Surrendering to change

Newness and loss

Late summer / early fall seem to be when huge transitions happen for me. At this time of year in 2007 I moved across the country. Twelve years ago I left a long-term relationship and began living on my own for the first time ever. Six years ago I stopped drinking alcohol—a move that was harder and far more life-altering than I ever imagined it would be. Last year I left my job of a dozen years to start Soul Writing. 

(Yup, just now noticing all the 12s and 6s. Any numerology buffs out there that can tell me something about that?)

Anyway. As we know, big life changes tend to involve something falling apart, or falling away, in order for the new thing to emerge. We know this, yes, but it’s very hard (if not impossible) to remember that from inside the experience. The vulnerability of these moments opens the door wide to fear, doubt, scarcity and all those other icky feels. Ultimately these were all right decisions, but at the time that was hard to see because of how shifty and unstable the world suddenly felt. 

The latest shift

This fall, my husband and I are in the process of buying a house. I know, poor us, but honestly it has undone me in ways I can’t begin to list. A tiny bit of context: this wasn’t something we were necessarily looking for; it found us. So it doesn’t carry with it the expected joy of a big goal having been achieved. Rather, we’ve leapt with faith and trepidation into an opportunity too magical and miraculous to say no to.

The big events of previous years don’t hold a candle to the fears, doubts, and grief this particular process is bringing up. It’s understandable: all that has represented solidity and stability for the last decade—a home we’re comfortable in, a tiny pile of savings—are going away in favor of a leap of faith whose gifts we haven’t yet reaped. 

So yes, my response makes sense, but try telling that to my li’l’ human body, who’s registering all this as danger, and has been on high alert. Sleep has been spotty. It’s hard to eat (that’s when we know something is amiss). And in an attempt to fix the discomfort (spoiler: not possible!), my darling, rational, overthinking mind has gone into 24/7 problem-solving mode, further disrupting sleep and generally mucking the works.

I long to feel the joy I know is there. I’ve been leaning heavily into others’ assurances that all will be well because the part of me that knows that is less accessible at the moment. 

I can tell you what has allowed me to get the closest to the joy, or at least a modicum of relief, now and in past versions of this. 

The breathing and the whooshing

First, there is breathing, breathing breathing breathing breathing. Obvious and even clichéd as it is, it works. My friend Tess reminded me recently that slow breathing helps the body understand that it is not, in fact, at the threshold of doom. Incredible, how reliable that is. 

Once my nervous system is regulated a bit through the breath, I find I can step aside and let all the other stuff sort of… whoosh through. Lying in bed, walking around, hanging out with trees (they help!), I ask God or Whoever to take away what isn’t true and leave what is. All the memories, all the triggers, all the doubt, all that I “shouldn’t” be feeling but am anyway… all of it cascades through my veins and down into the ground. (Another cliché that’s a cliché because it’s true: the only way out is through. These things have to move through us on their way out. It’s scary but it takes a lot less energy than fighting to hold them at bay.)

When I can do that, for a minute or two the water runs clear. I feel the cleansing power of the purer emotions like grief that run crisp and true beneath the muddier ones like fear. I feel the support of everyone who loves me. I feel (even if I can’t articulate) what Life is up to, why it led me to this moment, and what it’s asking of me now. I feel the greater intelligence of it all, even if it feels hard on my little system at the moment. 

And oh my, do I feel alive. But only when I stop paddling frantically to ensure I do not die, as my body seems to believe I’m about to.

And here’s what’s really cool about surrender: it can be a companion to determination. In fact the two sort of rely on each other. Yes, I could attempt to step into all that’s ahead under my own steam, but considering what-all is ahead, that’s not sustainable. But when I can relax, connect to what is larger, let myself be carried, lean into support, way more resources and possibilities become available, and my body seems to know what to do.

What about you?

It goes without saying (maybe?) that writing is the raft that floats me down this river—the writing itself, yes, but also the chance to share it with you. There’s an irrefutable magic of getting it out onto the page and having it received with love. It works every time. Thank you, friends, for being here to receive my latest insights.

How do you get through moments of upheaval, and what part surrender plays? Please share in the comments. 

Chances to breathe, whoosh, and write about it in community

Incidentally, there’s an event on the horizon that will be precisely what I need in all this: the “Rest Easy” weekend retreat at the San Damiano Retreat Center in Danville, CA. My dear friend Michelle Walsh and I will co-lead a series of healing writing sessions, punctuated by chances to hike, nap, eat, walk the labyrinth, and enjoy the oasis. I hope you can join us to let life whoosh through you and be nurtured by the greater surround.

And if you can’t make it in person, there’s still room in the four-week Zoom series, Writing to Let Go, where we’ll dive into all this in the Soul Writing container you know and love.