Why Letting Go Feels Impossible —Until It Isn't
The following thought process came to me as I sat in my garden listening to the birds, in the mountains of Oaxaca, Mexico.
Reading time: 20 Min
The Ego-Death-Process — A Natural Cycle of Growth
This note to myself, titled in my notebook "Die to Live," is about the realization that surrendering to the ego-death process is an inevitable and necessary part of growth. We can’t escape death and rebirth—it’s a natural cycle. There's no way around it. And yet, despite knowing this, I still find it incredibly difficult to surrender, again and again. The resistance within me is so strong, so powerful, so familiar. I cling to the old, to what I know, and I refuse to let go.
Eventually, the pressure becomes so intense that surrender is the only option left. And the irony of it all is that giving up is what ultimately rewards me. It gifts me with new insights—each time something within me has to die, so that something new can be born. It’s uncomfortable and incredibly terrifying.
“But if it weren’t for the fear, how would I ever recognize the divine feeling of deep trust?”
How do I truly let go?
My body is exhausted. My face and jaw remain tense. It’s been like this for weeks. At night, I go to bed with a headache. I usually refuse to take painkillers, but sometimes I crave a break from the pain.
Even though I know it’s just a temporary relief, sometimes I allow myself this momentary escape. The cause of the pain isn’t resolved—I know that—but I get a break. A break from constantly feeling it. Or better to say "resisting it“?
Because when I start truly feeling it, really listening with curiosity and an open heart, something shifts. When I listen without conditions,
without needing to change it, just allowing the pain to speak;
when I approach it with kindness instead of judgment or resistance;
when I simply let it exist for as long as it needs to,
something remarkable begins to happen:
After days of headaches and neck pain, this morning I woke up feeling a little lighter. There was still a dull buzz in my head, but I could feel myself again. Something in me that I call "mySelf." This Self allows me to recognize my needs, to do something kind for mySelf, to avoid getting lost in suffering. It keeps me present, helps me accept what is, and act accordingly.
These are small things, like asking my partner for help instead of diving into work as planned. Changing my morning routine by giving myself the space to simply sit in the garden and see what unfolds. Maybe I’ll water some flowers, listen to the birds, or jot down my thoughts. Or maybe I’ll just sit there, waiting for another impulse from mySelf to arise. That impulse might be to shower, have breakfast, or even break from my usual routine and choose something different.
Every time I listen to this inner wisdom (instead of being dictated by thoughts), my body softens, like a gentle “ahhh” releasing from my once-tense nerves and muscles.I am in touch with mySelf and my body. The communication is there. I haven’t yet figured out how to stay in constant connection, but today I am. And one thing I can do — is simply notice how it feels now. I am grateful for this contact. As I am writing this, my heart fills with love and a tear runs down my cheek.
I don’t want to judge the time spent disconnected from mySelf. Instead, I want to learn from it. Once I notice the disconnection, I have the awareness of the possibility of reconnecting. While sitting in the garden today, savoring this reconnection, I began to feel a particular energy within me—like a kind of movement, a surge, a stirring. And since nature is my greatest teacher, it gifted me a beautiful analogy for this feeling, which I’ll share below:
Lessons from Nature: Water Cycle & The Butterfly Metaphor — From Suffering to Transformation
Lessons from Nature
This stirring energy within reminded me of the water cycle. Rainwater seeps into the earth, filtering through layers of rock, and collecting minerals and trace elements. Eventually, it reaches a layer of impermeable rock, where it stops and accumulates. Until the pressure builds so much that it seeks a way out, rising to the surface as a spring. And once it springs forth, it flows. It may become a stream, a river, and eventually merge into a lake or the ocean, returning to its origin.
The cycle begins again. The sun transforms the water into vapor, changing it into a completely different state. It rises into the atmosphere, cools, and falls back to earth, starting the process anew. This natural phenomenon inspires me. Today, I feel like after a long period of seeping through the layers, accumulating deep in the earth, isolated, and yearning for the light, I have finally "sprung."
I emerge with new wisdom. Having experienced this process, I now flow at the surface, enriched with minerals, ready to share with others. Until it's time again for the transformation to begin. The heat comes, the sun warms me—or can I say life challenges me? Without control, the process of transformation will begin again.
I could try to resist, just as the caterpillar devours its own imaginal cells before surrendering to the process of metamorphosis. It accepts its death. And it dies. Never again will it crawl like a caterpillar on a leaf. But once the transformation is complete, it flies. It experiences a new world and enjoys its new abilities.
Huge caterpillar in Oaxaca, Mexico 2021
And even though I know all of this, and have experienced it again and again, the process of being trapped in the layers of rock, of growing within the cocoon, is always the same old suffering. It’s uncomfortable, terrifying, and unpredictable.
In the past, I tried to prepare myself for discomfort, fear, and the unknown. But today, I realize there’s only one thing I will continue to learn through this natural process of growth:
Trust.
