The energy you spend maintaining the past isn't lost. It's just unavailable.
What I learned when I stopped maintaining something that belonged to a life I'd already outgrown.
What Are You Still Maintaining?
Last night Greg looked at me and said something that stopped me cold.
We were outside on the patio enjoying an end of the day drink, talking — the way BFFs do — and the subject of me getting another car came up.
He just shook his head.
“Why would you do that? You’re enjoying your life. When you need something, I take you.”
And I thought: he’s right.
Which surprised me.
Because for most of my life, not having a car would have felt like failure.
My father owned car dealerships.
Cars were the family language. The measure of things. The way you showed up in the world and proved you were going somewhere — literally and otherwise.
I grew up absorbing that story without ever deciding to.
Without questioning it.
Without asking: is this actually mine?
So I kept cars. My whole adult life. Even when I barely used them.
Even when I lived in Manhattan and had to do the swap- the- side- of the street thing every Tuesday and Thursday…….. what a nightmaire. This was to allow the street sweepers to pass on the opposite side of the street. At least NYC has super clearn streets! But I digress.
So, yeah, I kept the car because that’s what people are supposed to do.
We all hold the notion that e freedom was supposed to look like getting in and going wherever you wanted whenever you wanted.
Except — that’s not how I actually lived.
That car sat in the parking lot for weeks at a time.
And when I did use it — it was always something.
A battery. Tires. Insurance. Cleaning it. Fixing something. Paying for something.
It wasn’t freedom.
It was maintenance.
And here is what I didn’t understand until it was gone:
Maintenance has a cost that never shows up on the bill.
Not just money. Energy.
The quiet, invisible, daily energy of keeping something going that isn’t really serving you anymore.
You don’t feel it while you’re doing it. It just becomes part of the background hum of your life. Another thing to manage. Another thing to think about. Another thing that uses a little of you every day without giving much back.
Until you put it down.
And suddenly there’s space where the hum used to be.
When I sold the car I told myself: one day I’ll make enough money and I’ll get another one.
Well. Here I am.
And I don’t want it back.
What I thought I would miss — I don’t.
What I thought I needed — I don’t.
What I thought was freedom was mostly maintenance of a story I inherited before I was old enough to question it.
But here’s the part I want to be honest about.
Letting go of something only creates room if you know what you want to fill it with.
Otherwise you just have an empty parking space.
And empty space without direction doesn’t feel like freedom either.
It feels like loss.
The reason putting down the car worked for me is that I already knew what I wanted instead.
A slower morning. A balcony and a cup of coffee and the birds doing their thing. A pedestrian life — walking, sitting, thinking, writing — that fits the woman I actually am instead of the woman I was supposed to be.
I didn’t sell the car and then figure out what I wanted.
I figured out what I wanted and then realized the car didn’t belong in that picture.
That sequence matters.
So I’m not suggesting you let go of everything that belonged to your old life.
I’m asking a quieter question.
Is there something you’re still maintaining —
a role, a habit, a possession, a way of showing up, a story about what your life is supposed to look like —
that is quietly using energy you could be spending elsewhere?
Something you kept not because you chose it but because that’s what people do?
Something that made sense for the woman you were —
but doesn’t quite fit the woman you are now?
Because here’s what I’ve learned about this season of life.
The energy you were spending on maintenance?
It doesn’t disappear when you stop.
It becomes available.
For the painting. For the writing. For the conversation that goes somewhere real. For the morning that belongs entirely to you. For the version of your life that’s been waiting just on the other side of the thing you haven’t put down yet.
But you have to know what you want first.
That’s not the easy part.
That’s the whole part.
If you’re sitting with that question and not quite sure where to begin — I made something for exactly this moment.
It’s called Refoundation. A 12-page soul-centered guide designed to help you identify what no longer fits, reconnect with what still lights you up, and rebuild from truth rather than habit.
Not a self-help workbook full of things you’ve already tried. Not gratitude lists or positive thinking exercises.
A real conversation between the woman you’ve been — and the one who’s been waiting.
If you’re ready to get clear on what you actually want before you start putting things down — this is where I’d start.
What are you still maintaining that you never actually chose?
And — more importantly —
what do you actually want instead?
If you know the answer to that second question, the first one gets a lot easier to act on.
If you don’t know yet —
that’s where we start.
If this has been sitting with you—
what are you still maintaining that you never actually chose—
then you’re already in the middle of it.
The question is whether you keep circling it alone.
On Tuesday nights, I sit with a small group on Zoom.
Not a class. Not a framework.
A real conversation with people who are done maintaining lives that don’t fit anymore.
We say the things out loud.
We hear ourselves clearly.
And we stop carrying what was never ours to begin with.
That’s the Breakthrough Circle.
Tuesday night. You can come sit with us.. Open to all annual subscribers.
And if something in this piece made you pause, nod, or feel a little less alone — please give it a heart before you go. That one small tap tells the algorithm this conversation matters. It puts these words in front of another woman who needs to hear them today. She's out there. Help me find her.