Surrender

The beauty in letting go …and maybe a new tattoo

I’ve made it over five decades without adding a tattoo to my body but lately have been thinking about changing that. The vision that keeps coming to mind is the word “surrender,” perhaps with a small butterfly to signify hope, and to remind me of my grandmother, Mimi, and her silent strength.

This vision encompasses two fundamental aspects to healing oneself: surrender and hope.

In Buddhism, surrender is seen as a necessary step toward peace and enlightenment. Over the past ten months, since I told my husband I wanted a divorce, surrender has shown up everywhere in my life, whether I invited it or not. It’s been whispering to me from every corner of my life as I navigate tremendous loss in a short amount of time.

For someone like me—a Type A, control-everything kind of person—surrender feels impossible. Letting go doesn’t come naturally. How am I supposed to believe that if I stop pushing so hard, the right path will appear? It’s even harder to stop wanting to control my ex: to get him to “do the right thing,” to correct his version of our story that has caused so much division, to salvage relationships with people who’ve believed him. (The neighborhood dog sitter—seriously?)

But I see it now. I cannot control others, nor their storytelling. I couldn’t - can’t - control the deaths of my two dogs, the progression of my Mother’s Alzheimer’s, or the wildfires burning the homes of many friends. I can’t control the political decisions of others, my son moving halfway across the country, nor the endless list of things I wish were different.

Control is a lie we tell ourselves to feel safe.

Life is messy. It’s painful, chaotic, and unpredictable. It’s also stunningly beautiful. The LA fires are a poignant example of this: people are losing so much, politicians are using them as pawns, insurance companies are abandoning them, and the future is uncertain. Yet among the ash are stories of humanity, strength, and unity. People helping each other. People setting aside fame, politics, and fear to step up for one another. They are sharing resources, offering shelter, and helping total strangers. Even in disaster, there’s hope.

Surrender.

The future will reveal itself. And the now is already here - you are already navigating it.

Surrender is a form of faith. A belief that the universe has a plan for us and even if the path seems crumbled and confusing, intimidating and difficult, it is there for us.

When I shared this vision with my friend Anna, she surprised me. “No way would I get that tattoo,” she said. “That’s basically saying you give up.” Her words stuck with me, but I realized surrender isn’t about giving up—it’s about accepting what is.

Surrender means trusting that you’ll figure out the next step, even if you don’t know the whole plan yet.

Surrender is also a form of freedom. There is profound beauty in letting go.

My parents liked to say, “Let go and let God.” I keep my spiritual beliefs to myself but I can see the wisdom in it. Whether “God” means a higher power, the universe, or something inside yourself, the point is the same: holding on too tightly just makes things harder.

Letting go doesn’t mean inaction. But it does mean that you stop wasting energy on things you can’t change and focus on what you can—calling the insurance company, filing legal paperwork, spending time with people who truly support you vs. trying to win over the ones who don’t.

To surrender doesn’t mean that you erase the hard parts of life. It doesn’t mean avoiding pain, fear, or grief. It means facing them. Surrendering to them. Trusting that you’ll get through.

I think of the butterfly I might tattoo on my body. It’s small, but powerful—a reminder that transformation is possible, even in the most difficult of times. The caterpillar doesn’t know what’s ahead when it spins its cocoon. It just takes the next step. After some painful and ugly transition, it emerges a more beautiful being than it ever imagined.

Some days, the weight feels unbearable. And yet, I keep moving—sometimes inch by inch, but forward all the same. I, too, hope to emerge more beautiful than ever.

Surrender to the difficulty, but don’t give up. Surrender to the belief that if you keep moving forward, the path will become clear. Maybe not today nor tomorrow. But eventually, it will. Maybe that’s what surrender really is: choosing to take the next step, even when you don’t have all the answers.

So, should I get that tattoo?