Between Holding On and Letting Be

I saw an Instagram reel … and it landed.

@BRITCHILD INSTAGRAM

You know the kind where you might first notice the colours, the imagery, the music… but it’s the words that stay with you. Not just the words themselves, but the way they are held, delivered, felt.

This one stayed.

And maybe you have one like that too, a post or a reel you return to, not because of how it looks, but because of how it meets you.

Last week was a challenging week.

The kind where you’re waiting… waiting for an outcome, for something to be decided, for something outside of your control to finally land. And before that? Silence. No support. No encouragement. Just… the waiting.

If you understand Complex PTSD, you’ll understand this isn’t just “waiting.”

It creates a ripple effect. A cascade.

The unknowing.
The hyperarousal.
The constant scanning.

Your nervous system doesn’t shut down, it ramps up. It goes on high alert, watching, bracing, anticipating. Cortisol and adrenaline moving through a body that is already tired… already holding so much… already ageing.

And it’s not just emotional.

It’s physical.
It’s inflammatory.

It impacts everything how we show up, how we think, how we hold others, how we hold ourselves.

It’s the response we’ve learned to survive.

And then this post, these words… landed in a space I thought was impossible to access.

Because lately, in our practitioner spaces, we’ve been talking about this exact thing how do we support someone who says they want to let go but they’re still holding on?

And the truth is I’ve been holding on.

For a long time.

Sometimes I have to pause and ask myself why?

Why am I still holding on?

There’s still a pull but am I willing to pay the price of that pull?

Because it’s not just emotional anymore.

It’s physical.

And I don’t know if this body has the capacity to keep carrying it.

Freedom.

What does that even mean as a parent… as a caregiver?

In a world where everything feels unstable, where we’re almost forced into being “tribal” again, but without the tools, the safety, the understanding of what that actually requires.

And then there’s grief.

We often associate grief with losing something we had.

But this grief is different.

This is grieving what was never there.

And what this reel showed me, what I needed to see was the in-between.

The space I’ve been avoiding.

The truth I didn’t want to fully feel

I can’t save you.

I’ve walked this path of wanting to step away, knowing I needed space for my own healing and then stepping back in, thinking I needed to stay, to show up, to hold it all together for someone else.

For them.

They may never fully understand that this was always about them.

Their needs.
Their pain.
Their survival.

Yes, maybe I would have benefited to, but that was never the intention.

I wasn’t chasing outcomes.
I wasn’t chasing things.

I was searching for something deeper.

To belong.

To feel like who I am isn’t defined by someone else’s narrative. To undo the imprint of someone who hurt us so deeply that it fractured trust, not just in others, but within ourselves.

And still…

I watch you.

I see the spiralling.

And there’s this ache, this pull to step in, to help, to soften it for you.

“If I just do this… maybe you’ll breathe easier.”
“If I just hold this… maybe you’ll try.”
“Maybe you’ll show up… not just for us, but for yourself.”

I’ve walked on eggshells.
I’ve shaped myself around what you needed.
Around what you held onto.

Narratives formed in childhood that feel so true, but are really just fragments. Interpretations. Protective layers.

And as I write this, I know there’s a possibility of loss.

But the truth?

I’ve already grieved so much of that.

And still…

I can’t save you.

This is the part I have to keep coming back to.

Not just saying it, but feeling it.

Letting it sit.
Letting it be uncomfortable.
Letting it exist without rushing to fix it or soften it.

Because there’s something in that space.

Something important.

I love you.

And in many ways, I feel like I’ve had more time to understand what that means, or at least to try.

I thought I could carry it for both of us.

Make up for what was missing.

But life has a way of revealing things especially when the bandaid is ripped off, when loss forces truth into the open.

And I’ve had to ask…

Where was my place in your world?

Where did I actually exist in your orbit?

Hearing the words “I can’t save you” this time felt different.

I didn’t hold my breath.

I didn’t resist it.

I recognised the truth in it.

And for the first time…

Freedom didn’t feel so far away.

Not because everything is resolved.
Not because the pain is gone.

But because I’m allowing something to be what it is.

We don’t always have to heal everything immediately.

We don’t always have to “let go” on demand.

Sometimes…

We just need the tools, a space to be held and the capacity to sit with what’s there.

Because when we build that capacity to sit in the discomfort, to not rush the process, something shifts.

We create choice.

Choice to notice:

Why am I holding on?
What is this doing for me?
What am I afraid will happen if I let go?

And maybe just for now we don’t need to let it go.

We just need to sit a little closer to the truth.

To the feeling.

To the words:

I can’t save you.

And in that, maybe we begin to find ourselves.