Learning to Let Go

Estimated read time: 10 Minutes

“One of the happiest moments in life is when you finally find the courage to let go of what you cannot change.”

-Debbie Peterson

I grew up as the middle child in a family of three kids. As the middle child, I was always either too young to be treated like the oldest sibling or too old to get away with the stuff that flew under the radar for the youngest sibling.

The middle, in almost every other situation in life, is considered to be a neutral position, a compromise. In reality, if you’re the middle child, you end up stuck as a point of reference for the other two kids in the family. Essentially, you spend your formative years constantly learning how to let go.

What is pretty cool about being a middle child is that in a way you get to watch the baby grow up. I was 5 years old when my little brother was born. While that may not seem like a significant gap in age, for me it has always kinda worked out as if the separation in age is greater than it is in reality.

I remember when my parents broke the news that my mother was pregnant. Memories of watching her stomach grow, poking her belly in the morning before school, only to get kicked in the back later that night; it was a game my brother and I played as we all awaited his arrival.

I can remember visiting my mother in the hospital after my brother was born. It’s a fuzzy memory, but I’m pretty sure I can even remember the first day I came home to find him there. I chuckle when I remember the learning curve my parents had with him being their first boy, and how quickly they learned the importance of pointing “it” down with diaper changes.

Oddly enough, I don’t really remember the first time I was permitted to hold him by myself. Perhaps at one time I could remember that, but over the years, like so often happens with memories and the passage of time, I must have let it go.

I do remember soaked shirts from leaky diapers, baby baths in the sink, and the transition from bottles to more solid food. (He really liked the questionable-looking, creamed spinach and hated the vibrant-orange, sweet carrots.)

As he continued to grow, we celebrated each stage of his development. (I personally didn’t get how rolling over was all that impressive, but I went along with it.) His crawling stage was fun, and quickly thereafter, he wanted to stand.

As most babies do, he would crawl quickly to the closest, solid-ish-looking object he could find and grab on with his chubby little fingers. Once he had the strength he would hoist himself up and do that funny, little bouncy-thing babies do.

Once he mastered that, there was the shuffle; hand-over-hand along the couch as his little legs struggled to keep up with his ambitious plans. I remember thinking that this hardly counted as walking because he couldn’t do it on his own. He needed the aid of the couch to take “steps.”

Then one day he did it. It was brief, probably an accident even, but he let go. He quickly fell to the ground and shot right back up, hands on the couch again so he could stand. A shuffle, a hand-over-hand motion again, and then he let go. This time he made it a little longer.

Of course, he didn’t master the art of walking that day, or even that week, but it was a start…

Now that same kid is 19, and I am 24. How crazy is that?!? He’ll be furious and embarrassed if he ever reads this post I’m sure, but hey, what are older sisters for if not to tell embarrassing stories from childhood.

I’m pretty sure this is supposed to happen the other way around, but I’ve learned a lot from that kid over the years. He’s taught me patience, kindness, honesty, bravery, and how to be vulnerable at the right times. Most importantly, however, he gave me my very first lesson, all those years ago, about how to let go.

Granted, I didn’t actually heed the lesson the first go-round, but he gave me a sneak peek, if nothing else.

There’s something about babies and learning big life lessons.

For instance, when I was but a baby in early recovery, I got another lesson about the importance of learning to let go.

I was about 8 days sober, and I had just been transferred from the detox unit to the partial hospitalization unit at the inpatient-treatment facility I was attending.

Considering I was transferred in the middle of the day, I was a bit discombobulated and still pretty groggy from detoxing to be fair. I was shown to my apartment, briefly introduced to my three other female roommates, and rushed back down to the group room for orientation.

To be honest, I can’t remember a single thing that was said during orientation, with the exception that feeding OR petting stray cats on campus was strictly forbidden. (Lameeee!)

Anyways, after orientation, everyone else left their apartments and came to the center for group meetings.

Luckily for me, one of my roommates happened to remember that I was assigned to the same counselor and group as she was. She herded me to our group room, the counselor walked in, and group got started.

