Blog Letting Go Gemma

The Weight of Wings: When Love Becomes a Cage

I was walking the other day along the old fire road behind my cabin when I saw it: a young pine sapling, no taller than my knee, pushing stubbornly through a crack in the granite ledge. It wasn’t just growing up—it was growing through, its roots gripping the stone with quiet, unyielding determination. That’s when the memory of Liam surfaced, not as a sharp pain, but as a slow, deep current, like the river beneath the mossy stones. I sat on a sun-warmed boulder, the scent of pine resin thick in the air, and realized I’d been walking a similar path for years. Not toward him, but through the illusion that I could carry him. This is the truth I’ve learned, slowly, like a forest learning to heal after fire: Love isn’t about holding someone steady; it’s about trusting them to find their own footing.

The Illusion of the Anchor

For twenty years, I’ve watched rivers carve canyons, not by forcing the stone to yield, but by persistently, patiently, wearing it down. I thought I was doing the same with Liam. I’d rearrange my entire schedule to meet him at the coffee shop before his panic attack, my heart pounding with the urgency of a bird trapped in a room. I’d cancel my own writing retreats to sit with him while he raged against his own reflection in the mirror. I’d research therapists until I knew their bios by heart, then gently, so gently, suggest they might help. I’d even started keeping a small notebook—Liam’s Triggers—with entries like: "3:15 PM: Mentioned ‘old days’ → withdrew into phone, 20 mins later texted ‘sorry’." I was a walking crisis management system, believing that if I just anticipated the storm, I could prevent the flood.

But nature teaches us: a river doesn’t prevent the canyon. It flows through the resistance. And I was the river trying to stop the canyon from forming. I’d become so focused on the next fall, the next self-sabotage, that I stopped seeing Liam as a person with his own storms to weather. I saw only the symptom—the late-night texts, the canceled plans—and treated it like a leaky roof, not a forest learning to grow around a fallen tree. I was the one who’d forgotten that he was the forest, not the roof.

The Turning Point: A Cafe, a Pattern, and a Bird’s Flight

The moment I realized I was suffocating him didn’t come with a shout. It came in a quiet cafe on a Tuesday, rain streaking the windows like tears. Liam was describing a pattern he’d repeated for years: the late-night call, the reckless decision, the crushing shame the next morning. He said it with a flatness that chilled me—“I know it’s bad, but I can’t stop.” And then he looked at me, not with need, but with expectation: “You’ll fix it, right?”

That’s when I saw it. Not just in him, but in myself. I’d been so busy being his anchor that I’d forgotten he was a person who needed to learn how to swim. I’d been trying to be his wings, not helping him grow them. I remembered watching a young raven on the park’s edge last spring. It had fallen from its nest, wings too weak to lift. I’d wanted to catch it, to hold it safe. But the mother raven, with a sharp cry, had flown toward the fallen chick, not away from it. She’d nudged it, not with force, but with insistence, until it flapped—just once, shakily—and caught the updraft. The chick didn’t fly because the mother carried it. It flew because she let it fall, just a little.

I’d been the mother raven who’d tried to hold the chick in my talons, not realizing that the only way to teach flight was to let go of the grip.

Practical Steps for Release: From Crisis to Clarity

Letting go isn’t a single act. It’s a slow, daily practice—like learning to read the subtle shifts in a forest after a storm. Here’s what I’ve learned, step by step, through my own stumbles:

• Start with One Boundary, Not a Wall:

   I began with something small: “I can’t talk about this right now. I’ll call you tomorrow at 10 AM.” Not “I’m busy,” which felt like rejection, but “I need to be present for myself to be present for you.” It felt like tearing off a bandage, but the relief was immediate. The forest doesn’t stop a deer from grazing because it’s hungry—it allows the deer to graze, knowing it will return. Boundaries aren’t cold; they’re the space where love can breathe.

• Name the Pattern, Not the Person:

   Instead of “You’re doing this again,” I started saying “This pattern feels familiar. How are you feeling about it?” It shifted the focus from blame to awareness. Liam’s demons weren’t him—they were the storm. I was learning to say, “The storm is here,” not “You are the storm.”

• Create a “Crisis Kit” for Yourself:

   I made a small box on my desk: a smooth river stone (to hold when anxiety rose), a list of my own needs (“Write for 20 mins,” “Call my sister,” “Walk in the woods”), and a photo of the young pine on the granite ledge. When the urge to “fix” him hit, I’d hold the stone and say, “This is my work. Not his.” Nature teaches us: a forest doesn’t try to stop the rain. It soaks it in and grows stronger.

Common Mistakes: The Pitfalls of “Helping”

I’ve seen so many people—myself included—fall into these traps. They’re subtle, like a spiderweb in the morning light:

The Savior Complex: “If I just love him enough, he’ll be okay.”*

   Reality: Love isn’t a magic wand. It’s a seed. You can’t make a seed grow; you can only provide the soil, the water, and then step back. Liam’s healing wasn’t my responsibility—it was his. I was trying to be the soil, not the gardener.

The Perpetual Crisis Mode: “I’ll cancel my life for him, because this is the emergency.”*

   Reality: When you live in crisis mode, you lose your own voice. I stopped writing poems for months. I stopped noticing the way the light hit the aspens at dawn. You can’t pour from an empty cup. The forest doesn’t stop the wind to protect the trees—it learns to bend.

The “I’ll Be There When You’re Ready” Lie: “I’ll always be here.”*

   Reality: This is the most dangerous phrase of all. It keeps the cycle alive, making the other person feel like they need your presence to be worthy. True support says, “I’m here when you choose to reach out. I’m also here for myself.” It’s not about being there—it’s about allowing them to be there for themselves.

Nuances: It’s Not About Him, It’s About You

This isn’t about Liam. It’s about me. It’s about the years I spent believing my worth was tied to fixing someone else’s pain. I was the park ranger who’d spent twenty years tending to others’ wounds, forgetting to tend to my own. The forest doesn’t need a ranger to heal—it is healing, all on its own. I had to learn that too.

There’s a difference between caring and controlling. Caring says, “I see you. I’m here.” Controlling says, “I know what you need. Let me give it to you.” I was controlling. I was the one who’d been so sure I knew the path for him that I’d forgotten to ask: “What path do you want to walk?”

The Heartbreak Isn’t the End

Letting go doesn’t mean I don’t ache. Some days, I still hear his voice in the wind, or see the shadow of his hand on the coffee cup in the cafe. But now, when the ache comes, I don’t rush to fill it. I sit with it, like I sit with the quiet after a storm. I remember the young pine on the granite ledge. I remember the raven’s push. I remember that he is the forest, and I am the forest too—learning to grow around the cracks, not through them.

There’s something about how the forest doesn’t mourn the fallen tree. It simply makes space for the new growth. That’s the wisdom I carry now. Love isn’t about holding someone steady. It’s about trusting them to find their own balance, even when they stumble. It’s about knowing that the most profound act of love is to let go—not because you don’t care, but because you care enough to believe they can stand on their own.

I was walking the other day, and I saw that young pine. It’s still growing through the stone. It’s not broken. It’s becoming.

— Ellen Ferguson, patient as the land