Let It Go, Let Go, Let Go
A wrong audiobook, a forgotten book in the mail, and a message I couldn’t ignore.
There is no such thing as a coincidence. I don’t believe in that.
Lately, it feels more like I’m being nudged. Or shoved.
By books. By dreams. By things I didn’t mean to choose.
Like most days, I let books choose me.
What that really means is I’m listening to my interests and feelings. If I’m reading a book and there are only 25 pages left until I cross the finish line, I want the checkmark. I want the completion. The ceremony of it. Because if there is no checkmark… did it even happen?
But there’s also the heaviness. The resistance.
Now, Steven Pressfield would say that’s exactly the point. Resistance is the work. Push through. Show up. Be disciplined. And even Ryan Holiday tattooed the message on his arm: “The obstacle is the way.“ So, it must be important, right?
And that makes complete, logical sense to me.
But there’s also… me.
The imperfect human operating under less-than-ideal circumstances (aren’t we all, really?).
The little girl, remembering—or in some moments, maybe even the wiser version of me looking back—asking:
You really want to read that today? What if you die tomorrow?
Yes. That’s dramatic. But cheap life hacks work sometimes.
Maybe I didn’t pick the wrong book.
Maybe I picked the wrong day for that book.
Because today, the book I’d take to a deserted island—sun, sand, one palm tree, SPF 50—well, it is not the same book I would have picked yesterday.
And maybe that’s the point.
Lately, I’ve noticed something unsettling.
I am not the same person today as I was only 24 hours ago.
If I look in the mirror, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what’s changed.
But if I read yesterday’s morning pages… I sometimes think, who is that sad soul?
And can anyone help her?
This morning, I woke up with a dream still in my head. Reality was slow-dancing with the dream until the music stopped, and reality was left standing alone. I didn’t want to forget. It was so odd—as most dreams tend to be—but I wanted to know why this one reached out to me.
That almost never happens—the remembering.
In the dream, I was trying to reclaim my things. Small, personal belongings. As if I were Steve Martin in The Jerk, insisting, “This is all I need.”
Only it wasn’t funny. It felt desperate.
I kept claiming things I had once given away. What felt true was the desperate attempt to hold onto things.
And then someone reached out and touched my face. His hand pressed gently against my cheek. The touch overwhelmed me and filled me completely, and I didn’t think I would ever need another thing like this again.
There was a sadness in his eyes I couldn’t ignore. Wrapped in pity and unspoken pleading.
The kind that makes everything else irrelevant.
I woke up and didn’t want to lose the essence of this. But at the time, I had no idea what any of it meant.
Afraid that if I stopped thinking about it, it would evaporate into nothingness.
The feeling kept circling:
Simplify.
As if it were January 1st and I needed a focus word for the year.
(Where did I even write that down? I can’t believe I’ve already forgotten.)
But this time felt… different.
Important. Pressing.
Maybe grief does that.
Losing a parent rearranges something fundamental.
It’s not the end of days for me, pushing 60—but it is the end of something.
For the past two years, since my father passed, it’s been like a low, constant rewiring.
Almost like the nesting urge during pregnancy—
except instead of preparing for arrival,
it feels like preparing for departure.
So of course, I did what I do.
I searched for audiobooks before heading out on my walk.
“Best books on simplifying after losing a parent.”
Three recommendations.
And one extra suggestion from ChatGPT—
“A wild card (but I think you’d like it, and honestly, I think it matches your writing brain.”
The deeply reflective The Year of Less by Cait Flanders—like talking with a friend about identity, consumption, and letting go.
Fine.
Door #4.
I listened to the preview. Loved it.
Clicked “buy.” Moved on.
Headphones ready. Shoes on. Dogs losing their minds at the door.
And then—
It wasn’t there.
Wrong book.
Instead, Let It Go by Peter Walsh was primed and ready.
Wait… what?
How the hell did I buy the wrong book?
I could feel it immediately—heat rising, irritation spreading across my cheeks.
And I’d love to tell you I mastered my emotions.
I didn’t.
It took a solid three minutes to calm down. To find my anchoring message. The one that centers me in a swirl of incomprehension.
Say it. Say it.
I hear myself thinking.
And the words silently reverberate inside my brain:
“Isn’t that interesting?”
With the power of Abracadabra, I’ve given the power of curiosity to circumstances that could be just annoying—or even dire.
I allowed my brain to play with that. Took the leash off my brain as I unleashed the dogs, then sat back down in my office to pull up my audiobook account.
What if this was meant to be?
And suddenly it felt… magical.
Because what are the chances of getting a book I didn’t purposely buy?
I kept the book that chose me.
I decided to listen.
Unfortunately, it can sometimes take a few minutes to reach this enlightenment. The consequence of delay is the complete depletion of cortisol directly to my midsection, coating my six-pack abs in a protective layer of jelly.
Thanks for that. But I’m really okay. No need for the extra fluff.
Later that night, I took out the trash and checked the mail.
Tucked neatly in my mailbox was a used book I had forgotten I had ordered about a week ago.
A book full of sage advice that has stayed popular over the years by the late Susan Jeffers.
Last week, I must have been consumed with fear—because here was the antidote.
Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway.
It was first published in 1987 after years of rejection by various publishers. She had tucked it away in a drawer. Forgotten about it entirely. She was cleaning out that drawer when she rediscovered it. Took her own advice and tried again.
It has been almost 40 years since, and I’m holding the soft-covered book in my hands.
I sat down to flip through it first. A casual ritual with any new book.
The pages blur as I flip slowly through them.
And then I saw it.
I sat straighter in my chair.
The flash of recognition—of something important.
I searched for the page again and found it.
“LET GO LET GO LET GO”
The words splashed across the introduction page of chapter six like a mural. Endless repetition of let go.
The message was not subtle. Not quiet—but loud and clear.
The funny thing is, this book—let alone this chapter—wasn’t even about simplifying or downsizing.
But the message that jumped off the page today was unmistakable.
Let go.
Go simply.
This is my sign.
This is how I move forward.
Maybe not all at once.
But starting today.
What can I let go of?
How do I simplify?
I don’t think I get to ignore it.
But more than that—
I feel a surge of excitement in the possibility of less… not more.