Opening: When You Can't Let It Go

So maybe you've tried everything.

You've journaled about it. Meditated on it. Talked it through with your therapist, your best friend, your patient partner who's heard this story seventeen times. You've done the ritual release—written it on paper and burned it, buried it, thrown it in the ocean.

You understand why it happened. You've done the shadow work. You've excavated the wound, identified the pattern, recognized your part in it.

And still.

Still, at 3am, your mind goes there. Still, certain songs gut you. Still, you're carrying it—the hurt, the betrayal, the shame, the rage, the grief that won't quite compost into wisdom.

Everyone keeps saying "just let it go" like it's a choice you're refusing to make out of stubbornness or self-indulgence.

But here's the thing they don't tell you: some things don't let go just because you decided they should. Some memories have roots that go deeper than your good intentions. Some pain is woven so tightly into your story that releasing it feels like unraveling yourself.

The ancient yogis knew about this too.

They had a river for it.

The Waters That Remember and Forget

In Hindu mythology, there are sacred rivers everywhere. The Ganges, holiest of holy, where pilgrims bathe to wash away karma. The Yamuna, dark sister river of devotion. The Saraswati, the invisible one that flows underground.

But there's another river that doesn't get talked about as much.

The river you cross when you die. The river between lives. The one you have to wade through to be reborn.

Some texts call it the Vaitarani (vai-tah-RAH-nee)—the river of suffering you must cross to reach the other side. Dark waters. Difficult passage. Everything you're carrying made visible.

Other stories talk about rivers of forgetting—waters that wash away the memories of your past life so you can start fresh. So you're not burdened by everything that came before.

And here's what interests me: in some versions, you have to choose to drink from those waters. You have to decide what you're willing to forget.

Because forgetting isn't the same as healing. And sometimes what we call "letting go" is just spiritual amnesia—numbing ourselves to pain instead of actually releasing it.

Yama (YAH-mah), the god of death, presides over this crossing. Not as punishment, but as passage. He's not there to judge whether you deserve to forget. He's there to witness what you're ready to release and what you're not.

Today, we're going to that river.

Not to force anything. Not to perform some final letting-go you're not actually ready for.

But to stand at the water's edge and get honest about what you're carrying, why you're still carrying it, and whether keeping it is serving you or slowly drowning you.

Before You Begin

(Find somewhere comfortable where you won't be interrupted.)

(Think about the thing you can't let go of. The hurt. The story. The person. The version of yourself. The thing everyone—including you—thinks you should be over by now.)

You don't have to name it out loud. Just acknowledge it's there. That you're still carrying it. That maybe you're tired of carrying it, or maybe you're afraid of what you'll be without it.

This pathworking isn't about fixing you or forcing release. It's about getting honest with yourself about what you're holding and why.

(When you're ready, close your eyes or soften your gaze.)

...

The Journey to the River

You're walking through mist.

Thick, gray mist that obscures everything more than a few steps ahead. You can't see where you came from. Can't see where you're going. Just this eternal present of walking through fog.

Your body feels heavy. Like you're carrying something. Like you've been carrying it for so long you forgot what it felt like not to.

And you have been carrying something.

On your back, in your arms, wrapped around your shoulders—however you sense it—you're carrying your burden. The thing you can't let go of.

Maybe it's a specific memory playing on loop. Maybe it's the weight of what someone did to you, or what you did to someone else. Maybe it's the person you loved who left. Maybe it's the version of yourself before everything changed.

Maybe it's your innocence. Your trust. Your faith that things work out.

(What are you carrying? Let yourself feel the weight of it.)

The mist begins to thin.

And you hear it before you see it—

Water. Moving water. The sound of a river.

...

Arriving at the Vaitarani

The mist clears, and there it is.

The river.

Dark water. Not menacing exactly, but serious. Ancient. The kind of water that's been here since before memory, that will be here long after.

You can't see the other side. The far bank is lost in mist. You only know it's there because the river has to end somewhere.

The water moves slowly but with undeniable current. You can see things floating in it—bits of debris, flower petals, objects you can't quite make out. Things other people have released into these waters.

This is the Vaitarani. The river between what was and what's next. The crossing place.

And standing on the bank, waiting—

Yama.

...

