What I ultimately discovered was freedom; the freedom to rest, to ask for support without guilt, and to grow in ways I didn't even realize I'd been blocking. Letting go didn't weaken me; it revealed that my real power was in my ability to adapt, evolve, and stay grounded through uncertainty

In 2008, my job as a computer science professor became so stressful that I actually wanted to retire. Instead I started playing bridge as an outlet, and now I am a Ruby Life Master and have been teaching bridge since I retired.

In 2018, I was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer and was given a one year life expectancy. I let go by staying strong in my faith and understanding that you can believe the diagnosis but not the prognosis. I have been cancer free for seven of the last 8 years.

I always think to myself it isn't worth it. No need for me to respond. My saying all my life is God does not like ugly. I just give it to Him and let God take control of the situation. And it has always worked out.

I was not one to complete High School as scheduled, but I returned to school after having my 2nd children and obtained my GED and Bachelor's in Psychology in 3 years. I had to keep reminding myself it's not how you start it's that you finish God has to remain my striving force I went from A case manager to now an Assistant Director within the NYC shelter system wanting to serve the underserved

There came a moment when trying to hold everything together felt like carrying a weight that was never mine alone. I was used to being the planner, the fixer, the one who anticipated every outcome and kept things moving. But eventually, control stopped feeling like responsibility and started feeling like self-protection...like if I just held on tightly enough, nothing could fall apart. But things still fell apart. And that's when I realized: control was the illusion, not the stability. Letting go wasn't instant. It happened in small moments like choosing not to send the extra text, not rehearsing every conversation in my head, not rushing to fill silence or solve problems that weren't mine. I allowed things to unfold without forcing them, even when it felt uncomfortable. What I learned is that surrender is not weakness. Letting go created space for clarity, softer emotions, and trust in timing, in other people, and in myself. I found that peace comes not from managing everything, but from knowing I can handle what comes next. Letting go didn't make me smaller; it made me freer. It reminded me that control isn't what keeps us safe, self-trust is.

I didn't relinquish control; I recalibrated it. When I aligned my priorities with my purpose, the same demands that once felt heavy became the foundation of my succes.

For years, I believed that control was the key to success; every detail managed, every outcome predicted. But the weight of holding everything together became overwhelming. The turning point came when I realized that perfection was costing me peace. Letting go wasn't easy; it felt like stepping into uncertainty. Yet, in that space, I discovered resilience and trust, both in myself and in others. I learned that leadership isn't about micromanaging; it's about empowering. By releasing control, I gained clarity, creativity, and a renewed sense of balance. Letting go didn't mean losing; it meant gaining freedom to grow.

I learned that letting go wasn't losing control. It was giving God permission to take His rightful place. The moment I released the weight I was never meant to carry, I discovered peace, clarity, and a strength that doesn't come from striving but from surrender.

I learned that control is an illusion built on fear, and letting go didn't just lighten the load; it finally allowed me to trust my own resilience and the help of others.

How I did it? I watched my mom grow into herself as a child living on assistance, my mom never stopped at the opportunity to better herself for her children . She did not become a statistic, yet changed the narrative and used those opportunities to further her career and lifestyle for the better. She will always be an inspiration of what you can do when you never limit yourself or resources.

In both my professional and personal life, I've often felt the need to hold everything together, whether ensuring a difficult investigation is flawless, mentoring aspiring women or helping make someone's milestone seamless. There was a moment when I realized that trying to control every detail was exhausting me and limiting the joy I could experience. Letting go didn't mean stepping back from responsibility. It meant trusting others, sharing the load, and allowing collaboration to flourish. In my field , this shift allowed me to empower my colleagues, gain new perspectives on problem-solving, and focus on what truly matters. Personally, it opened my eyes to the unexpected joy of seeing others shine and embracing moments as they unfold rather than trying to orchestrate everything. Through this process, I discovered that strength isn't about control. It's about discernment, trust, and presence. Letting go revealed that I can be both meticulous and flexible, disciplined yet joyful, and that sometimes the most profound impact comes from enabling others rather than carrying everything myself.

