24/02/2025 What does Surrender even mean?

This question keeps rising like smoke from an unseen fire, curling into my mind over and over again. Surrender. And not in the way of throwing my hands up like some outlaw in a bad Western, waiting to be cuffed and dragged away. Not that hollow, performative kind of surrender.

I mean a deep, cellular surrender. The kind that cracks you open from the inside, that rearranges the very fabric of your being. But how the hell do you do that?

Am I supposed to march out the back door, hands raised to the sky, and shout to the universe, I surrender!? Because let’s be honest—my neighbours would either think I’ve joined some obscure cult or that we’re mid-scene in a very enthusiastic roleplay.

No, this question runs deeper. I’ve laid myself bare, both figuratively and literally, crying out to Great Spirit, Goddess, Gods—whatever divine force is listening—Here I am. I fucking surrender, take it all.

I have been on my knees, screaming it. I have whispered it through gritted teeth, demanded it, pleaded for it. I have said, Take what needs to be taken. Strip me down to the bones if you must. Just show me how to let go.

But what am I even waiting for? Some holy moment where my body just knows and release takes over? A sign, a shift, a crack in the illusion?

Twice now, I have journeyed with the God Molecule. The first time—well, I don’t remember it. I was gone, deep in the space where time unravels and the self dissolves. The sister that I journeyed with later told me that the Sharman had been shouting very loudly and almost aggressively demanding me to surrender, urging me to let go, but I was too far gone, caught in a realm where my panther woman walked beside me, where a man’s voice sang me into the void.

The second time was different. This time, I felt it. My body softened, uncurled. I wasn’t wrenched through the experience but guided, a whisper at the edges of my consciousness. Gently, surrender, she said. And then—I met myself under a tree. Another story for another time I feel.

Two journeys. Two different encounters with surrender. And yet, I am still here, tangled in the same question. What does it actually mean to let go?

Maybe surrender isn’t a one-time event. Maybe it’s not a moment at all but a practice, a peeling away, layer by layer. Maybe it's not about being taken but about offering—piece by piece, breath by breath.

I don’t have the answer. But I do know this: surrender keeps calling. And whether I go willingly or kicking and screaming, I have a feeling I will meet it again.

What are you actually surrendering to?

Is it surrender to life itself—the unpredictable, wild, chaotic dance of existence? The knowing that no matter how much you grip, control, or plan, life will still take you where it damn well pleases?

Is it surrender to death and rebirth—the constant cycle of shedding, breaking, rebuilding? Letting parts of you die so something new can emerge, even if you have no clue what that "something" is yet?

Is it surrender to yourself—not the version you carefully present to the world, but the raw, untamed, unfiltered truth of you? The one that doesn’t need permission to be?

Or is it surrender to the divine—the great mystery, the unseen forces, the hands that shape the cosmos? Trusting that something bigger than you is holding the threads, even when everything feels like it’s unravelling?

Or maybe—just maybe—you are surrendering to not knowing. To standing in the abyss without needing an immediate answer. To feeling your way through the dark, instead of demanding the light.

And that? That might be the hardest surrender of all.