The Art of Letting Go

I wrote this note down back in 2024 as I was contemplating what it was that I was feeling. I had been teetering back and forth moving rhythmically as if in this mental dance with this thought for what felt like forever. I had given myself a timeline; until my youngest entered kindergarten. It was my goal to decide by then, and it was fast approaching.

Ever since I was a child, I imagined being a mother of three, like my own mom. But life presented a different reality for me, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it yet. I envisioned a little bun head twirling around in circles on stage. Happy to have fostered my boys’ interest in dance had it arisen. Though, instead, their joy for movement, was intrinsic and a response to music that was joyful. It was intuitive. I did not want to squander the beauty in that. Their natural ability was enough, along with our spontaneous dance competitions, and dance parties. It was more than enough. It was perfect, just as it was. As it is.

Sometime during this last year, my eldest made a rather insightful comment. He wanted us to plant another baby seed and make a baby girl. This new baby would be specifically made for me so that one day I had someone to play with too—like he had his brother and dad. I was the only female in the home. Afterall, even tiny Tuko is male, even if he is my shady and my littlest cuddle bug.

I had always grown up with boys as siblings. I enjoyed it. I really did. I didn't know any different. I liked feeling tough. I guess it made me feel strong being referred to as little, but mighty—figuring out ways to meander out of wrestling holds my twin just had to test out on me! Regardless of what obstacle I faced, I would find ways to be included. Whether they liked it or not, got annoyed, or just accepted it, they would give in! Feisty little Mel weaseled her way in or used her girl power, claiming injury regardless of whether she had merely been tapped on the arm or actually been hurt! Sorry guys! If you’re reading this now, I know these apologies are about 30-35 years too late. Perhaps the screaming and yelling wasn’t always the best way of handling things. Neither was forcing you into playing with me. I just felt left out and it had proven to work for me. I loved being around you both and wanted in the boys’ club too! I suppose this little historical flashback into my past is a tiny piece of my puzzle. In part, it's a depth of my empathy, or a glimpse how I'm able to observe and recognize these emotions in others. Words optional.

So, I am a boy mom.

It is who I am!

They are the best. They are my world!

And as I trickle my thoughts back on track. I find myself here at the sight of acceptance.

The note I had written back in ‘24 was shared with my husband and a few friends. It was during my quiet war within. You know, the one that no one sees, but aches beneath the surface and churns into a chaotic mess? Yes, that one.

I was coming close to an understanding with myself.

I will place these words here for you to read now:

“I think part of these recent mixed emotions about whether to grow another life form or not is ultimately, grief! Grief upon letting go of this chapter of our life and finding acceptance moving forward into a new one—in search of finding another baby to nurture (perhaps in a metaphorical sense) fostering further growth and development within ourselves, our relationship, and reaching for more fulfillment somewhere. Determining what that something or somewhere may be is where I find myself experiencing inner turmoil.”

And as I come out of hibernation, among the animals who'd been resting peacefully I feel anew.

There’s a quiet, radiant power in acceptance—a transformation that feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. It’s beauty of surrender, not in defeat, but in devotion.

In choosing to let go, I made room for joy, for clarity, for the kind of love that softens and steadies.

The anchors I once clung to now rest peacefully on the ocean floor, their weight no longer mine to carry. Above them, I rise—drawn not by the loss, but by the pull of something new: goals that have waited patiently in the depths, now ready to be nurtured into bloom.

With Love,

Melanie Watts