What’s Left of Me When I Let Go?

I realized the other day that I was clenching my tongue. Not my jaw, my tongue.

Why? Who was I bracing for? What battle was I fighting inside my own mouth? I was just sitting there, supposedly relaxing, but my body was gripping tension in places I didn’t even know had tension to grip.

And then it hit me: I’ve been treating rest like a challenge instead of a comfort. Somewhere along the way, I learned that “relaxation” still required effort. Like I had to do it correctly or I’d fail at it. Which, if you think about it, is a hilarious contradiction. Rest isn’t something you win. It’s something you let happen.

I’ve told myself for so long: I am safe to feel what I feel. And that has helped. But now, I realize there’s another fear underneath—I’m afraid to let go. Afraid of what will be left of me after I do. Like my fears are the only thing tethering me to myself, and without them, I might just disappear.

But that’s not true. I am more than what I’m afraid of. My new mantra? I’m safe to let it all go and trust that there is always something left.

Even when I unclench my weird little muscles, even when I stop holding myself together like a crumpled receipt at the bottom of my bag.. I am still here. Not evaporated. Not empty. Just me.