The Art of Letting Go - On love, presence, and what change asks of us

Some lessons in life we learn over and over again.

This is one of them.

I’m not sure I yet know what mastery looks like when it comes to letting go. I might know it intellectually—perhaps it’s arriving at peace sooner, or recognizing the moment more quickly, or meeting change with a steadier nervous system. I don’t know. I’m still learning it in real time.

I published the words below as 2025 quietly came to a close. I was reflecting on what I had learned that year, and what I had lost. I didn’t know how quickly life would ask me to live inside those reflections.

On New Year’s Day, I woke to find that one of our family pets, Aoiphe, had passed away peacefully in her sleep. That morning, she didn’t wake up.

In the rawness of that morning, I found myself returning to my own words about letting go. I wondered whether I had cherished her enough while she was alive. Whether I had been present enough, often enough. And how to do that now—how to hold gratitude and grief at the same time, even as I let her go.

What follows is the piece I shared then, as the year turned.

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There is an art to letting go.

It asks something subtle of us—loosening our hold while still honoring the importance of what we’ve carried. Staying present to what mattered, even as we allow ourselves to move on.

We’re rarely taught how to do both at once.

We commit. We build. We invest pieces of ourselves into people, ideas, identities, and seasons of life and work. And when the time comes to release what no longer fits, the body often resists before the mind catches up.

Change brings ambiguity.

Ambiguity asks us to step forward without guarantees.

And that requires trust—often trust in ourselves more than in the outcome.

Under stress, our world narrows. Possibility recedes. Even when we sense that something needs to shift, imagining what comes next can feel out of reach. The capacity to dream requires enough safety to settle the nervous system, enough steadiness to believe we’ll find our footing.

Sometimes our objective world changes dramatically and unexpectedly—we lose someone to death or illness, or something shifts within our work, our business, our sense of direction. But how we choose to relate to those moments can be quiet. Often private. It comes with a reckoning—an honest acknowledgment of who we were, what carried us, and a willingness to trust who we’re becoming.

Gratitude matters here, as a way of closing a chapter with honesty and dignity.

A part of us usually knows we’re ready to lean into change before we’re ready to say it out loud. And when we find ourselves wondering—pausing longer than usual—that knowing is already present.

As we usher in 2026, perhaps we do so with courage, and with a deeper confidence in ourselves. With the willingness to release what no longer serves, and the steadiness to move forward even when the path hasn’t fully revealed itself.

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Reading those words again now, I notice how much of letting go lives in the body before it ever becomes a conscious decision. The tightening. The reaching. The subtle wish that if we hold on just a little longer, the moment might not pass.

With Aoiphe’s passing, there was nothing to solve, nothing to optimize, nothing to do better next time. There was only presence—first in its absence, and then in the remembering. Love doesn’t end when something ends, but the form of it changes. Letting go is about allowing attachment to transform.

This feels important to say, especially in a culture—and in leadership—that often confuses letting go with disengagement.

Letting go doesn’t mean we didn’t care. Often, it’s because we cared so deeply that it’s hard.

It also doesn’t mean we stop honoring what mattered. Gratitude and grief are not opposites; they often travel together. We can be thankful for what was and still deeply feel its absence.

There’s another layer to this that I see clearly in my work with founders and leaders.

Growth asks us to let go, again and again.

We let go of ways of working that once served us well. Of identities that fit earlier seasons. Of control, certainty, and sometimes even versions of ourselves that were instrumental in getting us here—but are no longer what the next chapter requires.

And this is where stress becomes such a powerful constrictor.

When the nervous system is activated—when we’re in fight or flight—our capacity to imagine narrows. Possibility recedes. Even when we know something needs to change, we struggle to see what comes next.

Letting go is both a mindset shift and a physiological one.

It requires enough safety to pause. Enough steadiness to stay present. Enough trust—in ourselves, in our capacity to navigate uncertainty—to release our grip without collapsing into fear.

I’m realizing more deeply now that letting go invites us to grieve not only what’s gone, but also who we were while it was here.

The version of ourselves that loved fully.

That built something from nothing.

That carried a responsibility with devotion.

That showed up, imperfectly.

We can honor that version of ourselves with grace before moving on.

As we move forward into a new year, I’m holding this gently, reminding myself I will practice it many times. As a practice, it asks for presence more than performance. Honesty more than certainty. And compassion—for ourselves and others—as we learn, again, how to release what mattered, while remaining open to what is still emerging.

Welcome, 2026.

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With appreciation to Jon Kabat-Zinn for the phrase “Wherever You Go, There You Are.”