The Slow Art of Letting Go

‘A swing moves forward only when it releases backward.’ 

    There’s something about that image that has stayed with me. There’s a slow arc. A backward pull. Then comes a moment of hanging in the air before anything moves forward again. I’ve been sitting with that lately, because letting go has been part of my story again. Not in a loud or attention-seeking way, but in the quiet, painful way that grief often returns. 

     Miscarriage has been woven into my life for years now, and it’s part of the ministry God has given me. But this recent letting go was different. It reached deeper. It touched something etched into my being. It was a hope I had carried, prayed for, hoped for, and struggled to loosen my grip on. And yet God met me there – in the backward motion, in the ache, in the slow release I didn’t want to face. 

     Letting go is never simple. But maybe it doesn’t have to be rushed. Maybe it’s allowed to be slow, like the gentle swing of a wooden seat in the breeze. 

It’s about trust 

     There’s a moment on a swing where you’re suspended – not where you were, and not yet where you’re going. That moment has always felt like trust to me. The in-between. The place where nothing is certain and everything feels exposed. 

     That’s where I found myself again. The grief of losing a baby is never simple. It settles deep. It lingers in places you don’t expect. And I realised I was holding that grief close – holding it tightly, holding it because it mattered – and then slowly seeing that I couldn’t keep holding it in the same way anymore. 

     Trust, for me, hasn’t looked like confidence. Sometimes it has come out as tears. Other times it has been through whispering prayers. Often it has looked like taking a walk, sorting through my thoughts, and admitting to God that I didn’t know how to loosen my grip. And there have been moments where trust has simply meant inviting Him to stay with me in the ache instead of trying to fix it myself. 

     Trust is slow. And God is patient with me. 

It’s about release 

     Release is not a single moment. It’s not a dramatic gesture. It’s not even a decision you make once. Release is a posture – a softening, a loosening, a gentle uncurling of the hands clenched tight upon a lifeless rock. 

     I realised I had been trying too hard. Pushing my own plans. Trying to make sense of things that didn’t make sense. Carrying weight I wasn’t meant to carry. That’s a familiar territory for me, but it still isn’t always easy to recognise when I’m doing it again. 

     In the middle of all that trying, God invited me to stop. Not to force a big moment, but to let something shift inside me – small, real, and enough to help me loosen my grip. Not to let go in the way I thought, but simply to let things be. To stop circling the same thoughts and ending up in the same place. To notice what is still here, even in the ache. To leave room for God to give if He so chooses. 

     Release, I’m learning, is not always about letting go of whatever we’re holding so tightly. Sometimes it’s letting go of the pressure wrapped around it. That pull to manage every outcome can be exhausting. Worry creeps in about what might happen. Tension settles into the body when disappointment feels close. And underneath it all sits that gnawing belief that everything depends on us getting it right. 

     Sometimes release is simply finding your breath again. 

It’s about the rhythm of growth 

     A swing doesn’t move in a single direction. It moves in arcs – backward, then forward, then backward again. And somehow, all of it is part of the movement. 

     I used to think backward motion meant failure. That if I felt the ache again, it meant I hadn’t healed enough or hadn’t trusted God properly. But I’m learning that isn’t how growth works. Some days feel easier, and others feel like I’ve slipped back a step. But when I look over a longer stretch of time, I can see that something in me has shifted – gradually, in ways I didn’t notice at first. God, you meet me in ways I don’t expect. 

     Growth is rarely a straight line. It’s more like two steps forward, one step back, and then noticing months later that you’re standing somewhere you couldn’t reach before. The movement is subtle, but it’s real. And God is in every part of it – the forward motion, the pauses, and even the days that feel like I’m moving in reverse. 

     None of it is wasted – the tears, the questions, each slow step. Even the days when progress feels impossible. 

     God uses all of it. 

It’s about being held 

     This is the part that undoes me every time. A swing holds the weight of whoever sits in it. There’s no strain. No demand to be strong. It simply carries. 

     And God has been carrying me. 

     Letting go isn’t easy. And for some of us, it feels even harder. I’m someone who attaches quickly and holds on tightly, so letting go is slow and painful for me. But through every release, I’ve seen the same thing: God doesn’t rush me. He stays with me in the backward motion. He meets me when fear arises. He doesn’t step away when I’m unsure what He will place in my empty hands once I surrender. Letting go asks for trust – the kind that believes He will meet me in the release and give what is good. And maybe that’s the real invitation. Not to push myself forward, but to rest in the One who holds the swing, who holds the weight, and who holds me. 

About the Author 

Heide is a wife and mother, author and poet, whose writing explores faith, grief, and the tender ways God meets us in the real places of life. She seeks to honour the stories people carry, give language to the aches that often stay unspoken, and offer hope to those walking through seasons of waiting or loss. Her desire is that each reader would sense God’s nearness and find room to breathe, even when life feels heavy. 

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