—needy selfish, insecure. Now I listen to that hurting younger self and ask her what she needs. We have no bad parts; Internal Family Systems showed me that.
Don’t be a crybaby. In my mid-60s I’m a proud crybaby because my tears are the river that wash me clean and bring me back home to myself.
Reflexive judgements of traits like laziness and selfishness. Now I dance with my shadows, the parts of myself I find hard to accept. With a “drop” of laziness or selfishness, I have more compassion for myself and others.
A rushed, cramped sense of time. Now I live with the Japanese concept of “yutori” or spaciousness: that can look like resting in the space of a poem, or arriving early to a place, so when I get there, I have time to look around.
A refusal to listen to love songs. A year into my divorce, alone for the first time in three decades, love songs were too painful at first. Now I see the yearning they evoke as a sign that the romantic in me is alive and well.
Being locked in the silence of my mother’s fading memories. Playing Sinatra, Nina Simone, Kermit’s “Rainbow Connection,” her favorite, on her CD player brought her momentarily back to me, a smile blooming on her beloved face.
An earnestness in my writing where the inner critic reigned. I learned to play by Writing in the Dark with Jeannine Ouellette and community.
Abandoning my can-do woman identity, adding “drops” of irresponsibility.
Stories I told myself that kept me small. In narrative therapy, I rewrote them.
Guardedness. When I live with undefended openness, magic happens.
No more playing victim, rescuer or protector in the power game of the Drama Triangle. Taking 100% responsibility for my actions and their consequences and to ask: am I acting in integrity with myself?
Wallowing in sadness for too long. Quicker these days I remember my capacity for unbridled, childlike joy, pulling me back into the dance.
Staying stuck in The Upper Limit Problem—limited tolerance for how much happiness we allow ourselves. Now I strive to live in my Zone of Genius.
Skepticism about signs that my late mother is sending me. That yellow butterfly, that heart-shaped stone on my beach walk; yes, she’s with me.
Guilt complicating my grief over my mother’s death. She would not have wanted that for me. Her last words were “I love you,” holding my hand.
Letting my numerical age limit me. I am every age I have ever been, not a single static self but multiple selves I carry viscerally, in muscle and bone, in every hope, dream, disappointment, love, loss and yearning I’ve ever had. Life keeps turning, like the carousel rides of my childhood, a circle game.
Forgetting that I have a distinctive voice with something important to say. Childhood stuttering was the fire through which I stubbornly blazed my way.
Hiding when I need to stretch my wings. I heed the call of my wanderer.
Ignoring the voice that says it’s not time; asking instead, “If not now, when?”
Fear of diving too deep into my pain. Depth over distance, I remind myself now. I know how to swim through this anguish and reach the other side.
Being stuck in old patterns. I choose to live with a beginner’s mind.
Living without the compass of a word or intention for the year. Now this beginning-of-the year ritual reminds me what I most value, what I seek.
As a parent drifts towards death, not cowering in fear. Anticipatory grief kept me from falling harder than I would have otherwise.
Seriousness is over-rated. Playing in the field of our imaginations is a survival skill for grown-ups.
That I’m too old and too rusty to date again, after 36 years. This chapter is still to be written, the characters still to appear on the page, but I’m ready.
Managing my own investments and finances is too hard, not my thing. After leaving that to my ex for three decades, I discover I’m pretty damn good at it.
The only love that counts is romantic, partnered love. No way! Love of children, siblings, extended family and friends fills my cup every single day.
That I need to be a bride to another to be fulfilled. Now I’m married to myself first. I belong to myself, independent of any connection I have to another.
Releasing expectations for my walk on the Camino de Santiago, as poet David Whyte advises: “Don’t make new declarations…bring what you have.”
Laying down my burdens, as I walk, asking: Can I be at peace with the past, live with a full heart and ready spirit in the present, and be patient with the future as it unfolds?
Forgetting my inner reserves of strength. One breath, one step at a time, I relax into the gifts that this life and this world have to offer me.
Thank you to the stalwart readers who made it to the end of Part 1. I hope you found some nuggets that resonated with you. I’d love to know which examples of letting go reverberated most for you. Please share in the comments!
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Damn, Amy. You’re so inspiring. 100 weeks! This list is wonderful. Thank you.
I didn’t know you before, but I know you now and you’re one of the most big-hearted, talented, intelligent, and interesting people I’ve ever met. Keep on jettisoning— clearly it does you good!❤️