When I was diagnosed with type one diabetes at a young age, control became my "survival mode," if you will. I learned early that every number, every meal, every decision could impact how I felt, how I functioned, and sometimes even how safe I was. For years, I carried that responsibility. Quite frankly there are days I still do. Tight, constant, and exhausting. But as I have continued to build my career in banking, that same instinct to manage everything followed me. I wanted to be the one who handled every task, anticipated every problem, and proved I could balance my health with my ambition. I didn't want diabetes to be seen as a limitation, so I worked twice as hard to make sure no one ever had a reason to doubt me. The pressure to hold everything together, my body, my career, my goals, became something I silently carried every day. But there came a point when the weight of that control became too heavy. High and low blood sugars in the middle of meetings, days when my body slowed down before I allowed myself to, moments when I pretended I was fine so I wouldn't inconvenience anyone, it all caught up to me. I realized I wasn't protecting myself. I was pushing myself past my limits. Letting go wasn't a dramatic moment. It was a series of small choices. Telling my coworkers what I needed instead of downplaying it. Giving myself permission to pause, even when the day was packed. Accepting help. Trusting that I didn't have to be perfect to be respected. In the process, I discovered two things: (1) Strength isn't in controlling everything, it's in knowing when to step back. (2) Vulnerability doesn't make me less capable; it makes me human. Today, I still navigate the daily reality of Type One diabetes, but with softer hands. I am more patient with myself, more communicative, and more grounded. Letting go of control didn't make my life messier. It made it more manageable, more balanced, and more authentic. It allowed me to thrive in my career and take care of the girl who has been fighting since the day she was diagnosed. Letting go didn't weaken me. It freed me.

"Control made me successful. Letting go made me sovereign." For most of my life, control was my survival strategy. I controlled outcomes, emotions, situations, relationships, and even my own intuition because somewhere along the way I learned that if I didn't stay three steps ahead, I wasn't safe. Control made me successful. It also made me exhausted. The moment it became too heavy was when I realized I could no longer tell the difference between discipline and fear. I had built businesses, protected everyone around me, and kept myself "strong" for so long that I had no idea what it felt like to rest without guilt. Letting go wasn't graceful at first. It felt like failure. It felt like everything I had mastered was being asked to unravel. But when I finally released the illusion that I had to hold everything together, something unexpected happened. My nervous system softened. My intuition got louder. My relationships became cleaner. My leadership became sharper. I didn't lose power. I refined it. What I discovered is that true power doesn't come from controlling life. It comes from trusting yourself inside of it. Letting go didn't make me weaker. It made me sovereign.

For a long time, I knew exactly who I was. I was the high achiever. The one with the solid career, the momentum, the title that made sense at parties. I knew how to perform, how to lead, how to be the person people could count on. Then I stepped away. I stayed home for 14 years. And I don't say that like it was a pause button, because it wasn't. It was full-time life: raising a family, managing a home, carrying the mental load that nobody puts on a résumé but somehow expects you to do perfectly. I was needed every day. I was just… not visible in the same way. Over time, you get used to that. You stop introducing yourself with confidence. You start shrinking your own story. And then one day, it hit me. There's more I can do. Not because I wasn't grateful. Not because I didn't love my life. But because I could feel it, my skills were still there. My drive was still there. My leadership didn't disappear, it just didn't have a place to land yet. Starting again was humbling. When I returned after being out of the workforce for years, I didn't magically feel "I am back." I questioned yourself. I compared myself to people who never took a break. I wondered if I missed my window. And I learned fast that confidence doesn't come first. Proof comes first. So I built proof. One student, one class.. and yes, one award on it's first year. And slowly, something changed. People started showing up, not just for a sewing lesson, but for what the space gave them. Confidence. Calm. Capability. A sense of dignity. And then the community started leaning in too, because the mission was bigger than sewing. It was sustainability you could actually practice. It was building skills. It was creating a place where people felt seen. That's when I realized I didn't lose my identity during those 14 years. I was building it. Now, I'm shining because I'm finally using the full version of myself. And the wild part is the impact is bigger than I thought. Brighter than I thought. People need me now for the value I bring, not just to my students, but to my community. And honestly? It feels like I'm just getting started.