Write to Let Go of the Future
My revelation of the summer, and how it might help you feel less anxious too
Hello Dear One,
I spent this summer doing something different: working in a hotel reception in a tiny Scottish village. I let go of all the stories I had about what that ‘meant’ about me and focused on one intention: having fun. I said yes to (almost) all things, got to know so many new people and rooted myself back in the world. I climbed hills, had kitchen discos, went swimming in the sea and say by bonfires on the beach. It felt expansive and beautiful.
However, a couple of weeks in I started to worry. What will happen when this is over? My monkey mind said. How will I handle it? Will my dog adjust? Winter was terrible last year, will it be that way again? Living with anxiety means these kinds of thoughts – fear-based – are like friends you know will drain you, but – at times – you invite them onto the sofa anyway.
Of course, I journaled on it. What I didn’t expect was for line to shift everything:
I don’t need to know what’s going to happen.
Really.
Mic drop.
Forecasting the future is impossible. Yet, I found myself scripting what I might do or say, going over different scenarios. I know this is a protective part of me, but I also know how much it’s taken away. There have been times when I’ve physically been in beautiful places, with beautiful people, but I haven’t really been there, which makes me deeply sad.
When I realised that all I need to do was stay present, was enjoy the here and now, there was such relief.
This week’s letter is an invitation to explore where you’re spending energy on what isn’t real. Can you repeat I don’t need to know what’s going to happen to yourself? Or find words that unlock something similar for you?
There were plenty of days, particularly on the west coast of Scotland, where rain was forecast. It often turned out glorious anyway.
Thanks for being here and being you.
All love,
Jo
If you feel a need for space, encouragement and nourishing support with journaling join me for ninety minutes of it. All welcome, you simply need a notebook, pen and cosy, quiet space where you won’t be disturbed.
7.30 pm this Thursday 22nd September, it would be beautiful to see you there.