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The Art of Not Holding On

MS
5 days ago
7 min read

There was a season in my life when healing felt tight—like a clenched fist I couldn’t uncurl.

Earnest. Heavy. Serious. The kind of serious that left no room for lightness, no space for spontaneity.

I had tried many things on my healing journey, and many of them helped me in different ways.

I read the books, underlining passages that felt like a breakthrough. I joined the groups, nodding at stories that mirrored mine. I learned the language: trauma responses, attachment styles, and nervous system regulation. Diligently, I practiced the tools, convinced that effort could unlock freedom. For a time, these mattered deeply. They helped me name what I couldn’t see, giving shape to the shadows I lived with.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

I wasn’t broken anymore…yet my body was still bracing. My shoulders still climbed toward my ears at unexpected sounds. My breath still caught shallow in my chest.

I was “doing the work” with dutiful precision, but joy felt like something happening in another room—audible, but unreachable. Faith was present, steady as ever, but freedom felt theoretical. A concept I could explain but not inhabit.

I was moving—circling, really—but not forward. What I didn’t yet understand was this: Real healing doesn’t feel like gripping harder, white-knuckling your way toward wholeness. It feels like being held while you move. Like gliding instead of grinding.

Everything I learned mattered; nothing was wasted. But true healing came when I learned to rest in His presence—to be held. That’s where I found safety, integration, and home.

Healing looks different for everyone. For me, many tools and practices were helpful, but they weren’t the source. What truly changed things was learning to dwell in God’s presence instead of striving.

And surprisingly, when this truth fully settled in—reaching beyond my mind into my body—it didn’t happen in a church pew or therapy room. It arrived at a roller rink, under spinning lights and across scuffed wooden floors, as pop music echoed. The shift from seeking to receiving, from tension to possibility, had a physical form.

Dear heart, if any of this feels familiar—if you’ve ever done everything you were taught to do, learned the language, practiced the tools, and still felt your body holding its breath—then you’re not alone. I don’t have a formula to offer you here. What changed me didn’t arrive as a breakthrough or a better method. It arrived as an experience—one that taught me something my mind couldn’t solve.

This story isn’t about learning how to stop. It’s about discovering that you were never meant to catch yourself.

So if you’re willing, don’t analyze what comes next. Just glide with me into it.

Learning to Glide: Where the Spirit Is, There Is Freedom

The doors open and the sound arrives first—music echoing off polished floors, laughter spilling across the space, wheels humming in every direction. The air smells faintly of popcorn and wood polish, that distinct scent that belongs only to roller rinks.

Colored lights sweep the room in lazy circles: soft blues, warm golds, gentle purples washing over skaters as they glide past. Alive, but not demanding. The kind of atmosphere that invites you in rather than overwhelming you.

I lace up my skates slowly, fingers working through each eyelet with deliberate care.

There’s that familiar flicker in my chest—not panic, just awareness. A tightening. The old question rises quietly, almost reflexively, like muscle memory: What if I fall? What if I mess this up? What if everyone sees me struggling?

I step onto the rink, and the wheels beneath me shift immediately—that unsettling feeling of solid ground becoming something fluid. Instinctively, my hands reach for the wall, palms pressing flat against the cool, smooth surface.

There was always one thing about roller skating that scared me more than falling. It wasn’t the wobble. It wasn’t the speed. It wasn’t even the possibility of getting hurt.

It was not knowing how to stop. What if I picked up momentum and didn’t know how to slow myself down? What if joy moved faster than my heart could manage? What if I needed to rest—but didn’t know how to arrive there safely?

So even when I loved skating—even when I owned the skates, even when the music was playing—there was a part of me that stayed cautious. One hand ready for the wall. One eye always measuring distance. Movement, yes—but guarded movement. Joy, but contained.

I didn’t realize then that this fear followed me far beyond the rink. It followed me into healing. Into faith. Into the way I learned to move through life. I knew how to start. I knew how to try. I knew how to brace.

But trusting myself to stop—to pause, to soften, to be held when momentum felt uncertain—felt far more dangerous than staying tight. The fear that if I let myself move freely, something might carry me too far. The fear that joy could tip into chaos. The fear that safety depends on control.

