Let Go or Be Dragged

The light streamed in through a sun-filled window overlooking a lake dotted with baby ducks playing in the fountain spray. We had taken our time strolling around the edge of the water before stepping inside, carrying that calm with us as best we could. But once we entered the office of the assisted-living community, the air shifted—we were back to pros and cons, fears and possibilities.

The room itself was disarmingly beautiful—mint green couch with gold trim, sunlight spilling across a polished wood table, the faint scent of lavender drifting from a diffuser in the corner. A place designed to soothe, to calm, to make a life-altering decision feel manageable.

I sat beside Charlie on that couch, my hand resting on her knee as she cried. We were talking through permanence, cost, change—the weight of what it means to uproot everything and start over at this stage of life.

And then, through breathy tears, she looked at the sales director and said:

“It’s just so hard for me because I don’t have any family.”

The air seemed to pause. My jaw tightened. My eyes lifted just slightly. I noticed the sales director shift in her chair, pen stilled in her hand.

Her words hung there, fragile and heavy at the same time.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t give the sales director a look. I didn’t argue.

I just nodded faintly, smiled in the smallest way, and thought to myself: Okay. I see we agree on that. And maybe it’s good to be reminded of it.

Because here’s the reality: this isn’t a Disney movie. It’s not a fairytale ending where estranged mothers and daughters magically reconcile. We are not a family—not in the way people want to imagine.

But that doesn’t mean we’re not something.
It doesn’t mean we’re not two people, sitting side by side, working together toward a shared goal.

No illusions. No false hope. Just collaboration in reality.

And that’s enough.

That moment on the couch crystallized what this whole season has been teaching me: expectations will drag you if you let them.

When I expect my mother to recognize me, I get dragged by disappointment.
When I expect her to thank me, I get dragged by resentment.
When I expect us to rewrite history, I get dragged by heartbreak.

It’s sharp. It’s heavy. It’s exhausting.

Letting go of those expectations doesn’t mean I stop caring. It means I stop bleeding energy into illusions. It means I stay present for what is—two people facing a shared task.

That’s the work in front of me. Not rewriting the past. Not forcing reconciliation. Just showing up for reality, moment by moment, without being dragged.

When she said she had no family, I felt it in my body—like a rope pulling hard against my palms.

The truth is, I’d been saying that for years. But It did have a different ring to it coming out of her mouth. I wanted to grip. To fight. To correct the record.
But clutching only burns.

It’s like a rope sliding through your hands: the harder you squeeze, the deeper the blisters. And I’ve carried those burns before—the ache of unmet expectations, the sting of resentment.

On that couch, I loosened my grip. I let the rope slip through instead of dragging me raw. And in the space that opened up, I felt relief.

That’s what letting go looks like in real time. Not elegant. Not triumphant. Just a quiet choice to release before the burning gets worse.

Letting go, I realized on that couch, didn’t mean walking away or shutting down.

It meant staying steady while she cried, without rushing in to fix or rescue. It meant keeping my own center while still holding her hand. It meant letting her feel the weight of her choices instead of taking them all onto my shoulders.

Letting go wasn’t abandoning her—it was refusing to abandon myself.

And that’s the work for all of us. We don’t escape the current by pretending it isn’t moving. We find our strength by meeting reality as it is, without being dragged under by it.

Every day, I practice it in small ways.

Letting go of the fantasy that she’ll change.
Letting go of the expectation that she’ll finally see me.
Letting go of the urge to fix everything for her.

And with each release, I notice: I have more energy for what’s actually mine. I can stay grounded in reality, not illusion. I can show up for the task at hand without losing myself in it.

Some days I still grip too tightly and get dragged, blistered and bruised. But the more I practice, the quicker I recognize it, and the faster I release.

I don’t know what your version of the mint-green couch moment looks like.

Maybe it’s sitting across from someone who will never love you the way you hoped.
Maybe it’s showing up to a job that doesn’t recognize your worth.
Maybe it’s living inside a story about yourself that’s far too small.

When I notice myself holding on too tightly, I’ve started asking:

Maybe those questions are worth asking yourself too.

Because the choice is always the same: let go, or be dragged.

When I think back to that moment on the couch, my hand on her knee while she said she had no family, what stays with me is the reminder:

This is not a Disney movie.
This is not a fairytale ending.

We are not a family—not in the way people want us to be.

But we are something.
Two people collaborating on a shared task. Two lives intersecting in the present moment.

And that’s enough.

Because letting go doesn’t only stop the dragging—it frees your hands.

Hands that were once blistered from holding too tightly are suddenly open again. Open to healing. Open to peace. Open to whatever comes next.

Letting go isn’t just how you stop being dragged.

It’s how you start moving freely toward the life that’s waiting for you.

So wherever you are—whether it’s in a living room, an office, or on a mint-green couch in an assisted-living community—remember:

Let go, or be dragged.

-Sunny