Learning to Let Things Change (Even When You Don’t Want Them To)

I’ve been noticing lately how much I tend to hold on to things, and not always in an obvious way either. It’s not like I’m consciously saying to myself “I want this to stay exactly as it is”, but it shows up in smaller, quieter ways. In the way I think about something that used to feel good and wish I could go back to it, or when something changes slightly and I feel this subtle resistance to it, almost like I need a bit more time before I can fully accept that it’s no longer the same.

And I think I’ve always been a little bit like this, even if I didn’t realise it at the time.

Holding on to how things used to be, or how I thought they would turn out, or even to a version of myself that I felt more comfortable being. It’s strange because sometimes those versions aren’t even better, just… more familiar. And there’s something about familiarity that makes things feel safe, even if they weren’t necessarily that good for us in the first place.

But life doesn’t really move in a way that allows us to stay there for too long.

Things shift, sometimes slowly and almost unnoticeably, and other times all at once. Our routines change, the people around us change, the way we spend our time changes, and even within ourselves, the way we feel from one day to the next can be completely different. There are days where everything feels quite light and easy, and then others where something feels slightly off, or heavier, or just harder to understand. And I find that on those days especially, I try to make sense of it, or fix it, or bring myself back to how I felt before.

As if that version is the one I should always be.

But the more I pay attention to it, the more I realise how exhausting that actually is. Trying to control things, or keep them exactly as they were, creates this kind of tension that just sits there in the background. It’s not always loud, but it’s there, and it takes up more space than it needs to.

In yoga, and also in Buddhism, there is this idea of impermanence, which sounds quite simple when you first hear it. The reminder that nothing stays exactly the same forever. Not the difficult moments, but not the beautiful ones either. Everything is kind of in this constant state of moving, even if we don’t always notice it.

And I remember when I first really thought about that, it didn’t feel comforting at all. If anything, it felt a bit unsettling. Because it means that even the things we love, the moments we want to stay in, will eventually shift into something else.

But over time, I think I’ve started to see it a little differently.

There’s something quite relieving about knowing that things are allowed to change. That I’m allowed to change. That I don’t have to hold everything together all the time, or have everything figured out, or feel a certain way just because I think I should.

I recently came across the Japanese idea of wabi-sabi, and it stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect. It’s this idea of finding beauty in things that are imperfect, incomplete, or constantly changing. Not polished, not finished, not fixed into place. Just… as they are, in that moment.

And I think that’s what made it click for me a little more.

Because I realised how often I approach myself in the opposite way. Like there’s always something to improve, something to fix, something to work on before I can fully relax into who I am. As if I’m some sort of ongoing project that hasn’t quite reached the “final version” yet.

But what if there isn’t a final version.

What if this is it, not in a limiting way, but in a more freeing one. This version of me, right now, with everything that feels clear and everything that still feels a bit messy or uncertain, is allowed to exist without needing to be reshaped into something else first.

And I think this is one of the reasons I keep coming back to yoga, even when my practice looks completely different from one week to the next.

Not because it fixes anything, or because it suddenly makes everything make sense, but because it gives me a space where I can just notice what is already there. The breath, the body, the tension I’m holding onto without even realising, and also the parts that feel a little softer, a little more open.

Sometimes it’s nothing dramatic at all. Just lying there at the end of a class, noticing my breath, or realising that I don’t need to rush through whatever I’m feeling in that moment. And for a little while, I’m not trying to get anywhere else. I’m not trying to go back to how things were, or jump ahead to how I want them to be.

I’m just here.

And I think maybe that’s the part I’m slowly learning.

That the practice isn’t really about becoming someone new, or reaching some ideal version of yourself that you’ve created in your head. It’s more about learning how to be with yourself as you are, in whatever season you find yourself in, even when it doesn’t feel particularly clear or comfortable.

Even when things are changing.... And maybe even especially then.