So true. That was me, walking myself sane. Hard to say how long it took. There were times of contraction and times of release into joy. I guess it took the better part of 30 years.
Willingness is a door that, once opened, never fully closes again. The moment it is offered, it moves beneath everything, shifting what once felt immovable.
I know this. I live this.
And I hear the depth of what you are speaking to—not just healing, but the surrender to what healing demands. Not just surviving, but becoming.
Walking and whispering that mantra, I am willing to feel this, was never about seeking understanding. You named it—understanding is not the point. Peace is. Or maybe something even deeper: the release of what was never ours to hold in the first place.
Not all at once, not in some grand moment of arrival, rather through the slow, relentless unwinding of all that was entangled.
Letting go of everyone and everything—I know what that is.
I am in the very process of it myself. Not just releasing, but deliberately stepping away. Extricating myself from the place that held me bound, from the expectations, the weight of a life shaped more by conditioning than by my own hands.
For decades, I believed I lacked the courage. Now I see it was never about courage. It was about the binds of a system designed to keep me in place. And once I saw that, there was no going back.
You are naming something that many fear to look at. The inevitability of loss, the way love is woven into it, the way surrender is the only thing left when there is nothing to hold onto. Your friend Laura, in her stillness, in her presence—she was the stopping. She embodied it. Not through effort, not through striving, just through being. And I hear you recognizing that as the next threshold.
There is no escaping the process, yet there is the choice of how to meet it. And you have already chosen. I am willing to feel this. That willingness is everything. It carries. It holds. And when the next contraction comes, you will walk, as you always have, with the rhythm of your own unfolding.
Thank you Jay. Your comment brings the sting of recognition to my eyes. I feel seen. I have been unraveling in this way for almost 40 years. I now believe there is no ending, no stopping that original willingness. And now, I would not take my willingness back if I could. I am so grateful that love or peace or whatever it is took me at my deepest intention. I feel my body evaporating into the void surrounded by a joyous yes. I don't know how much time I have left, I only know there is no wasting it, there can be none. It's all intentional now.
Susan, yes. And it is this part of us that has always longed to live from unconditional love—the kind that holds without grasping, that remains even when everything else is stripped away. I had only known that kind of love from my late partner of 22 years. Even in a relationship that carried its own pain, her love itself was never conditional. The circumstances were. I had no consciously accessible sense of safety during our partnership, and she became everything to me. That, in itself, must have been a weight she carried.
When she was suddenly gone—five years and two days ago—I found myself untethered, lost in space. And yet, somewhere in that vast emptiness, a small seed took hold. A whisper, barely audible: maybe my life did not end with hers. Maybe there had to be more.
Five years later, I have integrated what once felt impossible—perhaps 80% or more of almost 30 years of trauma. I have reclaimed access to memories I thought were lost forever, retrieved the parts of myself I believed were beyond reach. And so, yes. Yes, and yes again. Healing moves in ways we cannot predict, and with intention, with willingness, it is possible.
I love this—your perspective. My trauma exploded when I was 33. I lost everything, even my home. I barely remember the woman I was, and I don't remember what she wanted or obsessed over; only that it was what she did. The specificity of the anniversary makes me feel some of the magnitude of your loss. I have that kind of loss ahead of me. My husband is fragile but holding on. Sometimes I catch myself trying to imagine who I'll be without him. Then I stop. Every unfolding is its own thing.
This is so powerful; thank you for sharing it. I imagine it may have been something both revealing and humbling while also freeing on several levels.
So true. That was me, walking myself sane. Hard to say how long it took. There were times of contraction and times of release into joy. I guess it took the better part of 30 years.
Susan,
Willingness is a door that, once opened, never fully closes again. The moment it is offered, it moves beneath everything, shifting what once felt immovable.
I know this. I live this.
And I hear the depth of what you are speaking to—not just healing, but the surrender to what healing demands. Not just surviving, but becoming.
Walking and whispering that mantra, I am willing to feel this, was never about seeking understanding. You named it—understanding is not the point. Peace is. Or maybe something even deeper: the release of what was never ours to hold in the first place.
Not all at once, not in some grand moment of arrival, rather through the slow, relentless unwinding of all that was entangled.
Letting go of everyone and everything—I know what that is.
I am in the very process of it myself. Not just releasing, but deliberately stepping away. Extricating myself from the place that held me bound, from the expectations, the weight of a life shaped more by conditioning than by my own hands.
For decades, I believed I lacked the courage. Now I see it was never about courage. It was about the binds of a system designed to keep me in place. And once I saw that, there was no going back.
You are naming something that many fear to look at. The inevitability of loss, the way love is woven into it, the way surrender is the only thing left when there is nothing to hold onto. Your friend Laura, in her stillness, in her presence—she was the stopping. She embodied it. Not through effort, not through striving, just through being. And I hear you recognizing that as the next threshold.
There is no escaping the process, yet there is the choice of how to meet it. And you have already chosen. I am willing to feel this. That willingness is everything. It carries. It holds. And when the next contraction comes, you will walk, as you always have, with the rhythm of your own unfolding.
Thank you Jay. Your comment brings the sting of recognition to my eyes. I feel seen. I have been unraveling in this way for almost 40 years. I now believe there is no ending, no stopping that original willingness. And now, I would not take my willingness back if I could. I am so grateful that love or peace or whatever it is took me at my deepest intention. I feel my body evaporating into the void surrounded by a joyous yes. I don't know how much time I have left, I only know there is no wasting it, there can be none. It's all intentional now.
Susan, yes. And it is this part of us that has always longed to live from unconditional love—the kind that holds without grasping, that remains even when everything else is stripped away. I had only known that kind of love from my late partner of 22 years. Even in a relationship that carried its own pain, her love itself was never conditional. The circumstances were. I had no consciously accessible sense of safety during our partnership, and she became everything to me. That, in itself, must have been a weight she carried.
When she was suddenly gone—five years and two days ago—I found myself untethered, lost in space. And yet, somewhere in that vast emptiness, a small seed took hold. A whisper, barely audible: maybe my life did not end with hers. Maybe there had to be more.
Five years later, I have integrated what once felt impossible—perhaps 80% or more of almost 30 years of trauma. I have reclaimed access to memories I thought were lost forever, retrieved the parts of myself I believed were beyond reach. And so, yes. Yes, and yes again. Healing moves in ways we cannot predict, and with intention, with willingness, it is possible.
I love this—your perspective. My trauma exploded when I was 33. I lost everything, even my home. I barely remember the woman I was, and I don't remember what she wanted or obsessed over; only that it was what she did. The specificity of the anniversary makes me feel some of the magnitude of your loss. I have that kind of loss ahead of me. My husband is fragile but holding on. Sometimes I catch myself trying to imagine who I'll be without him. Then I stop. Every unfolding is its own thing.
Joy is the point. 🎨🍾🩱👙🥖🫒🥰🙏
Yay Barb! So true. Joy is the point, and sometimes you have to go through a lot to get there. It’s worth it, though.