I Stopped Managing My Life. It Didn't Fall Apart.
You don't have to wait until it feels safe to loosen your grip.
A personal experiment in non-attachment, letting go of control, and learning to trust the present moment
I didn't stop controlling my life because I trusted something better. I stopped because I was exhausted.
Instead of Dry January, I ran a different experiment. I stopped trying to manage outcomes—quietly, without fanfare. No vow. No announcement. I wasn't testing discipline or making a point. I was curious what would happen if I loosened my grip on the future and stayed with what was actually in front of me.
This meant a whole new approach to how I live and work.
As a lifelong planner, I knew this wouldn't be easy. I live to plan. I create to-do lists. I get genuinely intoxicated by the feeling of a smooth felt-tip pen in my hand, marking a task complete. That small, satisfying drag of ink across paper has carried me through decades of responsibility.
Planning has always been how I create safety.
My former career rewarded that instinct. Strategic plans. Risk mitigation. Contingencies for problems that didn't yet exist. Precision wasn't optional. It was the job.
And it worked.
Until it didn't.
What Over-Control Really Looks Like (And What It Costs)
Over-control, for me, was rigidity.
I changed my entire life after my husband died. I changed careers to work in the healing arts—a path I never saw coming, never imagined would be part of my story. But the thread running through all of it, through every career, through this new business I'm now running, has been the same: continuous improvement. Always working harder to be better. To succeed. To justify why I'm here. To prove I'm worthy.
A never-ending grind to be accepted. To be seen a certain way. To finally come into my own.
And then one day, I saw it clearly: this is a race with no finish line. I've always been living in the future.
What about who I am today—isn't that good enough?
What if my attachment to some future version of myself is the very thing blocking me from being fully here now? Being who I already am—isn't that the whole point?
I only have now. There is no future. So who am I perfecting this persona for? And for whom?
Forty-plus years of this pattern finally caught up with me. I was weakened. My blood pressure—elevated for the first time in my life. I've always been healthy. This wasn't supposed to happen to me.
Something needed to shift.
This was my moment to let go.
What Non-Attachment Actually Means (It's Not What I Thought)
When I first encountered the idea of non-attachment, I misunderstood it.
Non-attachment sounded like emotional withdrawal with better language.
I wanted peace, but not at the cost of being disengaged or dull. I wanted to grow, but I was tired of striving. I wanted results, but I was exhausted by carrying the weight of a future that might never pan out.
Most advice collapsed into some version of "just let go," which felt vague and unhelpful. If letting go were simple, I would have done it already.
What I didn't realize then was that the problem wasn't caring.
It was gripping.
The Letting-Go Experiment I Didn't Believe In
At some point, I ran an experiment—not because I believed in it, but because I was tired.
What if I planned less?
What if I pretended I was retired and this new business was simply a passion project—something I didn't need anything from other than the experience of doing it?
What if, for a while, I let intuition decide the next small action instead of a list?
What if I stopped checking whether something "worked" and just let it exist?
None of this was disciplined or clean.
Some days, I slipped right back into old habits. Other days, I was in the flow, creating just for the sake of creating.
I wasn't trying to become non-attached. That would have turned it into another project.
UGGG!!
What I was really doing was watching what happened when I stopped supervising everything so closely.
How Letting Go Changed My Daily Life
The changes weren't dramatic. They were practical.
I finished things and didn't immediately look for feedback. Not as a rule—it just didn't occur to me.
I stopped polishing past the point of aliveness. I stopped narrating every decision. I stopped asking whether something meant anything about me.
And because I wasn't narrating, I was listening.
Ideas came without being chased. Time moved differently. Work felt like expression again.
Even my morning practices shifted.
For five years before starting this business, I've had dedicated daily rituals. Meditation. Breathwork. Mantras. Reflection. Body communication. Religiously. Sure, there are days I miss—but most, not. I genuinely love these practices.
But I started noticing something: they were becoming rigid. Dutiful. Less alive.
So I edited them. Simplified. What I needed five years ago isn't what I need now. I've integrated the learning. The question became: what does this version of me actually need?
Turns out, less.
I do fewer practices in the morning now. And I feel better. Lighter. The world didn't fall apart. I'm still responsible. Still aware.
I'm just letting go. And letting me be me.
How Non-Attachment Transformed My Relationships
I turned my attention to my relationships.
Since COVID and the death of my husband, I hadn't spent much time actively making new friends. Life had narrowed in ways I didn't fully notice at first, and working from home alone wasn't exactly an environment that encouraged spontaneity or connection. I wanted 2026 to feel different—more fun, more alive, more relational—but I wasn't sure how to get there without turning it into another project.
So I changed my orientation.
Instead of seeking friends, I decided to see what would happen if I let myself be someone others might naturally move toward.
As a planner, I'm usually the one who reaches out first. I come with ideas, links, suggestions for things we might enjoy together. I research. I coordinate. I put energy into making connection happen.
This time, I didn't.
I kept doing things I genuinely enjoyed. I let my days unfold without scanning for opportunities to initiate or follow up. I didn't check my phone for responses or tell myself stories about what it meant if no one reached out. I let myself be okay either way.
What surprised me was how quickly things shifted.
Without planning, my calendar began to fill. Invitations came. Plans took shape. People reached out—without prompting, without effort, without research on my part.
What Stays When You Stop Controlling Outcomes
What surprised me wasn't permanent calm.
Life simply felt lighter.
Decisions felt cleaner. Work took less time because anxiety wasn't layered on top of action. Money flowed without being chased. I noticed after the fact.
One afternoon, I realized I'd finished a piece of work and walked away without checking anything.
No response. No confirmation. It didn't even cross my mind.
Non-attachment isn't a state you reach. It shows up as a series of small absences:
Publishing without tracking reception. Ending conversations without replay. Allowing joy without turning it into proof. Letting disappointment pass without self-judgment. Finishing without waiting to be told it counted.
You still care. You just stop gripping the outcome to justify the care.
What I Was Afraid to Lose (And Didn't)
There were things I thought would disappear if I let go.
My edge. My standards. The part of me that cares deeply and wants things to matter.
That didn't happen.
I still cared. I still worked hard. I still held myself to a high bar.
What changed was how much it cost me to do that.
I wasn't arguing with myself all day. I wasn't replaying every decision, wondering if it meant something about my worth. I stopped hovering over my own life, checking to see if I was doing it right.
I didn't lose ambition.
I lost the constant self-surveillance that made ambition feel heavy.
And I won't pretend it was an instant shift. There are still moments when I feel the old reflex rise—the urge to tighten, to monitor, to make sure this is going somewhere.
The difference now is that I notice it.
And I don't hand it the wheel.
Learning to Trust the Present Moment
I'm only a month into this new way of showing up.
There's a part of me that wonders if I'll slip back into the old pattern—watching myself too closely, looking for confirmation that I'm doing enough. That reflex has been with me a long time.
But that kind of worry lives in the future. And the future is where I used to place my worth.
For now, it's enough to stay here—present to what's real, instead of rehearsing what may never come.
These days, when I pick up that felt-tip pen, I'm not chasing completion. I'm just making a mark. And that's enough.