The tao of letting go

“To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders.” — Lao Tzu

Lao Tzu is traditionally believed to have lived in the 6th century BCE during the Zhou Dynasty in ancient China. Historical details about him are sparse and debated, but classical sources describe him as a record-keeper or archivist in the imperial court. He would have been educated, observant, and positioned close enough to political power to see its ambitions and anxieties firsthand.

According to tradition, he became disillusioned with the moral and political decay of the time. Rather than remain within a system driven by control and rigidity, he chose to leave. At the western border, a guard recognized his wisdom and asked him to record his teachings before departing. Lao Tzu then wrote the Tao Te Ching, a short text of 81 chapters outlining the Tao (the Way), a principle of natural order, balance, and alignment with the rhythms of existence. After writing it, he left and was not heard from again.

The teachings centered on non-force (wu wei), humility, softness, and the paradox that yielding often proves stronger than resistance. That is the foundation of Taoism.

If I were not a Christian, I suspect this would have been my faith. Not because it is easier. But I have always loved the way Taoism reads nature as scripture. The way it looks at water and sees wisdom. It does not romanticize surrender; it recognizes it as intelligence. And perhaps that is why it unsettles me. Because I am not fluid.

When the past does not unfold according to the blueprint I drafted in my imagination, I do not adjust gracefully. I freeze. I replay. I build arguments with ghosts. I remain loyal to versions of myself that never came into being. There is something in me that believes if I hold onto the past tightly enough, I can preserve its possibility. As if clinging could reverse what has already happened. As if fixation were a form of faithfulness.

But the Tao says something different. It says that clinging is what breaks us.

The river does not attempt to return upstream and renegotiate the bend. It does not demand that the mountain apologize for standing in its way. It yields, and in yielding, continues. I, however, have stood at the site of disappointment as though it were sacred ground. I have mistaken stillness for depth. I have called my inability to pivot “discernment,” when often it is fear of becoming someone shaped by a different story than the one I preferred.

Taoism would ask me to look at the trees in autumn.

They do not consider leaf-fall betrayal.

They release.

There is a quiet dignity in the kind of trust that falls away; it is not theft but transition.

My Christianity teaches surrender to God’s will. Taoism teaches surrender to the Way. They are not adversaries in my heart. They are parallel invitations.

Both ask me to unclench.

Both ask me to stop worshipping at the shrine of my expectations.

I am learning that my fixation on the past is less about pain and more about identity. If I let go of what was supposed to happen, who do I become? If I pivot, do I admit that the first plan failed?

But the Tao whispers that identity is not something we defend; it is something we inhabit as it unfolds. The soft becomes the stream. The stream becomes the river. The river becomes the sea. Nothing insists on remaining what it was.

And here I stand, unable to live in yesterday, unwilling to embrace tomorrow, suspended in the ache between them.

Taoism does not rush me. It does not condemn me.

It simply points to the water and says, "You were never meant to harden here."

Letting go, I am realizing, is not erasing the past. It is refusing to fossilize around it.

If I were not a Christian, perhaps I would sit beside a river and call that church.

But even as I kneel in my own faith, I can feel the wisdom of the Way moving through it—reminding me that surrender is not weakness.

It is movement without violence.

And I am tired of standing still.

“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”— Lao Tzu

In The Tao of Letting Go, the emphasis is not on theory. It is on awareness.

The language is direct:

Recognizing contraction.

The dissolving process.

Letting go internally and externally.

Dissolving fear.

Dissolving emotions.

Always dissolve downwards.

Meditation is a circular process.

That language matters.

Because this is not intellectual detachment. It is not pretending I don’t care. It is not bypassing pain. It is mindfulness. It is sitting still long enough to notice where my body is tight. The foundation is simple: tension is contraction. Not sin. Not weakness. Not failure.

Contraction. When something hurts, the body tightens. The jaw locks. The chest closes. The breath shortens. That tightening once protected me. It was intelligent. It kept me safe.

But when the threat is gone, the contraction often remains.

The Tao does not tell me to fight it. It tells me to notice it.

Through meditation, I begin by becoming present. I observe the body. I observe the breath. I recognize tension without judgment. That is “recognizing contraction.”

Then comes the dissolving process. I do not argue with the memory. I do not analyze the story. I do not force myself to forgive. I feel where the tension lives. And I let it soften.

The teaching says: always dissolve downwards. That means I let the tension move down through the body instead of rising into rumination. Instead of tightening my chest further, I breathe. I allow the contraction to melt like ice becoming water.

Letting go happens in the body first. The mind follows.

The book speaks about letting go internally and externally. Externally, you may move on. You may leave a situation. But internally, you may still be braced. Meditation reveals that difference. You can walk away from something physically and still carry it in your nervous system. The practice is not dramatic. It is repetitive. Meditation is described as a circular process. You notice tension. You soften. It returns. You soften again. Over time, fear dissolves. Emotions loosen. You move beyond being trapped in the past, present, or future because you are anchored in what is happening now.

I froze because the contraction saved me. But the Tao would say, "When the snake is gone, dissolve," not argue. Not rehearse. Not relive; dissolve. The cobra. The freeze. The fixation on the past. The unwillingness to pivot; all contractions.

Taoism is not asking me to forget what happened. It is asking me to stop bracing against it.

The river does not clench. It yields.

Letting go, in this way, is not emotional numbness. It is mindful awareness. It is learning to notice:

where I am tight, where I am holding, and where I am resisting what has already passed.

And then softening.

My fixation on the past is internal contraction. My freezing instead of pivoting is energy stuck at the moment of threat.

The Tao does not shame that.

It teaches me how to release it, one breath at a time.

• If the river never argues with the mountain, why are you still arguing with yesterday?

• Can you sit for five minutes and simply notice your breath without fixing anything?

• When you replay a memory, are you seeking understanding or control?

• What would it mean to soften instead of solve?

• Are you holding onto something because it still hurts, or because releasing it would change who you are?

• Where are you braced against what has already happened?

• If the threat is gone, what would dissolving look like today?

• What are you carrying internally that you have already left externally?

• What would it feel like, not to forget, but to unclench?