When Letting Go Doesn’t Feel Like Enough

A letter from the in-between: faith, fear, and the fight to stay human

Wendi Kehn/Hellbloom Haven– (Post is also featured on Substack & Medium)

Jan 13, 2026

When Letting Go Doesn’t Feel Like Enough

A letter from the in-between: faith, fear, and the fight to stay human

Yesterday, while I was trying to write an article about body positivity, I got what I call only a download.
Words started streaming into my mind, clear, and insistent, so I opened my laptop and started typing what I was hearing.
And the message went something like this:

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“There’s a moment, after betrayal, after harsh words, after deep disappointment, when everything in you wants to hold on. Hold on to the anger. The hurt. The story of how they wronged you.

It feels justified. Because they did hurt you. And part of you believes that staying angry means staying strong.

But real strength isn’t found in holding on. It’s found in letting go, and placing it into the hands of Someone who sees the full picture. Giving it to God isn’t weakness. It’s power. It’s choosing to trust that He will deal with it in a way that’s far more meaningful, just, and complete than you ever could.

When you stop feeding the flame they started, and instead give it to God, something shifts. The weight lifts. While they go on with the consequences of their actions, you go on with your life, lighter, freer, and more grounded in joy and peace. That’s the gift. Not revenge, not control, but peace. The kind that only comes when you know who you are, and more importantly, whose you are.”

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I didn’t finish that article last night. Something told me to sleep on it before posting, so I did, and this morning, I woke up to a different kind of clarity.

I woke up to messages of tension. People I know are wrapped in arguments. Beliefs clashing, lines being drawn.

I recently found out ICE was in town. Businesses are closing, people are having to decide whether or not to keep their kids home from school, families are locking their doors, trying to protect each other, and doing what they can to feel safe in a world that keeps reminding them they’re not seen as fully human.

One of my best friend’s is Native American and Mexican. Her people were here before borders ever existed.
And yet even she and her son live with the fear that someone will look at their skin, their name, their history, and decide they don’t belong, which is preposterous.

But let me be clear:
No one deserves this.

Not her. Not any of the families living in fear right now.
Not the ones working 12-hour shifts to provide.
Not the ones who crossed borders to escape violence most of us will never have to understand.
Not the ones who don’t speak the language, but still show up every day to survive and serve.

People don’t come just come here because it’s easy. They often come because it’s their last hope.
If most of us knew even a fraction of what they left behind, most of us would fall to our knees in gratitude for never having lived it.

Everyone has a story.
Everyone deserves dignity.
And no one, no one, deserves to be terrorized in their own neighborhood.

So as I looked back at the words I wrote yesterday, the ones about healing and peace and letting go, I asked myself:

How the hell could I post this today?
Who even cares about this when families are being hunted?
How can I talk about joy when people I love are living in fear?

As I asked the questions in my mind, I started receiving the answers shortly after.

Section 2: The Second Message

I’m not very religious.
I’ve never read the full Bible.
I don’t go to church.

But I have a deep and faithful relationship with God.
With the Universe. With Spirit.
The name isn’t really that important. The connection is.

So writing things like this, openly about faith, can feel vulnerable for me.
It’s a little uncomfortable. Like maybe I’m saying too much.
But I don’t think the pause, the shift, or what came to me this morning was an accident.
I believe it was God deepening the message before I shared it.

I was sitting in my living room.
The house was quiet. The kids were off to school.
I cried a little, missing when they were small,
feeling that ache only a parent knows when time moves faster than you were ready for.

I stared at the screen, rereading the words I’d written the day before.
And then I started asking God the hard questions:

How can I share this today?
What good are words about peace when people I love are living in fear?
How can I talk about joy when families are being hunted and torn apart?

As I sat with those thoughts, another message began to come through,
steady and clear.

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Do not let fear sit where faith belongs.

You were never asked to carry it all.
Only what is yours.

Feel what is rising.
Anger. Sadness. Helplessness, but do not deny it. Do not drown in it,
bring it to Me.

You are not weak for feeling this.
You are strong for letting it move through you without letting it own you.

Love without losing yourself.
Protect without turning to stone.

Act where you are called.
Rest where you are not, and trust Me with what’s beyond your reach.

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After those words came through, I just sat there trying to make digest the message while still grappling with my feelings about the state of life right now around me.

I didn’t suddenly feel better, but I did feel held.

And I started thinking…
So what now?

What does surrender even mean when people I love are afraid to leave their homes?
How can I let go when the injustice feels so real, and so wrong?

Then I realized, this wasn’t a call to do nothing.
This was a reminder to do what I can with peace at the center.

Because if I lose my center, I lose my clarity.
If I let fear lead, I might act out of panic instead of purpose.

And maybe… maybe keeping my peace is part of the work.

