A New Year’s resolution revisited: Let go and begin again — but remember to rest in between.

There are only six months left till Christmas — I’m sure you wanted to know. And considering the strange weather we’ve been having, it wouldn’t surprise me if we had a summer snow.

My 2023 new year resolution is also on my mind every day. It’s kind of strange.

The words “Let go and begin again” first came to mind at the beginning of December, with the start of the Advent season. I knew these words were less of a resolution and more of a divine inspiration to carry me through the year. 

Halfway through 2023,  this heaven-sent message has helped to guide me through some rough spots. This message has been like the comforting words of a friend replaying in my thoughts. 

“Let go and begin again.”

Then just last week,  I heard another gentle whisper in my head, adding one small word to this timely wisdom.

“Let go. Rest. And begin again.”

I chuckled as I prayed, recognizing that the spirit knows me so well that inspiration need to be practically spelled out. 

When I first wrote down this intention for the new year, I understood that letting go implies rest. 

I am reminded of the dog command “sit” that we learned for Jo’s beloved Canine Companion service dog, Rae. 

Rae knew how to sit long before we met her. She was a perfect dog and very food-motivated which made it even easier to train her to these commands. 

But what we didn’t know is that when Rae heard “sit” she knew that also meant “stay” until told otherwise. The “stay” was implied, even though unspoken, in the command “sit”. So Rae sat and waited until she was called and there was always a joyful reunion afterward, with or without a treat.

The implied “stay” in the “sit” command came to my mind when the word “rest” came to my mind following “let go.” To the human ear, letting go implies rest much like the “sit” implies “stay” to our canine companion. 

But that doesn’t mean I always follow every letting go with a period of rest. I am oftentimes letting go of something, someone or some circumstance and quickly rushing ahead to begin again or sadly to regain control in another area of my life. In the reality of trying to let go of stuff, people, and circumstances that are clearly beyond my control, rest often gets pushed aside.

I have spent the better portion of this year living out this intention in ways I never imagined.

When the year began, I was hopeful that the craziness of last year, especially the hospitalizations and surgeries, were behind us and we could focus on Jo’s healing and getting stronger. 

But this year has proved to be more challenging than the one before. It appears that some of the ground Jo has lost in motor skills may be permanent. As doctors compare scans from the last year, the burden of cavernous malformations and concurrent hemorrhages in Jo’s brain — especially in the frontal lobes and the motor cortex — have increased, causing more deficits. 

Though we never give up hope, we do have to be sure we have the supports we need to care for my daughter at home. That means making sure we have more highly trained aides to assist her, medical equipment and wheelchair access inside and outside our home.

I was hoping 2023 would be a quiet year of caring for Jo, growing our nonprofit with more programs for people with disabilities and updating my book for a 10th anniversary release by the end of this year. After all, I am still breathing underwater.

But instead, Jo’s needs have increased and the physical tasks of caring are much more than they’ve ever been. I’ve spent more time advocating for her special needs and trying to stay ahead of her needs for more support. 

We thought we had a clear understanding of accessibility. But when skills decline, access becomes harder. A few weeks ago, we purchased a pre-owned wheelchair-accessible van to transport my daughter safely.

It was a hard decision to make, emotionally and financially. But here again, I had to let go of thinking I could simply out-maneuver Jo’s lack of mobility by lifting her harder and smarter and taking my time getting her in and out of the car. When I fell in a parking lot with Jo on top of me as I tried to put her in the car, I used my Apple watch to call for help. I literally had to let go and rest until someone came to help. 

The accessible van is a learning curve for us, but thanks to help from friends whose daughter has been in a wheelchair for years and mobility experts who have been helping to educate us, we are beginning again and feeling safe.

Recently I joked that our home is beginning to look like a durable medical equipment store as we try different equipment to help support Jo in and out of our home. It’s not just about walking, it’s about transferring from sitting to standing and her inability to hold her body up straight. 

Finally, after months of trying different products, I think we have the equipment she needs and places to store them so they are at readily at hand but not in the way of our busy life.  

One of the ironic or coincidental reasons I am always reminded of my new year’s intention is that I repeat the words “let go” numerous times every day. 

As my daughter loses fine motor control, her hands have a hard time grasping and releasing objects. When we are moving her from her stander to transfer her to another seat or to her bed, she struggles to let go of whatever she is holding. 

It’s then that we have to remind her to let go of that tight grip and assure her that we are there to help her transfer from one place to another. Every time I quietly whisper, “Let go, Jo,” I am reminding myself that there is so much in this life that is beyond my control. I just need to release my grip and trust that God will guide me to the next step.

In addition to changes all around us, Jo’s service dog, Rae was diagnosed with an aggressive spinal cord tumor. While we were able to help Rae with steroids and pain medication to gain some quality time with Jo and our family, she suffered a final decline just after Jo’s last surgery and was put to rest a few days later.

Those final moments with Rae were another lesson in letting go. In the end, Rae herself gave us a demonstration of what it means to let go and rest. Because Jo needed to remain in her wheelchair, we lifted Rae’s dog bed up to Jo so the two could say their goodbyes.

In quintessential service dog behavior, Rae leaned into Jo and locked eyes one last time with her friend. The two exchanged goodbyes as Rae snuggled beneath Jo’s trembling hand and arm. Then, as if making one final decision for the good of her friend, Rae kissed Jo and lifted her head towards me and the vet, as if to say, “Okay. I’m ready now.”

As my arms encircled our beloved canine friend, I spoke into her soft warm ears. “Thank you. I’ve got Jo. You can go.” I whispered one last command, “Release.”  Rae closed her eyes and died in my arms, surrounded by those who loved her well. 

The last few weeks have been hard to process these daily lessons of what it means to let go, and how to begin again. Though I am still learning, I have come to understand that every letting go needs to be followed by rest in order to discern how to begin again. 

But this I know to be true: when we let go, there will be another day with new hope and a new opportunity to begin again.