You do not need to explain yourself to those who are committed to misunderstanding you.

Letting Ruth Asawa and Meryl Streep speak for me this week

Ruth Asawa, Albert’s Rose Bouquet (1990)

I have a bad head cold.

You would think I’m dying, honestly. It’s been so long since I’ve had one (thank you, K95 masking) that I forgot how a simple congestion can cloud not just your head, but your spirit. My body feels heavy, my thoughts are fogged, and there’s a persistent thrum behind my eyes that makes forming coherent sentences feel like wading through molasses.

So rather than force an essay today—rather than push through in the old, familiar way of productivity and perfection—I’m letting myself pause. Instead, I’m offering two quotes that landed on my desk this week and rooted themselves deeply in me. I can’t stop thinking about them. Maybe because they speak not just to what I’m wrestling with, but to what I’ve been too tired to name out loud.

The first is from artist Ruth Asawa:

“You can’t force a plant to bloom. It has a cycle. You have to tend it and care for it and wait for the bloom to happen. If you don’t take care of it, it dies. The more experiences you have like this, the more you begin to understand your own cycle.”

I have not been taking care of myself, this much is clear.

Not in the obvious ways—I'm eating, I’m sleeping (too much?), I’m doing the things. But I’ve been treating myself like that plant doesn’t need water or sun or stillness. Just results. Just bloom.

And when no bloom comes, I panic. I work harder. I forget that dormancy is not death. That sometimes the most generous thing I can do is wait—to sit with the discomfort of not blooming, not knowing, not being on fire with clarity or creativity.

And then, this—attributed to Meryl Streep, whether erroneously or not, which I can only describe as a permission slip I didn’t know I needed:

“Let things fall apart — stop exhausting yourself trying to hold them together. Not everything is meant to last forever, and forcing what is already breaking will only drain you. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is let go.

Let people be upset. Let them misunderstand you. Let them criticize and judge. Their opinions are reflections of their own perceptions, not a measure of your worth. You do not need to explain yourself to those who are committed to misunderstanding you. You are not responsible for how others choose to see you or how they react to your truth.

Stop fearing the unknown. Stop asking, Where will I go? What will I do? as if the universe has not already carved a path for you. Loss can feel unbearable, but sometimes, it is simply clearing the way for something better. What is meant to leave will leave, no matter how desperately you try to hold on. What is meant to stay will find a way, no matter how uncertain things seem. Life always finds a way to balance itself, even when we can’t see how.

There is a rhythm to life, a natural order of endings and beginnings. When we resist that flow, we create suffering. We cling to what is breaking, fearing that nothing good will replace it. But this is an illusion. The universe is abundant, constantly unfolding new opportunities, new love, and new purpose. The only thing keeping you from it is your attachment to what no longer belongs to you.

And never, for a second, believe that the best is behind you. Life does not stop offering beauty just because you have endured hardship. The good has not run out. There is still more joy to experience, more love to receive, more peace to be found. But you must be willing to make room for it.

So, ask yourself—What am I holding onto that is holding me back? And when you find the answer, trust yourself enough to let it go. Something better is already on its way.”

This quote gutted me. In a good way. In a “you’ve been pretending you don’t know this truth, but you do” kind of way.

I have been gripping tightly to things that no longer serve me, afraid of what their loss might mean. I have been trying to control the narrative, smooth the edges, hold the center—when the center has already shifted.

What if letting things fall apart is not failure, but wisdom?

What if I’ve misunderstood collapse as a personal shortcoming, rather than a necessary clearing?

What if I stopped explaining myself?

What if I trusted that whatever is falling away is doing so to make room?

I’m not offering answers today (or any day, really). Just a head cold, a heavy heart, and these two quotes that feel like lighthouses in a season of fog. Maybe they’ll guide you, too.

Love,

Patti