Because when I’m grounded, I can pray.
Not just hope, but pray with direction.
Pray for wisdom. For protection. For clarity. For change.

Prayer isn’t passive, it’s alignment.
It’s how I reconnect to what’s true so I don’t get swallowed by what’s loud.

It’s been proven.
Prayer changes brain chemistry.
It softens the nervous system and strengthens the heart.
Prayer is not giving up, it’s remembering where the real power is.

This doesn’t mean stay silent.
If you’re called to speak and can, then speak.
If you’re called to or placed in a situation to act, act.

But let it come from deeper than fear.
Let it come through God, not just through your anger.

Section 3: The Weight of Seeing Clearly

The message I received brought some initial comfort.
But sitting with it longer, I realized, this is the part that’s harder to live.

Not because I doubt God, but because I see people hurting people, and I don’t know how to make it stop.

That’s where I struggle most.

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This situation is hard for me, not just because of the fear and injustice,
but because I see too much.

I see the harm.
I see the fear in people I love and people in the community.
I see the coldness in those who justify it.

And yet… I still see their humanity, too.
that is something I find beautiful and am grateful for but I also struggle with that.

I hate that I can’t just write people off.
Even when they act like enemies and cause harm, I can’t unsee that they’re human.

That’s the part no one talks about,
how hard it is to keep your heart open in a world that wants you to shut it down.

I have a mind and heart that refuses to see in black and white.
And some days, that feels like a gift.
Other days, it feels like a curse.

Because it would be easier to pick a side and harden.
To call people monsters and just move on.

But I can’t, I still believe that if we actually saw each other, fully, it might change something.

Sometimes I just want to scream:
We are all human.

Don’t you see it?

We all carry pain.
We all want to be safe.
We all want to matter.

And I wish that was enough to wake people up.

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I’m not someone who’s easily shaken these days.
I’ve done the work. I’ve been through the dark.
My fuse is long, but even I have limits.

And lately?
Watching people say and do hateful things,
watching them believe it, like it’s righteous, it boils my blood.

It’s wild to me.

I grew up reading about the Holocaust,
reading history like it was a warning.
And now I’m watching it happen in real time,
and half the people don’t even see it.

That breaks something in me.

Because there’s a part of me that wants to lash out.
To scream. To shame. To fight.
And in a life or death moment, yes, I’ll do what I have to.

But I don’t want to hurt anyone.
I don’t want to feel consumed by rage or soaked in hate.

That’s not who I am.
That’s not who I’m willing to become.

So for me, giving it to God is the only way forward, because I refuse to let the darkness corrupt my soul.

I’ll protect what needs protecting, and I’ll speak what needs to be spoken.
But I will not trade my peace for a temporary sense of power.

Because I know what it costs to come back to yourself,
and I don’t want to lose that part of me again.

So I’ll keep choosing to stay soft, even when it’s hard.
I’ll keep choosing to see people, even when I wish I didn’t have to.

Because maybe that’s what surrender really looks like:
Not backing away from the pain,
but staying whole inside of it.

Section 4: What Peace Really Means

This morning, I shared something on my social media stories:

“If your safety comes at the suffering of another,
it’s not safety.
It’s privilege built on harm.”

And I meant every word.

Because I don’t want peace that requires anyone else to live in fear.
I don’t want comfort that comes from closing my eyes.
And I don’t believe God calls us to that kind of peace either.

So when I say “give it to God,” I don’t mean look away.
I don’t mean pretend everything’s okay.
And I definitely don’t mean silence.

I mean:
Give the fear to God so it doesn’t own you.
Give the hate to God so it doesn’t change you.
Give the weight to God so you can stay human in the middle of it all.

Because if you let the fire consume you, you can’t protect anyone.
But if you stay anchored in love, in clarity, you can see what needs to be done.
You can speak truth that actually lands.
You can act without adding more harm to the harm already here.

That’s the peace I’m praying for now.
Not the easy kind but the kind that sees everything, and still chooses not to become the very thing it’s resisting.

Final Message: You Are Not Powerless

If your heart is heavy, and the world feels overwhelming,
remember this:

You’re not powerless.

You might not be able to fix everything, or save everyone.
But you still get to choose who you are in the middle of all of this.

Stay clear.
Stay human.
Stay open to what’s true.

Compassion doesn’t make you weak and peace isn’t passivity.
It’s a decision.

Give what you can.
Protect what matters.
And trust that it’s enough.

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Thank you for reading.
If this message resonated with you, I invite you to stay and explore

At Hellbloom Haven, I offer:

• 1:1 peer support sessions
• Poetry and soul reflections
• Intuitive readings and spiritual services
• Workbooks for healing and self-exploration
• Apparel that speaks truth
  …and more, all created with heart and intention.

Whether you’re in the thick of it or rising from the ashes, you’re welcome here.

With love,

Wendi Kehn