The Subtle Art of Letting Go

Life necessitates change. The hard part is moving on.

At first, I wasn’t sure what to call this piece. My original thought was a letter of resignation, but that sounds too serious and too final. This isn’t a happy piece, but it’s meant as a celebration of the people who have supported me since I launched this Substack, and even earlier. Since I owe it to you to express my love for you, I’ll call it a love letter. So, to those of you who have been here since the beginning: thank you for helping me live a vision of my dream. For a while, I really believed that I could make it come true, and that’s because of you.

For the record, I’m not abandoning my dream entirely, but temporarily shelving this iteration of it. My hope, if it isn’t obvious, was that I could use this forum as a springboard to a career in journalism, perhaps as a columnist. When I really let my mind run wild, I envisioned myself traveling the country and the world, talking to people and telling their stories. I wanted to show that, despite how news media and political discourse make it seem, we’re all just people, and we all want to live peacefully and happily. So much of the toxicity and ugliness we see is driven by fear, either that someone will take what we have or stop us from getting what we need. What I really wanted, more than anything, was to contribute to dispelling that notion.

I’m not going to write myself off just yet, but it’s looking less and less likely that I’m going to be able to make that happen right now. There’s only so many hours in a day, and so many days in a week. I’ve got to make a living somehow. The unfortunate reality is that I can’t keep pumping the same amount of time and effort into this endeavor as I have been if it isn’t going to bear tangible fruit- not when I also have to make the time to earn a living, take care of my mind and body, and maintain my interpersonal relationships. Some of the more astute among you may observe that I appear to be justifying this decision to myself in real time, but… nothing, actually. That’s exactly what I’m doing.

Writing about dreams is not easy. It’s much easier to write about fears, which are always present. Dreams are much more elusive; they tend to swirl around shapelessly in the mind. You can summon them when you need to draw strength or inspiration, but dispel them once again when circumstances demand it. To write them out is to lay them bare, to see them for what they are: real visions of things that may not come to pass. Writing about them in this context feels like scribbling on a piece of paper and tossing it in a fire. A piece of me is burning up with it. I feel heavier, like I’ve lost something that helped me counteract gravity.

On the other hand, I feel more grounded in reality. Although it hasn’t been too long, my life has changed significantly since I began writing this Substack. In that time, I left my job in Europe and moved back to the United States. My new life necessitates a different path forward. Lately, I’ve been wondering if I made the right choice in coming home, but there’s no point in second-guessing old decisions. The past is gone, and there’s only one way forward.

Of course, sometimes I think, “If I were better at self-promotion, or more social-media-savvy, then maybe this endeavor would have been successful; if I narrowed down my focus, maybe more people would have been interested.” That type of thinking is pointless, though, because I am who I am. Of course, people have the capacity for change, and I always strive to be better—whether that means learning new skills, shifting my attitude, or changing my perspective—but at it’s most base level, my Substack is a reflection of who I am and what I’m interested in. No one else is obligated to care. People have their own, very busy lives, and it’s selfish to expect them to always make time for what I have going on. I am not the sun in a heliocentric solar system, but another body in orbit.

That does, however, only drive home my appreciation for those of you who have taken the time to read and engage with my work. Thank you for making me feel heard, and in doing so, lending weight to my voice. Thank you for taking the time, not just to look, but to really see me for who I am. I appreciate it more than I can express.

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Giving up sucks always sucks, but it’s easier when you’re younger. Growing up, I wanted to be a football star, like my grandpa. Slowly but surely, however, I began to see that wasn’t work going to work out. Too many people were bigger than me, faster than me, or stronger than me; at the very least, their bodies held up against the brutal nature of the sport better than mine did. College coaches weren’t interested in me. I thought that, through hard work and sheer force of will, I was going to break the mold. I could’ve played at a number of Division 3 schools, but I was too proud. I felt as though I was above that. Looking back, I don’t know how I could’ve been so arrogant. Perhaps people around me enabled me for fear of hurting my feelings. I don’t know. Never mind that the Division 3 schools were also the best academic schools I was going to be able to get into. Thinking back on it, people did tell me that. I just didn’t listen.

In my infinite wisdom, I chose to go to the University of Richmond, where I was only able to get onto the football team because I had connections. I didn’t know anything about the school outside of where it was on a map and that they had a division 1-AA football program. The very first day I got there, one of the coaches pulled me into his office and said, “Now, both the offensive and defensive coaches have been watching your tape and fighting over who gets to have you, so why don’t you tell us where you want to play…” After that point, I didn’t hear anything else. What he really meant: “You are so worthless to us as anything beyond a potential source of donations that we couldn’t be bothered to assign you a position.” I walked out of that office shook to my core, feeling more fraudulent than I ever had in my life. My mirage had been shattered.

I should’ve known. Some part of me must have, because I had spent the better part of that past year escaping reality however I could when I should have been preparing for the football season. I got selected for a drug test that first day, which I knew I was going to fail, so I said I couldn’t go to the bathroom with someone watching me and refused to piss in the cup. I stood there for an entire hour, missing the entirety of what would’ve been my first team meeting. We had practice after the meeting, so after an hour they finally gave up and said I could do the test the next week, but I already knew that I was going to quit. I had made up my mind the second that I walked out of that coach’s office.

