Letting Go of Expectations

(A Soft Unraveling)

The other day, I was listening to Humble Mi by Jah9.

There is a line in that song about letting go of expectations.

I won’t paraphrase it here. It deserves to be encountered in its own voice, in its own time.

But I will say this: when I heard it, my body responded before my mind did.

I stopped what I was doing.

I felt my chest soften.

And then I cried.

Not the sharp kind of crying that comes with grief or heartbreak — but the slower kind. The kind that arrives when something long held finally loosens. When a truth you didn’t know you were still carrying finds its way home.

https://youtu.be/Fp2LNyMssCA?si=JVF8RWMVvPruCLD1

What became clear in that moment is that much of the last three years of my life have not been about becoming more, doing more, or fixing anything that was broken.

They have been about undoing.

Undoing assumptions.

Undoing identities.

Undoing quiet contracts I didn’t remember signing.

Expectations as an Inherited Language

We rarely choose our first expectations. We inherit them.

They arrive through family systems, culture, education, gender roles, professional norms, spiritual teachings, and unspoken agreements about what makes a life “good,” “worthy,” or “successful.”

Be dependable.

Be strong.

Be grateful.

Be productive.

Be healed.

Be wise.

Be useful.

Often, these expectations aren’t imposed harshly. They’re offered lovingly — as guidance, protection, aspiration. And because they’re framed as care, we rarely question them.

Over time, they become an internal language. A way of relating to ourselves that feels natural simply because it’s familiar.

I lived inside that language for most of my life without realizing it.

Releasing the Expectations of Others

For a long time, I thought the work was about letting go of other people’s expectations of me.

And it was.

Expectations attached to roles I had occupied for years.

Expectations about being capable, reliable, insightful, composed.

Expectations to hold space, provide clarity, keep things moving, make things better.

Some of these expectations were explicit. Many were never spoken, but were nonetheless felt — in pauses, in tone, in what people came to rely on me for.

There has been real freedom in releasing those.

In no longer organizing my life around how I might be perceived.

In no longer anticipating disappointment as a form of responsibility.

In no longer performing coherence when something inside me was changing.

But as those expectations loosened, something else became visible.

The Expectations We Place on Ourselves

Beneath the expectations of others were the ones I placed on myself.

Not as punishment.

Not as self-criticism.

But as standards.

Expectations about how much I should be able to hold.

How quickly I should adapt.

How much insight I should already have.

How “far along” I should be given everything I’ve learned and lived.

These expectations felt reasonable. Even ethical.

They sounded like responsibility.

Like integrity.

Like growth.

And because of that, they were the hardest to see — and the hardest to release.

I began to notice how often I was managing myself rather than inhabiting my life. How frequently my inner orientation was toward correction rather than presence. How much energy was spent quietly measuring — my pace, my clarity, my emotional range — against an invisible benchmark.

Letting go of these expectations has been far more destabilizing than releasing external ones.

And far more liberating.

Seeing Through the Illusion of Arrival

One of the more humbling realizations has been seeing how much of what I once reached for was shaped by an illusion of arrival.

The belief that at some point — through enough insight, healing, achievement, or spiritual maturity — I would arrive at a version of myself who no longer struggled, questioned, or needed to pause.

Not consciously.

But subtly.

Letting go of expectations has meant seeing through that illusion.

Recognizing that many of the “heights” I once aspired to were less about truth and more about reassurance. That some of the bliss I imagined was a performance of completion rather than a lived reality.

Seeing this hasn’t made me cynical.

It’s made me honest.

The Humility of Not Knowing

Another quiet but profound shift has been learning to rest in not knowing.

The more I learn, the more aware I am of how partial my understanding is — and how freeing that realization can be. I no longer feel compelled to master my life, explain it, or resolve it into something tidy.

There is humility in this not knowing.

And also relief.

Truth, I’m discovering, doesn’t need to be controlled to be trustworthy. When allowed to unfold rather than be managed, it doesn’t diminish us — it steadies us. It encourages rather than demands.

This has changed how I relate to my own growth.

Less force.

More listening.

When Letting Go Feels Like Darkness

Letting go of expectations is not immediately spacious.

Often, it feels like darkness.

Not the dramatic kind.

The quiet kind.

The kind that arrives when familiar reference points dissolve and nothing rushes in to replace them. When old identities no longer fit, but new ones haven’t formed. When certainty fades before clarity emerges.

For a while, I mistook this darkness for disorientation or failure.

Now I understand it as a threshold.

A necessary unlit space where something truer has a chance to form — without being shaped by what came before.

Remembering What Was Never External

What steadies me in this unlit space is remembering that the source I am connected to has never been external.

It was never located in achievement, understanding, or approval.

It was never granted by effort or withheld by doubt.

It has always been here — within — quiet, constant, untouched by the changing conditions of my life.

When I remember this, expectations lose their authority. Fear softens. I no longer need to justify my existence through productivity, clarity, or contribution.

This remembering humbles me.

Again and again.

From Control to Creation

There was a time when I believed I needed to be the architect of my life.

Responsible for holding all the pieces together.

Responsible for knowing what came next.

Responsible for making the “right” choices.

That posture has softened.

What I thought I knew has been melting away — not violently, but inevitably. And in that melting, something unexpected has been happening.

I no longer experience myself as the one forcing creation.

I feel more like the material life moves through — responsive rather than directive.

Creation hasn’t stopped.

But it’s no longer driven by pressure or proof.

What is emerging feels quieter, wiser, and more alive than anything I could have planned.

Where I Am Now

I am still letting go.

Daily.

Sometimes moment by moment.

Asking myself, gently and honestly:

What expectation am I living under right now?

Is it actually mine?

And what becomes possible if I set it down?

This feels like the most significant work of my life.

Not because it is impressive.

But because it is honest.

And because the life unfolding from this place feels less constructed — and more true.

If this resonates, perhaps it isn’t asking you to try harder or reach higher.

Perhaps it’s inviting you to lay something down.

To pause.

To soften.

To be humbled.

More and more.