Releasing Control: How To Surrender & Find True Freedom

Some lessons don’t arrive in a neat package. They unfold slowly, whispered through experiences, revealed in the quiet moments of reflection. And sometimes, they come wrapped in tension—the pull of opposites, the friction of contrast.

Dualities. Dichotomies.

I wrote those words down today. At first, they sat heavy in my mind, unfinished thoughts, unresolved meaning. But as I listened, I understood. The tension between two things—between joy and sorrow, certainty and doubt, holding on and letting go—exists not to break us, but to give us perspective.

Like an itch you can’t quite scratch.

I loved that metaphor. Some things can’t be fixed, only felt. Some answers don’t come when we demand them but unfold when we surrender. And I see now that even in my wrestling, even in my grasping—when I hold onto something too tightly, when my grip turns into a death clutch—it’s still an opportunity to grow.

To learn.
To step back.
To ask, What is mine to carry?

Because for too long, I carried what wasn’t mine. I made things my business that never were. And in return, I resented when others did the same to me. Recovery has been my reckoning, my slow unlearning. Learning to pause, to step out of what is not mine, to let people have their own journeys without interference. It is a lifetime of practice, a rewiring of instinct, a sacred discipline of becoming.

And so, I welcome the prayer.
I welcome the growth.
I welcome this space that enriches and expands me.

This time together? It is lush. It is full. It is sacred. And I am grateful.

Still, I am learning that not everything I share will be received the way I intend. A few weeks ago, I spoke in a breakout room, sharing as I always do—openly, vulnerably, from my heart. And someone took offense. She felt I was telling her what to do.

I was shaken.

This space is sacred to me. The thought of causing harm here cut deeper than I expected. But I have come to understand that my role is not to control how my words land. My role is only to speak. To share what has been placed in me. To allow it to exist, untethered from expectation or approval.

Because the work I have to do? It is mine alone.

And so, I do it.

I speak.
I release.
I trust that what needs to land will land.

Today, I sat in the richness of words—the beauty of language, the artistry of expression. Dualities. Dichotomies. A reminder that life, in all its tension and contrast, is not meant to be perfectly understood. It is meant to be experienced.

And I am here for all of it.

I do not need to force understanding. I need only to be faithful to the telling.

A Prayer for the Journey

God,
Teach me to trust the tension,
To find Your hand in the space between what I know and what I don’t.
Let me release what is not mine to carry,
And hold fast to the truth You have placed in me.

May my words be offered in love, without the weight of expectation.
May my heart remain soft, even when misunderstood.
And may I always remember—
It is not my job to make them hear.
It is my job to speak with love.

Help me always be bold and to speak with love. Help me say what needs to be said. And help me remain silent when silence is needed to be spoken, too.

And so it is. It is well. It is done. Amen.