I sat on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at my open palms. My body was tense, and my stomach felt like someone had ignited it with fire. And where was the water? I had the water. But why couldn’t I put it out? 

My dog was always there, looking up at me, loving me. Strangely, she was truth, laying there on my bed. We had come together in the simplest of ways; I was not looking for her, she was not looking for me. Well, not really anyway. But without any pretense, we loved each-other. She was regal and dainty, and pranced like a horse. And I , I was just me. It did not have to work, it had not worked many times before, but she chose me. And we flowed. I did not need to impress her or become someone else for her, because she loved everything that I was to her. The truth was, she was too good for anyone. But because she had chosen me, I tried to be the best human I could be for her. 

So there she was, looking at me with loving eyes. And then it hit me. I was holding onto my life like I would a rope. I was filled up with fear. I was controlling and attached, and fragile and forced. I was holding onto the rope, I had wrapped it around my body because, somehow, this felt safe. But I was more afraid than I had ever been. I was more exposed than I had ever been. I was more broken than I had ever been. Because I was standing there pleading with life, pleading with things, pleading with people, pleading, like a beggar, for security, love, affirmation, satisfaction. When things did not go as expected, I stood there explaining why they should. When I felt unloved by someone, I stood there explaining why I deserved their love. And when life took a different turn, I held onto the rope until my hands were bloody. 

Was this living, then? Was this it? Would I spend my life putting salve on my wounded hands? 

I knew better. I knew I was just afraid of what letting go meant. I knew I had attached my worth to the things that left. But without its ebb and flow, life had no rhythm, no beauty. I had taken that away from it. Instead, I had made it bland, “safe,” and worst of all, predictable. Oceans were made of freedom, and nature had no hands to hold on with. So why was I using my hands?

There is a flow in letting go. The things that love you, will love you, without your holding on. The people that are meant for you will stay without convincing, and those who aren’t should not be convinced. And the rope? It is not for holding because it is only an illusion. 

PHOTO BY: Maksym Ivashchenko