Letting Go: Trusting the Flow of Life and Learning

Over the last month, I’ve made a real and concerted effort to get into the flow. To stop trying to force outcomes and instead step back, get clear on my intentions, and release my grip on any particular result. It’s a practice that’s challenged me, yet brought unexpected clarity.

This phrase—“Never become attached to any particular outcome”—first emerged during a conversation on the porch of my old home. A great friend and I were reflecting on how different our lives had turned out from what we once imagined.

Whether we’d heard it before or whether we came up with it on our own, I don’t remember. But that sentence seemed to give us some clarity, and while I understood it’s potential for great insight I don’t think I fully understood the complexity of it at the time.

Over the years, the quote has stuck with me. I've gone through seasons where I’ve felt almost cynical about it—thinking things like, “Of course I shouldn’t get attached. Something bad is bound to happen” or “I can’t expect good things to last.” But hindsight is a powerful teacher. Looking back now, I see how my understanding has evolved. Today, I see that releasing attachment doesn’t mean giving up hope—it means having faith that, whatever happens, something meaningful is unfolding. If I don’t receive what I envisioned, perhaps I wasn’t thinking big enough. Perhaps the universe has something greater in store.

Slowing Down to Tune In

These school holidays have given me the perfect opportunity to practise that mindset. Usually, I feel the need to cram productivity into every spare moment—especially when I’m not busy preparing for my ‘real job.’ But in the lead-up to this break, I kept hearing the same message: rest. Sleep in. Let go. Be still. It’s advice I often give to others, yet rarely offer to myself.

So I made a conscious decision to do things differently. I prioritised time with my children, left the to-do list behind, and chose to go with the flow each day. It was simple, but deeply powerful.

This shift felt especially important in the first week, when my daughter came home from university. Like many young adults, she’s built a life away from us now, and we hadn’t had real time together in ages. We were all so excited to reconnect. What touched me most was how her younger brothers instinctively knew this time was special. They sensed this wasn’t the time for their usual teasing and banter, they showed genuine respect and affection—an unspoken understanding that these moments mattered.

We spent time in nature, something we all love, as well as simple days together at home. And for once, I wasn’t distracted by the mental clutter of unfinished tasks. I was fully present.

A Walk Into Perspective

One of those days, we walked into Lake Marian, a spectacular alpine lake. People travel thousands of kilometres to visit these sacred places of Fiordland, and here it is—practically in our backyard. The air was icy and crisp, our boots crunching over frozen paths. The sound of rushing waterfalls, birdsong, and chatter echoed around us as we made the steady climb toward the lake.

When we finally arrived, we stood in quiet awe. The calm, clear waters of Lake Marian were framed by towering, snow-dusted peaks—timeless and immense. These mountains have stood for centuries and will still be here long after we’re gone. The moment pulled everything into perspective. This, I thought, is what it means to be here. And for my kids, who are used to daily views of majestic mountains and native bush, even they felt the power of that moment. Nature has a way of silencing the outside noise and anchoring us in the present like nothing else can.

Home, History, and Unplugging

In the second week of the holidays, my boys and I travelled to my family home in the Waitaki Valley. Though my parents are no longer with us, the house still feels like home. The landscape there is strikingly different—rolling golden tussocks rather than Fiordland’s lush greens. And best of all? No internet connection.

While that can be mildly inconvenient, I’ve grown to love it. Every visit becomes an opportunity to take my kids off-grid. Like many parents, I’ve become increasingly aware of how digital technology affects our children. Yes, I allow screen time as a form of relaxation and fun, but I can always tell when it’s gone on too long—the shifts in behaviour and energy.

Looking back, I made some mistakes with my daughter. I gave her a phone at 12, thinking it would make my life easier. I had no idea what doors it would open—the constant exposure to social media, the inability to escape peer dynamics, the addictive design of the platforms themselves. At the time, I don’t think many of us fully understood what we were handing over to our children.

After reading The Anxious Generation by Jonathan Haidt, I’m more committed than ever to doing things differently with my boys (much to their frustration!). I’m not trying to demonise technology. It has incredible potential to connect, to inform, and even to heal—if used with the right intention. And intention is everything. It sets the tone for how we use our tools, our time, and our energy.

Creating Space for Presence

With no Wi-Fi and no distractions, something interesting happens: connection deepens. Yes, my boys still ask to borrow my phone or flick through the TV channels, but they’re also far more likely to grab a board game or head outside. There’s something sacred about a simple round of Cluedo or Uno —an experience that doesn’t require power, pixels, or plugins.

All of this circles back to one key idea: mindfulness.

Mindfulness isn’t just a buzzword. It’s a science-backed practice with profound benefits. Research suggests we spend nearly half our time focused on the past or future. Mindfulness gently brings us back to now. When we practise staying present—really staying—we become more capable of handling difficult emotions, appreciating joyful moments, and responding to life rather than reacting to it.

That’s exactly what these holidays have given me. The space to just be. To allow things to come and go. To trust the unfolding. To embrace the mantra: never become attached to any particular outcome.

Choosing Trust Over Fear

Let me be clear: releasing attachment doesn’t mean giving up hope. I still expect the best. I still dream. But I’ve stopped clinging. I trust that what’s meant for me will find me—and if it doesn’t, something better will. After the last ten years, which have brought their fair share of hardship and heartbreak, that trust hasn’t always come easy. But I’ve learned that the only thing we truly control is how we choose to respond.

We can meet adversity with mistrust, bitterness, or fear. Or we can meet it with faith. I choose faith—not blind optimism, but a belief that life is unfolding in ways I may not yet understand. I believe this is a gift and something I’d love to share with everyone. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our children learned this tool in school?

Whether I’m here to lead the change or simply start the conversation, I know I’m walking the path I’m meant to walk.

And so I trust. I hold my intention. And I let go of the rest.

Natalie