Season of Self: Shedding What No Longer Serves

The Art of Letting Go and Becoming

The Many Deaths of Becoming

Over the last two years, my life has been a series of deaths. Some I walked into willingly, knowing the release was necessary. Others were wrenched from my hands, leaving behind a grief I didn’t get to prepare for. It has been a shedding, a releasing, a letting go—not just of things, but of identities, relationships, and versions of myself I thought would last forever.

We often attach ourselves to the idea of forever, convinced that relationships, roles, and ways of being should remain unchanged. But even if something does last a lifetime, how many versions of you exist within that time? Who you were five years ago, last year, even last month—are they still the same person you are today?

To fully live, we must learn to die many times over. The shedding, the grief, the surrender—it is not easy, but it is necessary. Each release is a portal, bringing us closer to metamorphosis, closer to becoming.

Personal Reflection: Learning to Grieve What No Longer Fits

I’ve been doing a lot of grieving lately. Not just the grief of my marriage ending, but the grief of friendships that unraveled, the grief of family bonds that could no longer hold, the grief of being estranged from a child I carried, birthed, and loved with every fiber of my being.

I have found myself reckoning with the truth that love does not always mean longevity. That some things and people are only meant to walk with us for a time. That sometimes the most loving thing we can do—for ourselves and for others—is to let go.

And the grief of that truth is staggering.

There were times I wanted to grip tighter, to hold on with both hands, to fight to keep things as they were. But the harder I held on, the more I realized that some things were never meant to be mine forever. Some things were only meant to serve a version of me that no longer exists.

This realization didn’t come easy. I had to sit with the pain. I had to allow myself to mourn. I had to give myself permission to grieve what could have been so that I could make space for what will be.

I remind myself that even in nature, before a tree lets go of its leaves, there is a process. The vibrant green of summer fades into deep reds, oranges, and yellows—a signal that change is coming. Then, when the time is right, the tree releases, allowing what no longer serves to fall away.

It does not fight the process. It does not mourn the loss of the leaves. It trusts that shedding is part of its cycle.

Can we learn to do the same?

Supremacy Culture and the Fear of Letting Go

Supremacy culture teaches us to fear release. It tells us that letting go is failure, that endings should be avoided at all costs. It instills in us a scarcity mindset, whispering that if we lose something, we may never have anything as good again.

This fear keeps us in jobs that drain us, relationships that hurt us, and identities that no longer fit. It convinces us to cling to things long past their expiration date, afraid that if we let them go, we will be left with nothing.

But this is a lie.

Shedding is not loss—it is transformation.

Letting go does not leave us empty—it makes space for what’s next.

When we release the belief that holding on is the only way to be whole, we free ourselves from the grip of scarcity. We make room for new beginnings.

What Are You Holding Onto?

It’s easy to think of release as something external—cutting ties with people, leaving jobs, moving away. But the most profound shedding often happens internally.

We hold onto beliefs about ourselves that no longer serve us. We grip tightly to identities that keep us small. We carry narratives about our worth, our place in the world, and what we are allowed to desire.

So I ask you: “What are you holding onto that no longer serves you?’

For me, it was the belief that I had to prove my worth through struggle. That love meant endurance. That motherhood, marriage, and friendships should always be self-sacrificing. That if something ended, it meant I had failed.

I learned that lesson for the first time at 26, when I let go of my first marriage—the one with my eldest child's father. I was a teen bride, and even though I knew deep down that it might not last, I still prayed for forever. Being raised Irish Catholic, the weight of that ending felt like a colossal failure, like I had broken a sacred vow that should have been unshakable.

But through that loss, I learned something that made my second divorce easier to understand. That first heartbreak prepared me for the inevitability of impermanence, teaching me that just because something ends doesn’t mean it wasn’t meaningful. I learned to mourn what could have been, to celebrate what was, and to love deeper—because love, too, can be temporary. And temporary does not mean unworthy. Temporary does not mean failure. Temporary means it existed, it mattered, and it shaped me.

Letting go of these beliefs has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it has also been one of the most freeing.

What would it feel like to loosen your grip—even if just for a moment?

Releasing With Intention: Practices for Letting Go

• Letting go is not a one-time event. It is a practice, a cycle, a lifelong unfolding. Here are some ways to move through this process with intention:

• Ritual of Release – Write down what you are ready to let go of—a belief, a relationship, an old identity. Burn the paper, bury it, or release it into water. Let it physically leave your hands.

• Breathwork for Surrender – As you inhale, visualize yourself holding on. As you exhale, picture the release. Let your breath teach your body that it is safe to let go.

• Body Work & Movement – Sometimes, release isn’t just mental—it’s stored in our bodies. Dance, stretch, shake, cry. Let your body be part of the shedding.

• Altar to What Was – If you are grieving a deep loss, create an altar with objects, letters, or images that honor what you are saying goodbye to. Spend time with it, then dismantle it when you’re ready.

• Trust the Void – After we let go, there is often a period of emptiness. This is normal. Do not rush to fill the space. Trust that clarity will come.