The power of letting go
If you were an 80s kid, you might remember Mr. Belvedere, a tv show about the seasoned, sophisticated butler hired to attend to a family in Pittsburgh while the dad’s career in sports reporting grew, the mom completed law school, and the three kids balanced school, sports, and their own activities.
At first, the arrangement was awkward and strained, as Mr. Belvedere’s expectations of appropriate family behavior was tested. With time though, he and the family did adapt to (and adopt ways of) each other, finding mutual respect through gratitude.
At the end of all but two episodes in the 5-year series, Mr. Belvedere is shown sitting at his desk, writing in a brown leather journal (complete with a fancy ribbon placeholder), reflecting on the day. He must have found journaling cathartic as he worked through whatever shenanigans that troublemaker Wesley put him through which, in turn, taught Mr. Belvedere important lessons as well.
I watched reruns at any opportunity, sitting crisscross on the carpet with eyes locked on the tv, as he filled the pages of that handsome journal with a concerted analysis of everyday life, seeking to understand the human dilemma of relationships and happiness, questioning his own black-and-white views, and smirking when humbled by an unexpected epiphany.
I wanted a journal just like it.
It was 1991, I was ten.
Writing to release
My mom understood the assignment and found one for $4 at K-Mart. It was beige with pink flowers on it – not a tiny locking diary — but a proper 9x7” writing journal for grown-ups.
It wasn’t leather, nor did it have a ribbon like Mr. Belvedere’s, but I was pleased with it.
I immediately opened it flat, like he did, and began writing in my best cursive, seated at the painted-white, round wooden table in my bedroom. It was the first of at least 11 journals I would fill between 1991 and 1999, through my 18th birthday, cataloging the trials of tween-dom and teen-agery, the drama of having a (gross) brother and (ugh) parents, the coming and going of crushes, and all the deep, tormented thoughts in between.
I kept those 11 journals for a long time. And while there were more that came after them through college and early adulthood, those 11 held everything that an adolescent girl goes through before she even knows herself.
The journals moved from my parents’ house to college to apartments to condos to my own houses as I aged. Each time, finding a new shelf, tucked away in a closet or drawer, safe and sound.
Every couple years or so, I’d flip through their pages and come back to the emotions and frustrations of growing up:
moving towns and changing schools in 5th grade
being the new kid whose house keys were thrown out a bus window
taking required (and naked) group showers after gym class in middle school
chronicling the first time a boy made me do something I didn’t want to do
and all the other stuff that families keep within their walls
The pages held the good, the bad, and the ugly of adolescence. They preserved the immaturity of a child and a lack of life experience and knowledge. They memorialized others’ mistakes without context and kept disagreements freshly refrigerated.
At almost 40 years old, I realized the childhood journals had to go. These pieces of me that I lovingly hand-selected for their color and cover design, the feel of the pages, and the way they stacked on a shelf… I’d even said that if there were ever a fire, they would be what I’d grab before fleeing the house.
Holding on too tightly can tear us apart, though, can’t it?
Letting go of the past
I spent the last 3 months of my 39th year outlining what I wanted the rest of my life to look like. I was turning 40 on January 13, 2021, and all I knew is that there wasn’t any room or time for heartbreak, self-doubt, or holding on to trauma.
When I realized that each journal catalogued memories of, sure happiness, but also struggle, and every tough moment was frozen in the pages to be relived over and over like a skipping record, I knew I had to say goodbye to them and forgive myself (and others) in order to live a truly peaceful life.
After all those years of keeping them safe, I decided to throw them away.
It was not a ritual bonfire purging you might expect, but a simple “shoving as-is into the kitchen garbage” method.
With the stack in my hands, I closed my eyes, took a moment to thank them for serving the purpose of listening without judgment and keeping my secrets without blame, and then I pushed them deep down, compacting last night’s leftovers at the same time.
Releasing them felt like an important part of a healing journey I’d been on and would continue trekking for several more years.
I would never have been able to release my unresolved trauma without first freeing myself and the people in my life from our unapologetic state of being human and therefore, our flaws.
As a grown adult, mom, publishing professional, and citizen of this planet, I saw more clearly that we hold ourselves and each other to unrealistic expectations, on pedestals we can never reach — which is entirely missing the point. My (and other people’s) dark moments are lessons that should facilitate growth, and yet we don’t have to remain tethered to their shadows with shackles.
The pages of my journals amplified anxiety, insecurity, anger, victimhood, and self-doubt. By letting the pages leave my existence, I could let the feelings go, too — and achieve something I never knew I needed – forgiveness.
Forgiving yourself and others
I finally saw myself and others as unique individuals trudging our own path, separate, but alongside each other, as we each seek to live our best life and grow into our life’s purpose. I departed from what each person was to me and replaced that with who they are independent of me. My limited experiences did not define them.
My parents, brother, grandparents, friends, boyfriends, enemies — everyone around me became their own, fully-rounded entity apart from my experience. They were beautiful in their flaws. And so was I.
This ego-driven world teaches us to put ourselves in the center of the universe. When, in fact, stepping outside ourselves and observing from a distance gives us a much clearer picture of reality. You’ve heard that everyone has a story, and every story has three sides: yours, mine, and the truth.
Learning how to take the “I”, “me”, “mine” out of the equation allows us to witness without judgment, respond instead of react, and better challenge ourselves every time heated emotions bubble up.
What fuels these emotions anyway? Our egos, of course.
Frustration, impatience, and exhaustion are all a part of life — learning to manage these emotions while doing as little damage to ourselves and others is key. What Mr. Belvedere knew is that writing is a great way to organize our priorities, affirm our values, and “bake-in” how we want to think, feel, and act everyday.
Writing keeps us rational. Paper is the friend that helps us inspect every angle so we can see the truth more clearly.
That’s how I write today — not as a child that doesn’t understand humanity’s cruelty or why people act or say the things they do. Not as a young teen at the center of her own universe, clutching entitlement without yet knowing hard work or sacrifice.
Today, I write to heal. I write to release. I write to say sorry. I write to find hope. I write to calm anxiety and regroup from swirling mind chatter.
I ask you to try it. Make a list of things you love. Bullet what’s bothering you. Write down what’s on your mind (just like Mr. Belvedere did). Step outside your ego, and release the trapped energy.
But remember, don’t hold on to the shadows for too long. Letting them go is the best part, I promise.
©2023 Angie Marie Carlson. All rights reserved.
Storytelling explores topics to nurture growth, ignite joy, and promote acceptance. Each day is full of chances. Errors and double plays happen in the same inning, and just like in life, one moment doesn’t make us bad and the other moment doesn’t make us good. We are the beautiful whole — learning, growing, trying, failing, and succeeding over and over again.