Before I could participate in that first practice, later that same day, I had to do a medical examination. The team doctors didn’t even have my medical records, which only further drove home the realization that they didn’t give a rat’s left nut about me. I had to explain my whole medical history to them—that I was a cerebral hemorrhage survivor, as well as an epileptic—and I cried and cried when I told the whole story, like I always did. This time, however, I was crying, not just for my younger self, but for the fool who believed that I was ever wanted in the first place. Understandably, they said they didn’t feel comfortable clearing me to play without running their own tests, and they scheduled a bunch of doctor’s appointments and brain scans for me. It was going to take a week or two to get it all done, and I wouldn’t be able to participate in practice until it was. I would have to sit on the sideline and work out in street clothes while the rest of the team did contact drills. That was fine with me, though. I wasn’t going to be there anyway. 

The next day, I called my parents, told them I couldn’t go through the medical stuff again, not after an entire childhood of it, and asked them to come pick me up. I walked into the head coach’s office, told him the same thing, and quit the team. He shook my hand, offering no resistance, and wished me the best. The whole time, all I could think about was how he was probably dying to just get to practice. It made no difference to them whether or not I played.

That was that. It took a little less than two days to give up on my lifelong dream. Easy as can be.

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Do you want to know something? I was very hesitant to share that story. It happened over six years ago now, and I’ve had a long, extensive journey of maturation and self-discovery since then, but I still feel embarrassed about the whole thing. Never mind that I was a kid, fighting a losing battle trying to be someone that I wasn’t. Never mind that I was deeply depressed, confused, and unsure of myself. The shame I felt was so strong that it reverberates into the present day. Even after all these years, I can’t shake it off. Objectively, I understand it. Were this someone else’s story, I’d tell them to forgive themself and move on. But it’s always hardest to forgive ourselves.

I did move on, of course. For a while, I lost interest in watching football, but I can’t help but think the whole thing was for the best. An epileptic with a history of traumatic brain injuries is probably the last person who should be using their cranium as a projectile weapon. That alone makes that situation a lot easier to swallow. Sure, I wish I could’ve gone about it in a different way, but the end result was a net positive. It isn’t the same with my creative endeavors. I’m still sitting on about fifty songs, all in varying stages of development, and I’m still convinced they’ll be hits if they just make it to the right audience. Never mind that no one listened to the music I put out before. It’s the same with my writing. If I can just write one more post, maybe it’ll be the one…

The older I get, the harder it is to let go these things go. It just feels much more final. Of course, not posting every week doesn’t mean that I’m giving up entirely. I still have stories to tell. But it does feel like the beginning of the end, at least for this particular endeavor. Please believe that I’ve tried my best to make it work out. I’ve really given it my all. I’ve posted over 30 pieces since I started, at weekly intervals, without missing a beat. I’ve built up a fairly comprehensive body of work, running the gamut of possible topics and formats.

I can’t lie to you- it hurts me a little when my posts don’t get attention. That in itself might be a red flag, since it could indicate that I’m doing this for selfish reasons, not for the love of writing as a craft. I think that’s less of a red flag and more of a sign that I’m human, but I can see both sides of the argument. The bottom line is that it hurts to put yourself out there and get little back. Then again, people do read my work; people do respond; they do engage with it. If I say I get little back, then I’m minimizing the efforts of those people who are, and have been, so invested. That’s… kind of messed up. I’m sorry. That isn’t my intention.

Then again, intentions are mostly worthless. Intent is less important than delivery, because you can only infer intentions. That’s why I really, REALLY need to drive home, in words, how much I appreciate those of who you have supported me since I started, as well as those who joined along the way. If you’re reading this at all, then I’m indebted to you. 

Life necessitates that I shift my course. I’m disappointed, of course, but I won’t be wallowing in self-pity. Like water, I’ll let it wash over me, lending my feelings the respect and gravity they deserve. Afterwards, however, I’ll be moving on. At the end of the day, I’m just another human being. That’s not to say that I’m not special, because, in our own ways, we all are. Our collective strength comes from our individuality. With that being said, having had the privilege to be able to pursue my dreams in the first place does not make me more entitled to them than someone else. Countless people, an incomprehensibly large majority of all people to have ever lived, would have never had that same opportunity. They were, are, and have been too busy trying every waking moment to survive to let their thoughts linger on what could be.

That there is why we call them dreams; for most people, they’re nothing more than visions to be lived as we sleep, only to be forgotten once day returns. That’s also why we should celebrate when people’s dreams do come true. Whether or not this particular dream of mine becomes reality, it wasn’t my first, and it won’t be my last. And, irrespective of what happens, I’ll continue to hope that others see their’s come true. I never want to become envious, spiteful, or jaded.

To conclude, I can’t guarantee that you’ll continue hearing from me every week. I still might post something next week, and the week after that, but I also might not. I would love it if I stumbled upon a newfound burst of inspiration and/or motivation, but I have to begin prioritizing my contingency plans. Either way, this has been an absolute blast. Thank you for being a part of it.

With all my love and appreciation,

Your friend,

Andrew