At first, everything feels uncertain. My legs tighten. My shoulders lift. My body tries to manage what can only be learned through motion. Others skate past—some fast, some clumsy, some laughing freely at near-misses. No one is watching me the way I fear they are.

Still, I cling to the edge. The wall feels safe. Predictable. Controlled. But also… lonely.

Then my wheels catch unexpectedly. I wobble hard—just enough for fear to flash through me.

And that’s when I feel Him.

Not rushing. Not alarmed. Just present.

A hand wraps gently around mine—firm, warm, sure.

“I’ve got you,” Jesus says, close enough that His voice settles straight into my heart.

He isn’t correcting my stance. He isn’t pointing out what I did wrong. He isn’t telling me to try harder.

He’s smiling. “You don’t need to be afraid of the wobble,” He continues. “This is how balance is learned.”

Something in me softens as He stays beside me, matching my pace. I’m still moving—but now I’m not carrying myself alone.

“I thought I had to get this right before I could enjoy it,” I admit.

He shakes His head gently. “No,” He says. “You enjoy it because you’re learning.”

I loosen my grip on the wall. Not all at once. Just enough.

Jesus doesn’t pull me forward. He doesn’t push. He simply remains steady as I take a small, uncertain glide.

The skates wobble again—but this time, I don’t freeze.

His hand stays with mine. “That’s it,” He says quietly. “Movement doesn’t require perfection. It requires trust.”

And now, as trust replaces my old gripping, something settles deep in my body—older than fear, truer than effort: I know I am not going to be dropped here.

Not by the floor beneath me. Not by the hands holding mine. Not by the One who brought me onto the rink in the first place.

Now I’m moving. Not fast. Not impressively. But freely.

My shoulders drop. A laugh escapes me—unplanned, unguarded. I wobble again, catch myself, wobble once more. Jesus laughs with me—not at me.

“I’m not disappointed when you stumble,” He says. “I’m delighted that you’re alive.”

As we glide, something else becomes clear—not as words, but as orientation. He isn’t just beside me. He is the steady center I keep turning toward. When my balance shifts, He doesn’t tighten His grip. When I drift, He doesn’t scold.

He simply stays.

And I realize—quietly, unmistakably—that I am safe to move because He is good.

Not situationally good. Not conditionally good. Good like a refuge. Good like a fountain that doesn’t run dry. Good like a steady presence that doesn’t disappear when I wobble.

The music swells, and for the first time, I’m not monitoring myself. I’m inside myself.

Joy doesn’t feel earned. It feels anchored.

As we glide, the words surface—not as instruction, but as recognition: Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.

Freedom isn’t flawless skating. Freedom is: moving without fear of collapse, trusting the One who holds you when you wobble, staying present instead of bracing, letting goodness—not fear—set the pace.

Jesus squeezes my hand gently. “You don’t need intensity to grow,” He says. “You need permission to move.

And beneath that permission, another truth hums steadily: I will not let you down. Not here. Not mid-glide. Not when your knees shake."

I don’t think healing is about fixing myself into someone new. I think it’s about letting go of the wall. Letting myself wobble. Letting myself be held. Letting movement teach me what fear never could.

I don’t have to skate like anyone else. I don’t have to move fast. I don’t even have to know where the music is taking me.

I only have to trust this: The One holding my hand is steady.

The fear of not knowing how to stop dissolves as I glide. Stopping isn’t about braking hard or forcing stillness. It’s about letting momentum carry me into gentleness—trusting that slowing down doesn’t mean crashing, but gliding into rest.

The ground beneath me is faithful. And goodness is not about to disappear. I don't need to master this movement. I don't need to anticipate the next turn. I don't need to hold myself together.

I am already held.

The music continues. The lights spin. The rink stays open and wide. I keep gliding, not because I'm fearless, but because I'm no longer alone with fear.

I don't need to map the whole rink. I don't need to know how the song ends. I only need to stay with the One who stays.

The wall fades behind me. The wobble loses its power. And the movement, once something I managed, becomes something I enjoy. Not because I learned how to hold on, but because I learned Who is holding me.

A Whisper to the Heart

You are not failing. You are learning. He is not watching you from the sidelines. He is with you—steady, close, unafraid of your wobble. You will not be dropped. You will not be abandoned.

Reflections from the Rink