“Eventually you will see that the real cause of problem is not life itself. It’s the commotion the mind makes about life that really causes the problems.”

— Michael Singer

Earlier this year, I had a date with friends to make our yearly vision boards. I do one every year, set it as my phone background, and try to check things off as I go. But this year something felt different.

I didn’t want a board full of goals or deadlines. Every year it starts to feel like I’m just racing myself, a productivity contest with no finish line.
I was tired of trying to control everything. It felt like juggling way too many things at once.

So I decided this year I would focus on just one thing: flow.
Scary, honestly.

I told myself I was ready to trust life a little more. To stop forcing things. To start listening to what actually felt right.
At the time, it felt symbolic. A nice idea. Even poetic.
But then life took it seriously.

Because when you make those kinds of internal decisions, you don’t always realize what you are really asking for. You overestimate, oversimplify, romanticize the outcome. And then it shows up, but not how you imagined.

In March, I started saying out loud that I no longer felt aligned with my job. The values they preached didn’t match what I saw every day. I felt disconnected. I wasn’t growing. I didn’t feel seen. I knew something had to change.

But I also didn’t feel ready to quit. It felt safer to stay. I had a routine. I had rent to pay.

Then, a few weeks later, I was laid off.
Oh.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was business. But it still hit hard. I felt a mix of sadness, anger, and relief. I had worked so hard to get to that job, to earn that income, to believe in myself again, and then it was over.

But part of me wasn’t surprised.
Because deep down, I had already asked the universe for something different.

At first, I panicked.
The thoughts came fast: “You failed.” “Now what?” “You’re not ready.”
And I didn’t feel ready. I had no plan. No next step. No safety net.

But another part of me, quieter and steadier, felt like maybe I was ready after all.
Maybe this was the plan.

I was in the middle of reading The Surrender Experiment by Michael Singer, a book about letting go of control and learning to trust life’s unfolding, even when it doesn’t go the way you expected. It felt like it landed right on time.

“If you truly love life, don’t waste time trying to control it. Welcome it. Every part of it.”

— Michael Singer

While sitting with all these feelings, I created a piece called Undulation. A set of four woven works that reflect exactly what I was moving through. The ups and downs. The uncertainty. The soft release. A reminder that life, like water, moves in waves. Sometimes we are up. Sometimes we are down. Neither state lasts forever.

The textile in this piece came from a trip to Guatemala, where I returned to a volcano I had climbed the year before. That first climb, I did alone. It was the hardest experience of my life. But this time I went with friends. It felt lighter, happier, more magical. Sharing it made everything softer. That trip held so many small gifts, including this material — a physical memory woven into the piece.

I am still figuring things out.
I still feel pressure. Rent, time, money, uncertainty.
But I am trying to believe not everything has to be forced.
That maybe the best things happen when you loosen your grip.

I am trying to calm the anxious voice in my head and make room for the quieter one underneath it.
Because deep down, I know I am covered.
And I know something new is on its way.

Right now, I am just paying attention to the small ways I am learning to let go.
Tiny acts of surrender.
A pause.
A deep breath.
A piece of art made without knowing what it would become.

Maybe this is not the end.
Maybe it is the shift I quietly asked for.

“The natural flow of life is to be carried through time by that which happens. That is what it means to surrender.”

— Michael Singer

Video credits @yev_jackson

Tiny Acts of Surrender

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