Meeting the God of Death

He's not what you expected.

Dark-skinned, yes. Crowned, yes. Carrying his staff and his noose—the tools of his office. But his face isn't cruel. It's just... steady. Patient. Like someone who's seen every human story play out and knows there's no rushing the process.

He looks at you. At what you're carrying.

"You made it," he says. Not surprised. Just acknowledging.

You stand there on the riverbank, holding your burden, not sure what you're supposed to do.

"Everyone comes here eventually," Yama says. "Everyone reaches the point where what they're carrying becomes too heavy to pretend it isn't."

He gestures to the river.

"This is the Vaitarani. The river of crossing. The waters that can wash away what you're ready to release."

You look at the dark water. Part of you wants to just throw your burden in and be done with it. Part of you is terrified to let it go.

"But here's what you need to understand," Yama continues. "These waters don't take anything from you. They only receive what you willingly give. You have to wade in yourself. You have to choose to let the current take it."

"And some things—" he pauses, "—some things you're not ready to release. Even if you think you should be. Even if everyone tells you it's time."

(Feel that. The truth of it.)

...

What You're Actually Carrying

"Before you decide anything," Yama says, "you need to see what you're actually carrying."

He touches your burden—the weight on your back, in your arms, wrapped around you—and suddenly you can see it clearly.

It's not just the hurt or the memory or the person.

It's what that hurt gave you.

The betrayal that taught you to trust your instincts. The loss that broke you open into compassion. The shame that forced you to face yourself. The person who left who showed you what you actually need.

You're not just carrying the pain. You're carrying the identity you built around the pain. The wisdom you earned through it. The ways you're different now because of it.

(Look at what you're carrying. What is it, really? What has it given you, even as it's hurt you?)

"This is why it's so hard to let go," Yama says quietly. "Because you're afraid if you release the pain, you'll lose what it taught you. You'll lose the person you became because of it."

You feel tears on your face. Because yes. That's exactly it.

"I'm not here to tell you that's wrong," he says. "Sometimes we need to carry things longer than other people think we should. Sometimes the weight is still teaching us something."

"But sometimes—" and his voice is gentle now, "—sometimes we keep carrying things long after the lesson is learned. Not because we need to. But because we don't know who we'd be without it."

...

The Question at the River

Yama steps back, giving you space.

"So here's the question: Are you carrying this because you're not done with it? Or are you carrying it because you're afraid to find out who you are without it?"

(Sit with that. Don't rush to answer.)

He gestures to the river again.

"The waters will take what you give them. They'll wash it downstream, break it apart, return it to the cycle. But they don't erase what you learned. They don't take away who you became."

"They just release the weight."

You look at the water. At your burden. At the god of death standing witness.

"Or," Yama says, "you can keep carrying it. Walk back through the mist. Come back another time when you're ready. There's no judgment here. No timeline. You cross when you cross."

(What do you want to do? What does your body want to do, not what your mind thinks you should want?)

...

Wade In or Walk Away

This is your choice.

Maybe you're ready. Maybe you step toward the water, your burden still in your arms, and you wade in.

The water is cold. Shockingly cold. It takes your breath.

But you keep going. Deeper. Until the water is up to your waist, your chest, and the current is strong enough to pull at what you're holding.

And you feel it—the invitation. The water asking: Are you ready?

Maybe you are. Maybe you open your arms and let the river take it. Let the current pull your burden from you and carry it downstream.

It doesn't disappear instantly. You can see it floating away, getting smaller, breaking apart in the water. Being returned to the cycle.

And you stand there, lighter. Terrifyingly lighter. Empty-handed and not sure who you are without it.

But breathing. Finally breathing all the way down.

...

Or maybe you're not ready.

Maybe you stand at the water's edge and realize—not yet. Not today. This burden is still mine. Still part of my story. Still teaching me something I haven't learned yet.

And that's okay too.

Maybe you step into the water just up to your ankles. Just to feel it. Just to know you can come back when you're ready.

Maybe you don't step in at all. Maybe you just sit on the bank and let yourself cry about how heavy it is. How tired you are of carrying it. How much you wish you could let it go but can't.

Yama sits beside you if you stay. Stands witness if you wade in.

He doesn't judge either choice.

...

