The Quiet Power of Letting Go

Over the past few weeks, I’ve made some important decisions—decisions that brought me a deep sense of well-being and, more importantly, allowed me to truly experience what letting go feels like. The path to get there, however, was anything but simple. The decision-making process was turbulent, both for me and for those close to me, who watched me perform quite the internal dance during that period of reflection: one step forward, two steps back, and then maybe three or four steps sideways (I love to dance—what can I say!).

I was so afraid of making the “wrong decisions” that, at first, I focused almost exclusively on imagined outcomes or on the consequences I believed I could live with more easily. It wasn’t until I paused to identify the fears that lived within me—and the cords that were keeping me tied—that I was able to begin my own process of letting go and make decisions aligned with what was truly best for me at this stage of my life.

I don’t know about you, but letting go is a theme I’ve revisited many times over the years: in coaching sessions, in therapy, and in deep conversations with close friends. And yet, it never came naturally to me. From a young age, I was shaped by guilt, shame, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility toward others (I explore the roots of this in other blog posts). Add to that a deep commitment to social justice and a coping mechanism that led me to become a high achiever very early on—and you have all the ingredients needed to hold on tightly to absolutely everything.

Illness—occipital neuralgia—made itself known a few years ago as a major wake-up call. What was once episodic became permanent. It took five surgeries over fifteen months, without truly slowing down professionally, for me to find myself completely depleted—broken, really—several times over the past year.

I don’t know about you, but letting go is a theme I’ve revisited many times over the years: in coaching sessions, in therapy, and in deep conversations with close friends. And yet, it never came naturally to me. From a young age, I was shaped by guilt, shame, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility toward others (I explore the roots of this in other blog posts). Add to that a deep commitment to social justice and a coping mechanism that led me to become a high achiever very early on—and you have all the ingredients needed to hold on tightly to absolutely everything.

Illness—occipital neuralgia—made itself known a few years ago as a major wake-up call. What was once episodic became permanent. It took five surgeries over fifteen months, without truly slowing down professionally, for me to find myself completely depleted—broken, really—several times over the past year.

Identifying fears and cutting invisible cords

My process began by naming the fears and emotions that lived within me. When I acknowledged, for instance, the strong sense of responsibility I carried toward certain people, I chose to speak with them directly and share how I felt. My intention was neither to transfer that weight onto them nor to make them feel guilty, but simply to express how important they were to me—and to ensure they wouldn’t interpret my decisions as abandonment.

Identifying fears and cutting invisible cords

My process began by naming the fears and emotions that lived within me. When I acknowledged, for instance, the strong sense of responsibility I carried toward certain people, I chose to speak with them directly and share how I felt. My intention was neither to transfer that weight onto them nor to make them feel guilty, but simply to express how important they were to me—and to ensure they wouldn’t interpret my decisions as abandonment.

Through these conversations, I began cutting—one by one—those invisible yet powerful cords that bound me to them. In return, I was met with deep compassion and understanding. Most importantly, they offered me something I struggled to give myself: permission to choose myself and to lay down a sense of responsibility that was never truly mine to carry.

Losses, gains… and putting health first

Another pivotal element in my process was the wisdom shared by my friend and coach, Isabelle Lanthier. She reminded me that every decision carries both gains and losses. A decision isn’t just a list of pros and cons; even what appears positive can come with a form of grief. Saying yes to a new opportunity can also mean saying goodbye to what we know and love.

This realization was a major and deeply helpful learning in my decision-making process. It also aligned with another essential truth: the need to place my health—physical, mental, and spiritual—at the centre. Thinking back on those five surgeries and years spent living in pain, I understood that continuing down the same path would only worsen my condition. The signs were already there: digestive issues, insomnia, skin reactions, and more. I had just regained a quality of life thanks to a successful surgery—there was no way I was going to sacrifice it again. No. That, I refuse.

Self-forgiveness and letting go of the “rescuer”

Forgiving myself also became an integral part of this journey. Beneath the intense emotions of the past year were thoughts that questioned my choices, my actions, and my behaviour. By becoming aware of them, I was able to welcome them, understand them, forgive myself when needed—or simply let them go when they no longer belonged to me.

There was also an unavoidable realization: my “rescuer syndrome” needed to be addressed once and for all. A role assigned to me at a very young age by adults, it has been both beneficial and toxic. On the positive side, it allowed me to create change and have a meaningful impact. On the darker side, I carried situations, organizations, and people on my shoulders—until it made me physically ill.

I even had to visualize conversations with that version of Nadine who wants to save the world. Asking her to pause. Reminding her that she’s exhausting herself. That while her activism is noble, admirable, and necessary, she will be far more effective if she takes care of herself and replenishes her energy. As I write this, tears well up. Letting go of that “rescuer Nadine” also meant grieving a persona that had occupied far too much space in my life.

The embodied magic of letting go

Then came a pivotal moment. A conversation with a friend at the end of a workday, sitting at a picnic table outside the Dieppe Market. He listened to me talk and kept saying:

“I hear you—but I don’t actually hear your decisions. So… have you decided?”

He must have repeated it two or three times. And the third time, I simply answered, “yeah.” Then, as we walked toward our cars, it became a confident “yes.” I had decided.

Later that evening, while walking the dog with my husband, I shared my decisions with him. The sailboat image was vivid in my mind. I felt an immense sense of relief—a rare inner peace. Wanting nothing but my happiness and well-being, he was happy too—and likely relieved.

The beauty of letting go is that what others say or think loses its grip on us. I saw it unfold in real time: the reactions of those around me no longer influenced how I felt. I listened with compassion, but their responses no longer altered my decisions.

Staying the course

That inner peace hasn’t left me since. The sailboat is still there. I now let my emotions guide me when new options arise. I also notice that the universe may still be testing me—I still tend not to say no right away when opportunities present themselves. I meet that tendency with kindness.

I now understand that what truly matters is the trajectory and the process. When I feel stress, anxiety, overwhelm—or something that doesn’t align with my inner sailboat—I pause. And for now, I always return to the decisions I’ve made.

That doesn’t mean I’ll never allow myself to change course. But for now, I’m holding steady. Returning to writing and to this blog is part of that path, as is returning to part-time studies—a MBA in innovation, leadership, and consulting—starting in October.

For the first time in a long while, I feel genuinely excited about the future.

I look forward to reconnecting with you—most of all, on a deeply human and authentic level.

Sometimes, the deepest letting go is allowing the sailboat to drift toward the peace waiting for us.