When ‘enough’ means letting go

The art of knowing when to stop holding on

Written in my final three weeks at Motel Strahan, when my body began whispering that it was time to go.

This morning, I woke with one thought pulsing: three weeks to go. Three weeks until I finish at Motel Strahan. I’ve offered to clean on my last day, and then… undecided. Do I drive to Burnie or Devonport and stay overnight — or just wait for the ferry the next day at 6:45 pm?

Choices, right?

As I made breakfast, a soft ripple of emotion surfaced — not a wave, not grief, more like something rising quietly from the depths.

Has it been that bad here? No. Not bad. Relentless. Three months of seven days a week — my body knows it. My soul feels it. Last night in bed, my left knee throbbed until I could barely move. Today my shoulder pulls from clavicle to wrist, protesting after five hours hunched at my laptop yesterday instead of cleaning.

My body is telling me the truth I try to ignore: we’ve had enough. I extended my time here so the boss could get hand surgery and finish healing before returning to resume managing this motel.

But my body knows the original leaving date is close. It’s almost as though it finally has permission — to ache, to protest, to begin repairing. But there are still three more weeks. I coax it across the line: four rooms today instead of five. Painkillers if I must. Reiki if Rita will send it. Small mercies to keep me moving.

My body can have all the rest it wants once we are firmly ensconced in road life again. Those will be days of endless sleep-ins, choices around meals and travel times, and the freedom of space and silence without endless check-ins and guest demands.

Once I am released from this commitment, I can relax and begin releasing my stories too. I recently recognised a truth I can no longer ignore: I hoard stories.

I feel them, plot them, write them.
I store them, lose them, read them.
I even reshape them.

But sharing them is a challenge. I keep them close out of fear — fear that if I let them go, I’ll have none left. Or that my creative well will finally run dry. It echoes my childhood, when nothing was really mine, and my marriage, where even what I treasured could be taken.

But stories are not like that. They are mine to tend, mine to share. Sharing does not diminish them; it multiplies them. Readers, reputation, connection — abundance grows when stories breathe.

I understand that intellectually, but my heart isn’t quite up to speed with that notion yet. Until then, I will ease into sharing them. I am one of those writers who learns by doing.

Publishing my stories — sharing my words — will probably create a vacuum for more: more words, more stories, more creative ideas. Sharing will unstopper the flow I probably corked when I chose to withhold my inspirations from the world — or so I hope.

This is what I am learning as the countdown continues: my body tells me when enough is enough, and my stories remind me that enough is already here.This is what I am learning as the countdown continues: my body tells me when enough is enough, and my stories remind me that enough is already here.