The Sacred Art of Letting Go

I have just completed a masterclass in letting go.

I have done the kind life delivers when you have looked away from the signs that it is time for too long and everything you once clung to begins to unravel. This was more intentional and less chaotic but still somehow still as painful.

As many of you know, I am in the process of transitioning to Asia—a journey that has quietly been unfolding for two years. There is no certainty in this path. No map. No promise of stability. The world feels uncertain, and so does my personal and family life. And still, there is a deeper knowing that I must go. That something is calling me to build life—and business—in a new environment.

Letting go is not just a step in this process.

It is the process.

To create something new, we must dismantle what no longer serves. And that dismantling is rarely neat. It is not tidy or polished. It is sacred, wild and excruciating.

This is not the first time I’ve downsized, but in truth it is the most severe.

I chose to release almost everything.

What remains fits into eight boxes: journals, photographs, artwork, textiles from places that touched my spirit, two sweaters for autumn visits, a handful of tarot decks, and my rock friends—earth companions too heavy for my suitcase but whom I simply could not part with.

Everything else—clothing, books (yes, that one still stings), beloved Frye boots and Doc Martens, soft blankets, my favorite kitchen bowls, the comforts of home—I gave away. Even the box I rescued from my old burnt apartment, containing a newspaper from the day I was born and letters from a life long gone. It was time.

Why?

To lighten the load.

To make room.

For movement. For grace. For transformation.

For the woman I am becoming.

Here’s what no one tells you: letting go for all the right reasons will still rattle your nervous system. Even when it is the next right step. Even when your soul is fully on board, your body and mind will protest.

My back pain flared harder than it has in ten years. I ate my emotions in the form of too many chocolate chip cookies late at night in front of Netflix, I felt frozen, sad, guilty, lonely, uncertain, and overwhelmed.

I cried. I had brain fog. I didn’t move enough. People I love were unhappy with me—and still, with so much grace, they supported me. I love them so much for that.

And here’s the paradox:

Through it all, I’ve known something unshakable. I know it through brutal trial and error.

It will be okay.

I will make mistakes.

I will regret some things I let go of—or how I let them go—or that I waited too long to do it.

And still, it will be okay.

There will be beauty I could never have predicted—unexpected moments of alignment, connection, and awe. And I will be grateful I trusted this path.

There will also be boredom. Flatness. Mistakes. Uncomfortable gaps. Times when it all feels like too much. That, too, is part of it.

This is not chaos.

This is initiation.

This is what spiritual learning actually looks like in motion.

I came into this life to awaken, to serve, and to remember.

And sometimes remembering requires a great unraveling.

If this—this tender, messy, courageous shedding—is what it takes to live in alignment with my soul, then I say yes.

Not because it’s easy.

But because it’s true.

If you are in the midst of your own unraveling—hold on. Or let go. Or weep on the floor.

There is no wrong way to break open. There is only your way.

And I promise: on the other side of letting go, there is life.

A new shape, a new rhythm, a deeper truth waiting to be lived.

Walk toward it.

One breath at a time.

You are not alone.