Letting Go

Harvest Love Journal

There is a weight that sits in the chest,
quiet, heavy, persistent.
It is the fatigue of holding on—
to what no longer fits,
to what no longer breathes,
to what we convince ourselves is safety.

Deep down, we know.
We always know.
A quiet hum beneath the skin
reminds us that the river waits,
pulling, tugging, insistent.

Fear grips.
It coils like smoke around the heart,
whispering that letting go is falling,
that surrender is a plunge
into a deep, dark place
where the floor vanishes
and the walls are shadows
and maybe there is nothing to hold onto.

And yet… there is something even scarier.
The slow suffocation of staying.
The shrinking corners of a life that is not yours.
The missed openings, the unopened doors,
the quiet ache of watching what was meant for you
slip through while you cling.

So you linger in the dark,
in the familiar heaviness,
the shrinking space,
thinking if you just wait a little longer,
hold a little tighter,
maybe the fear will soften.

But the dark doesn’t soften.
It hums.
It whispers: you are ready.

And then—your hands twitch,
loosen, tremble.
The chest heaves,
the knees bend,
and the leap comes.

Eyes closed.
Heart open.
A breath that feels like surrender
and flow.

The dark surrounds.
The unknown stretches wide.
And for a suspended heartbeat—
it is terrifying.

And yet…

Perhaps, just perhaps, it is more terrifying
to stay.

Because what you are holding onto
is not yours,
and the life that is waiting—
the life you are meant for—
is on the other side.

With Love, Ilda

Reflection Questions:

• What are you holding onto, even though you know it no longer serves you?

• What is whispering to you, urging you to release and flow?

• Where is your body inviting you to loosen, unclench, and surrender?

• What might open for you if you truly let go?

Take a breath. Let your eyes close. Listen.
Even in the dark, the answers are there—soft, patient, waiting.