The Permission To Let Go

For years, my dad seemed to be waiting for his last breath.

Life could not end fast enough for him. The depression, the shame, the not knowing—those seemed heavier than the disease that was slowly suffocating him.

When someone is ready for it to be over, but the body still has fight left, it creates a painful kind of limbo.

You couldn't cheer him up. There was nothing you could say. The conversations were heavy, not because of their content, but because of the energy present.

The DNR was signed. There was nothing left to do but wait. He had decided he was done being intubated every time he got a cold, which was happening all too frequently.

As a young man in my twenties, I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. It left my family and me suspended in a sad limbo.

My dad was my rock.

He was the water to my fiery being.

He was my first example of a sensitive man.

He had been through a lot in his life. He was an orphan. His first wife was killed in a car accident on their honeymoon when the car he was driving hit ice and left the road.

Then the spiral started.

The drinking.

The depression.

The shame.

The grief.

I don't think he ever fully recovered from that.

The life that followed was the life of a man who had lost his center.

He entered many abusive relationships, including the one with my grandmother. She made sure he never knew what it felt like to stand fully in his own strength.

As a kid, the tension in the house was unbelievable. I have a vivid memory of asking my grandmother to play with me. She scolded me and said no. So, I asked my dad instead.

We sat on the floor playing with Lincoln Logs when she came around the corner and saw us together. Then came the sound of dishes smashing in the kitchen.

I remember the look on my dad's face.

Guilt.

Shame.

Defeat.

He quietly lifted his head and said, "It's time to go outside."

We rode our bikes together.

Away from the chaos.

Away from the energy of the house.

Watching him ride, he looked as free as I felt. For a little while, we both were.

These were not rare occurrences in my childhood.

My dad worked nights, probably to get away. But he was at every game, every competition, every important moment of my life.

Every morning he would wake me up with a heartfelt back rub and a quiet conversation before school.

He loved me the best way he knew how.

It was hard being alone with her in the evenings. Thankfully, I was a Gen X kid. I stayed gone as much as I could. I spent countless nights at friends' houses where peace existed.

When college came, I was excited to leave and get the hell away from that house. My biggest hesitation was leaving him behind. I knew he would decline quickly. He used to tell me I was all he was here for.

By my sophomore year, he had to retire because of his health.

He would call me crying.

He never told me why.

He didn't have to.

I could feel it.

His heart was shattered.

I offered over and over again to have him move south and live with me. For years, the answer was always no. He didn't want to burden anyone.

Eventually, I moved back home and took the upstairs apartment even though I knew it wouldn't be healthy for me. By then he had started smoking again despite having COPD. Part of me believes he simply wanted the end to come sooner.

Then came his final cold. By the second day, he was unresponsive. I wasn't ready to let go, so I called an ambulance. At the hospital, we were told this was probably the end. He had a DNR. We needed to honor his wishes.

He came home that afternoon. Family gathered. Everyone said their goodbyes.

Then it was my turn. I couldn't get the words out. I couldn't say everything I needed to say.

All I could manage as I held him in my arms was: "I love you. It's time. You don't have to fight anymore."

There was one final sigh. As if that was all he had been waiting for.

Permission.

Permission to leave.

I couldn't even cry as I held his body. I went into the stairwell and tried to sob, but it only came out in fragments. I watched as the funeral home placed him in a bag and carried him away.

That was it.

It felt so empty.

That night, friends took me out and got me blackout drunk.

Three months later I moved to California to study furniture making. What followed was a summer fueled by alcohol and drugs.

The numbness continued for twenty years.

Years later, during a Hapé ceremony and shamanic journey, I relived my arrest for LSD and cannabis.

I remembered standing on the shore of Lake Michigan.

The waves hitting my chest.

The sun on my face.

The feeling of connection.

Then the handcuffs.

The jail cell.

The desperate phone call home.

But what hit me hardest wasn't the arrest. It was remembering my father's sadness.

He didn't yell.

He didn't lecture.

He blamed himself.

As he always had.

