The Habit of Letting Go

The cab jolted over the cobblestones of Bonn, every bump a percussion through the seat frame and into my spine. Headlights carved pale rivers across centuries-old stone walls, washing the city in amber. Outside, fog pressed low over the Rhine. Inside, the only sound was the rhythmic hum of the engine and the faint tap of David’s thumb on his phone. We’d been awake for too many time zones. Düsseldorf that morning for a massive client signing. Cameras in our faces all afternoon for a new mini-documentary-“one more take,” “say it again,” “smile this time.” Presentation mode for hours.

Add the flights, the time change, the endless politeness of being “on,” and we were both running on fumes. Now we were racing toward COP 23, where Plastic Bank would receive our second United Nations award. This was supposed to be a night of celebration. But triumph, it turns out, doesn’t ride in the same cab as fatigue. At first, the conversation was harmless. Logistics. Schedules. Double-checking details. Then tiredness sharpened our edges. His clarifications came out too firm. My corrections landed too hard. Productive slipped into nitpicking. Nitpicking slid into an argument. “It’s not what I said,” David muttered, eyes still on his screen.

“It’s exactly what you said,” I snapped back. We volleyed half sentences, both too drained to listen. It wasn’t anger. It was depletion. The cab was too small to contain it. Words ricocheted off the glass, louder than either of us meant. My chest burned. His jaw locked. In the window I saw his reflection-eyes narrowed, mouth thin-and my own mirrored right beside it. Then he inhaled slowly, the kind of breath that signals the end of a debate. His voice came out calm, but with an edge that cut deeper than volume. “Shaun, I need you to become powerful enough that you never let someone else’s bad state of mind take you out of your good state of mind.” The words hit harder than I wanted them to.

I stared at the blur of cobblestones rushing beneath us, cheeks hot with defensiveness. The cab slowed under the halo of the conference-center lights. No time left to argue. Showtime. The Gala Bonn at night shimmered with layers of history. Roman walls slept beneath modern streets. Beethoven’s birthplace stood a few blocks from federal ministries. A city rebuilt from ashes that still hummed with music and memory. The conference center rose from the riverbank, all glass and light. Spotlights swept the sky. Chauffeured cars pulled up in neat precision, exhaust ghosting into the cold. Inside, chandeliers flung constellations of light across marble floors.

Waiters in black moved silently between tables of diplomats, CEOs, and climate leaders. The air carried a hum of polite conversation and the quiet clink of cutlery against porcelain. We found our seats near the front. I tugged my jacket, trying to smooth out more than wrinkles. My chest still buzzed from the argument. Then the house lights dimmed. Forks stilled. Conversation died mid-sentence. The room held its breath. The massive screen flickered to life-black, then color, then her voice. Calm. Steady. Eternal. I froze. I knew that voice. Jane Goodall. The voice that had shaped my childhood sense of purpose.

The woman who had proven that empathy could be data-that love could be science. Now, that same voice narrated our story. “…turning plastic waste into value… communities being lifted… dignity being restored.” Images flooded the screen: the Philippines, collectors in new uniforms, the proud green walls of our branches gleaming in sunlight. Bali-Wisaka’s team laughing in front of mountains of bottles, the ocean burning blue behind them. Our app glowing on a phone, the symbol of trust made visible. Jane’s voice continued, calling Plastic Bank a model for hope. Goosebumps rose on my arms. My throat tightened.

Just like that, the argument was now forgotten. She was the voice of purpose, and purpose silenced everything else. When the lights came up, applause broke like a wave. Cameras flashed. The aisle stretched forward, carpet swallowing each step as we walked to the stage. The heat of the lights met the cool weight of the award in our hands. It should have been pure elation. And it was-almost. Beneath it, the echo of the cab still lingered, quiet but persistent. That’s the cruelty of triggers: the moment ends; the grip remains. The Reset By day two of the conference, we were running on autopilot.

A staffer approached with two envelopes-per diems for the week. David turned his over in his hand. “Our session was day one.” “And the award was yesterday,” I said. “So… are we required for anything else?” The staffer shook their head. “No, you’re free.” David’s shoulders dropped. “I need to relax and reset. I think I’m going to find a beach in Italy. It’s a short flight.” “Yeah,” I said, “I think I need to do the same. I think I need waffles.” He laughed, the first real laugh in days. “If you’re craving waffles, Belgium’s only a short train ride.” It was.

Brussels The train north cut along the Rhine, past castles perched on cliffs and forests dissolving into mist. By the time I stepped out into Brussels, the rain had just ended. Cobblestones glistened like glass. I was on a mission: Belgian waffles in Belgium. The Grand Place opened like a painting-guildhalls gilded in gold leaf, spires tipped with saints, the scent of caramelized sugar drifting between arches. A street vendor stood at his iron, batter hissing, steam curling into the night. I ordered a waffle and watched him work, each motion deliberate, each turn of the iron a small act of art.