The counselor seemed to be talking a million miles a minute, and I was instantly confused. Turns out, it was just a quick, afternoon check-in, with this small group. She wanted to remind everyone of their “assignments” that would be due the following day, and then release us for dinner.

“Assignment?” I asked, timidly. The counselor stated that today was Wednesday and the assignment, “Letting Go Letters,” is always was due on Thursdays. I guess she didn’t realize I was new to the group, or maybe she did, but thought that perhaps, like many other patients there, I was a retread: an experienced, rehab-veteran who had been to this rodeo before.

I shook my head like I knew what she was talking about (this I later learned was something I share in common with Stan. Check out his post), but, internally, I was terrified. I wanted to be good at rehab, and my studious, nerdy, people-pleasing instincts were panicking because I was too under-informed, ill-prepared, and overwhelmed to complete an assignment this close to the due date!

At dinner that night, I asked my roommate about the assignment. I explained how clueless I was, that I had never written a letting-go letter, and knowing me like I do, I probably asked her if there was a grading rubric to follow as a guide.

She was kind and patient, and she simply explained that all I needed for this assignment was a resentment.

Now, those who have been hanging out with us for a minute know that I regularly attended AA meetings for a few months prior to entering treatment… so I knew what a resentment was, and I knew I had A LOT of them.

“Just one?” I asked my roommate, half-serious and half-joking. She explained that one would be more than enough, because I also had to write a letter to/about the person I had a resentment towards.

The letter should address how I am working towards forgiving the other person, or how I have already forgiven them, and/or why I had the resentment and why I wanted to let it go.

Then, during group the next day, we would read them aloud and burn them.

Ooof!

I began workshopping some ideas. Brainstorming all the people I was pissed at. I even tried to start writing a few different letters before I’d give up and move on to a different person.

The idea was so overwhelming and confusing to me. Somehow, from the time I started writing the letter about the resentment I had and would describe in detail, I would complete the letter and the resentment would supposedly be gone.

POOF!

So, on the next attempt, I tried to write the letter addressed to someone, or rather something I had already begun to let go of…

Now keep in mind I was only about 8 days sober, still on detox meds, and writing this after nighttime meds had been taken. So, it’s a lot cringe-y and incredibly scattered, but here it is, my very first letting-go letter.

Mr. Jack Daniels,

I hope this letter finds you well. I feel the urgent need to share with you a certain animosity and resentment that has grown in me now that we have spent some time apart.

Just like every other relationship I’ve been in, I put you first instead of myself. I gave you everything I had and you used it against me. You ruined me. I gave and gave and you took and took until there was nothing left. You were my best friend, confidant, first love, and my biggest enemy all wrapped in one. You ruined me, and worst of all I let you. Now it is time to let you go and it’s terrifying. I know I can’t live with you anymore, but I don’t know how to live without you. I’m angry and scared and alone. We did this to me, together, but like every other time, it’s only me that’s left to pick up the pieces. But, I don’t want to live like this anymore. I can’t. So, it’s time. It’s time to say goodbye, and it’s time to let you go. I refuse to continue the toxic relationship we have shared. You have overstayed your welcome; it is me this time who is leaving. I’m leaving you behind; I don’t need you, and you sure as hell don’t need my money anymore. So fair well old friend. You burned me, so remember that as I burn you, I’m only returning the favor.

A dissatisfied [former] loyal customer,

Nina

Look, I know that the contents of the letter itself are painfully cringe-worthy, but it’s the concept that matters.

I couldn’t figure out how to let go of the big, glaring, and deeply ingrained resentments I had. There were so many things I was angry about in early sobriety. So many things I was still hurt by, or ashamed of; those things that were still to big too put into words back then, so I started small.

I wrote something down. It wasn’t much, but it was what I had at the time.

Just like my brother learning to walk, it started with baby steps.

That day in treatment, I couldn’t stand up by myself, so I grabbed the couch. I wasn’t ready to take the big steps yet, so I went as far as I could go…

After enough practice, after falling down a few times and working my way back up to my feet, I could venture out farther. My legs got stronger, and with the help of those who already knew how to walk this path, I started to walk on my own.

Even though it was scary then, and sometimes can be today, step-by-step … I am learning to let go.

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