That was the hardest part. Knowing the man, I loved most carried guilt and shame over something that wasn't his burden to carry.

Then, in that journey, I saw smoke being blown into my face. I had no idea what it meant. I only knew it felt important.

For most of my life, I have known when something is coming.

A release.

A shift.

An emotional wave.

Usually about a month before it arrives. I can feel it in my body even when I can't name it. My heart had been hurting for weeks.

One month later, I found myself sitting with Huachuma, a soft masculine heart-opening medicine, in Breckenridge.

This group was different.

Nine out of ten participants were men.

Sensitive men.

Present men.

The kind of men I didn't know existed when I was younger.

When we met to share intentions, I gave my usual answer:

Surrender.

The next morning, while hiking to the place where we would drink the medicine, something inside me changed.

My intention became:

May this medicine release anything that is blocking my heart.

An hour later, I was in agony.

My chest hurt.

My lungs hurt.

My stomach hurt.

At first, I thought it was about my marriage unraveling. The more I focused there, the worse the pain became.

Then I saw the smoke again.

I felt called to tobacco.

I asked the facilitator if I could have some. A few puffs later, something shifted.

And somehow the pain became even stronger.

As we started hiking to the next location, the facilitator looked at me and asked if I was okay.

The tears came immediately.

Then the screams.

Then the shaking.

Then the convulsions.

It was grief.

Not sadness.

Not emotion.

Grief that had been trapped in my body for decades. There I was, on a hiking trail, looking like I was having an exorcism in front of complete strangers.

And then something beautiful happened.

Several of the men placed their hands on my back and over my heart.

They didn't try to fix me.

They didn't tell me to calm down.

They didn't tell me everything would be okay.

They simply stayed.

And that gave my body permission to release what I had been carrying for twenty years.

Later, I felt called to walk down the hill alone. I found a fallen tree and sat beside it. A Clark's Nutcracker landed next to me. It stared. Then it flew down and landed directly in front of me. And stared again.

In that moment, I felt immense peace.

Love.

Presence.

My dad appeared in my awareness.

Not as a memory.

As a presence.

It felt as though he was there with me.

Letting me know it was finally time to let go.

I sat there in soft tears as we looked at one another.

Soul to soul.

That evening, I asked one of the men if he would simply hold me.

I needed safety.

I needed support.

I needed masculine tenderness.

I needed to be the little spoon for a while and let someone else hold the weight.

It soothed something deep inside me. Looking back, I think that moment planted the seed for the heart-opening sessions I offer today.

A space where people can be seen, held, witnessed, and loved. At that point, I already knew a men's circle was somewhere in my future. This ceremony sealed it.

Because just like my dad, and just like so many men, I had suppressed everything.

I held grief for decades.

I carried pain that was never meant to stay inside me that long.

Now I understand why men need spaces where they can be seen, heard, held, and supported.

Spaces where we can break the chains of silence.

Spaces where we do not have to carry everything alone.

I have learned that what we refuse to feel does not disappear.

It waits.

It settles into the body.

It shapes our relationships, our health, and the way we move through the world.

For me, that grief waited twenty years. It lived in my chest, in my heart, and in the places, I was too afraid to visit. It wasn't until I found the support of other men that I was finally able to let it move.

This is one of the reasons I created Wind + Fire Men's Circle.

Wind + Fire was born from the understanding that men need spaces where they can breathe, speak, feel, move, release, and be supported by other men who understand the journey.

A monthly ceremony rooted in brotherhood, ritual, transformation, and the understanding of energy.

A place where the wind can give voice to what has been silenced.

A place where the fire can transform what no longer serves.

A place where men can remember that vulnerability is not weakness, that asking for support is not failure, and that healing does not have to be a solitary path.

Because no man was meant to carry the weight of this life alone.

How many men can relate to this story?

Maybe it wasn't the loss of your father.

But where in your life have you held something for far too long?

Where have you carried grief, shame, anger, or pain without the support to finally let it go?

The permission to let go often arrives when we discover we are safe enough to be supported.