He lifted the finished one with tongs, its surface bubbling with sugar crystals, its edges crisp and dark. I took it in both hands and walked through the square, powdered sugar dusting my jacket like snow. Around the corner, I found him-Manneken Pis-the city’s infamous two-foot statue of a boy endlessly peeing into a fountain. Locals had dressed him in a tiny tuxedo. Tourists crowded, snapping photos like he was royalty. I stood there, biting into my waffle, watching a crowd cheer for a statue of a boy relieving himself. It was ridiculous. It was wonderful.

By the final bite, something unclenched. The absurdity and sweetness of the moment did what no award could. I was officially back to my good state of mind. Bruges My knowledge of Belgium came mostly from the movie In Bruges, so naturally-when in Bruges. The train slid into a different world. The medieval skyline rose out of the mist like a dream someone had forgotten to finish. Narrow canals shimmered under stone bridges. Gabled houses leaned toward each other across cobblestone lanes. Swans drifted like white ghosts, rippling the reflections of towers in the water.

I walked the streets with no agenda, following the tolling of the Belfry like a compass. At a café near the square, I ordered coffee and studied the menu. Another waffle-of course-but not the kind I’d eaten in Brussels. This one was perfectly square, crisp at the edges, architectural in symmetry. Are there more than one kind of Belgian waffle? Apparently so. And I was happy to continue my field research. I don’t often eat gluten or sugar. But right then, it seemed appropriate. Belgian waffles felt like exactly the kind of therapy I needed.

I ordered one-topped with chocolate, strawberries, and whipped cream-and sat by the window as the church bells rolled over the rooftops. Two bites in, I laughed aloud. That was great advice. Take the train. Get the waffle. Let go. And with the plate half empty, another thought landed-the advice that had pissed me off in the cab: Become powerful enough that no one else’s bad state of mind can take you out of your good state of mind. It was amazing advice. Now that I was finally calm enough to hear it. I pulled out my notebook and wrote: What one thing can I do this week that will get me closer to my goal?

Then: Commit to becoming powerful enough that no one can take me out of my good state of mind. I underlined it twice. I knew it would take work-practice, not theory-but it would be worth the effort. Outside, a horse-drawn carriage clattered by. Somewhere, a swan scolded a tourist. The square exhaled. Why We Stress As I wandered along the canals, one question lingered: Why did it take all this-a fight, an award, two cities, two waffles-just to let go of one small argument? Because stress doesn’t measure scale. The science is simple but brutal.

When stress triggers, your body floods with cortisol. It was designed to keep us alive when life was simpler. Imagine a rustle in the grass-your brain assumes predator. Your body spikes adrenaline. Muscles tense. Heart rate climbs. You’re ready to fight or flee. That made sense when a tiger might leap from the trees. But here’s the catch: your body doesn’t know the difference. Today, the tigers have changed. They come as arguments and emails. As unread text messages, missed calls, and meetings that run long. They hide in comment sections and social posts that jab when you least expect it.

Our predators have gone digital. They live in our pockets, on our wrists, in the endless scroll that never stops. They’re always on, always pinging, always waiting for you to pick them up. And every ping, every buzz, every notification triggers the same ancient response - fight, flee, or freeze. Your body can’t tell the difference between a tiger in the jungle and a tone in your inbox. It floods you with cortisol just the same. That’s why small things feel enormous. That’s why one careless comment lingers longer than a thousand compliments. That’s why a single disagreement on a good day can hijack an entire week.

We’ve built a world where the threats never stop coming - unless we choose to stop answering. Stress was meant to keep us alive. Now it often just keeps us stuck. Because here’s the truth: the trigger isn’t optional. Life will always bring stress. What’s optional is how long you hold it. Stress is like holding a glass of water. Hold it for a minute, and it’s fine. Hold it for an hour, and your arm starts to ache. Hold it for a day, and it goes numb, trembling under the weight. The glass hasn’t changed.

It’s the same eight ounces it always was. What changed is how long you insisted on holding it. Arguments. Deadlines. Disappointments. They’re all glasses of water. Harmless if you pick them up, sip what’s useful, and set them down. Destructive if you insist on holding them forever. Because the point of the glass was never to hold it. The point was to drink from it-to learn, to refresh, to move on. Reflections Letting go isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom. It’s remembering that peace isn’t found in a world without stress - it’s found in the discipline of setting the glass down.

That’s the heart of the habit: Notice the trigger. Name the trigger. Take a breath. Set it down. You don’t have to fix every argument, answer every text, or read every comment. You don’t have to win every disagreement or prove every point. You just have to recognize when the glass in your hand has already done its job - and choose to let it go. That’s what I’d missed in that cab. That was the lesson David gave me without meaning to. With practice, you can become powerful enough that no one else’s bad state of mind can take you out of your good state of mind.

That night, waffles and humor returned me to myself. Jane’s voice returned me to purpose. And the next morning, I returned to the work - lighter, present, and in control of what I carried. Because presence isn’t passive. It’s power. And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is finally set the glass down - and walk away with an open hand.