What the River Teaches

Whether you released your burden or kept it, Yama has something to show you.

He reaches into the river and pulls out a handful of water. It runs through his fingers, dark and clear at once.

"You know what these waters actually do?" he asks.

"They don't make you forget. They make you remember differently. They don't erase the story. They wash away the charge. The obsessive replaying. The way it hijacks you at 3am."

He lets the last drops fall.

"When you're ready—truly ready—the river doesn't take your memories. It just releases their grip on you. You remember what happened, but it doesn't happen to you anymore. It's just... what happened. Part of your story but not the whole story."

"That's the difference between forgetting and releasing."

(Feel the difference. Forgetting versus releasing. Erasing versus integrating.)

"And here's the other thing," he says. "You can come back. You can wade in partway today and go deeper next time. You can release this burden in pieces. You don't have to do it all at once."

"The river doesn't run dry. The crossing place doesn't close."

...

The Return Journey

It's time to go back.

You stand—lighter if you released your burden, still carrying it if you chose to keep it, or somewhere in between.

Yama stands with you.

"Remember," he says, "I'm not the god of punishment. I'm the god of passage. Of moving from one state to another. Of crossing."

"You don't come to me when you've failed. You come to me when you're ready to transform."

He touches your forehead lightly.

"You'll see me again. Everyone does. Other crossings. Other rivers. Other things to release or keep carrying."

"Until then—be honest about what you're holding and why. Don't pretend things are lighter than they are. Don't carry things out of shame about still carrying them."

"And when you're ready—truly ready—the river will be here."

The mist rolls back in. You turn to leave.

And whether you're empty-handed or still carrying your burden, you're different now. Because you stood at the river. Because you got honest. Because you stopped pretending you should be somewhere you're not.

That's the crossing that matters.

...

Coming Back

(Take a breath. Feel your actual body.)

(Notice the surface beneath you. The air on your skin. Your heartbeat.)

(Wiggle your fingers. Your toes.)

(The river is still there, but you're here now. Back in this room. This moment. This life.)

(When you're ready, open your eyes.)

You're here.

And whatever you're carrying—whether you released it or kept it—you're more honest about it now.

That's not nothing.

Integration: The Questions That Matter

(Write whatever needs to come through. No judgment.)

About What You're Carrying:

What did your burden look like when you could finally see it clearly? Describe it.

What has this burden given you, even as it's hurt you? What identity or wisdom did you build around it?

If you woke up tomorrow and it was gone—just gone—who would you be? Does that scare you?

About the River:

Did you wade in? If yes, how far? If no, what stopped you?

If you released your burden—what did that feel like? Empty? Relieving? Terrifying? All of it?

If you kept your burden—are you carrying it out of need or out of fear? How do you know the difference?

About Readiness:

What would "ready" feel like? How would you know?

What's the difference between "letting go" and "giving up"? Where's that line for you?

Are you carrying this because you're not done with it, or because you don't know who you'd be without it?

About Forgiveness:

Is this about forgiving someone else, forgiving yourself, or something else entirely?

What if you could remember what happened without it happening to you anymore? What would change?

What are you actually holding onto—the story, the hurt, the lesson, or your identity as someone who went through this?

The Real Question:

Yama said you don't come to him when you've failed, but when you're ready to transform. So what transformation is trying to happen that you're resisting? What's on the other side of this river?

A Final Note

The Vaitarani isn't about being over something. It's about being honest about what you're carrying and why.

You don't have to let it go just because someone thinks you should. You don't have to keep carrying it just because you're afraid of who you'd be without it.

You just have to stop lying to yourself about the weight.

Yama doesn't judge how long you stand at the river. He just witnesses. Holds space. Reminds you that the water is there when you're ready.

And that ready doesn't mean perfect or healed or enlightened.

Ready just means: I'm more tired of carrying this than I am afraid of letting it go.

Sometimes that takes years. Sometimes it happens in a moment. Both are fine.

The river runs forever. The crossing place never closes.

You'll wade in when you wade in.

Until then—at least now you know where it is.

May you carry consciously what you choose to carry.

May you release what you're truly ready to release.

May you know the difference.

Next in the series: Volume 8: The Mirror Cave

Where we face what we've been avoiding seeing.

🕉️