When Holding On Becomes the Thing Holding You Back
At 15, I met two women monks who rewired the way I saw everything; attachment, opportunity, the unknown. Their wisdom, and the quiet lessons of their garden, taught me when to hold on and when to let go.
I have always felt lucky, even as a child…like I was being guided in ways I didn’t fully understand. Every time I’ve felt lost, the universe has spoken through signs, places, and people. No matter how uncertain I was, something beyond me (God) was always steering me toward where I was meant to be.
I was 15 when thought I had everything figured out. I cut my hair the shortest it had ever been, a blunt bob just brushing my shoulders and defining my jawline: a reflection of wanting to feel older and in control. I was sneaking into college parties with friends and truly exploring life as an angsty teen, too young to belong anywhere and too restless to slow down. I felt like I knew everything and nothing at the same time : A jack of all trades or a master of none?
My parents’ finalized divorce had thrown me into a state of constant movement : packing bags, switching homes, adjusting to different versions of “normal.” It made me believe that if I could just hold on tighter; to people, places, or whatever felt familiar that I could stop everything from changing rapidly.
On a spring morning, I was on my way to the farmers market about a 40-minute drive from my house. Planning to buy some vegetables I’d probably forget about in the fridge, some in-season jam and maybe pick up a jar of honey. I had every intention of sticking to my usual route however, I hadn’t eaten all day and my stomach was starting to remind me of it. As I passed a small donut shop, the same one I had driven by countless times without a second thought, something made me stop. The air outside smelled like warm sugar and cinnamon. Looking back, this wasn’t the first time the universe had placed me exactly where I needed to be. While waiting in line, I scanned the walls; bored, curious and noticed a flyer that pulled my attention. It read:
“Won Buddhism teaches us how to use our minds. To use the mind well, we should first know what the mind is like and how it works. Join us for meditation and community at 2445 Layne Court, Mechanicsville, VA.”
I had just begun experimenting with meditation and affirmations, trying to find small ways to quiet my thoughts. Something about those words settled in me. After leaving with a warm box of donuts, I sat in my car and typed the address into my phone. The temple was five minutes from the farmers market.
The house didn’t look like a temple. It looked like someone’s large home, tucked behind trees, quiet, with a simple mailbox and a gravel path that crunched under tires. Nothing about it announced itself. But the garden, even from where I was parked, felt like an invitation.
The door was already open. I slipped off my shoes, wondering if anyone was home. Inside, the maru met my feet. The wooden floors were smooth and cool, stretching quietly through the space. The walls were covered in tall mirrors that caught the light and reflected it softly. My reflection followed me as I walked in. The room felt still, with shelves of books, neatly folded linens, and the quiet presence of a home that had been lived in with care.
“Hello? Hello?” I called out, while looking at my reflection.
Gyomunim Diane appeared from the other side of the house. *(Won Buddhist clerics—women and men—are called gyomunim (literally meaning "someone devoted to the teaching")*
She smiled with her eyes and motioned for me to sit.
Our conversation spanned an hour and she taught me a few Korean words that day, and I felt like Brittany Murphy in The Ramen Girl, except instead of begging her to teach me ramen, I was asking: teach me the art of detachment.
Diane told me how she moved to Virginia from Hawaii, leaving behind her house and a successful jewelry business. I remember asking her, Why would you give all of that up to come to Virginia? A small town I grew up in, one I thought had nothing to offer. I wanted to see the world, not return to a place where the nearest grocery store was twenty minutes away. I couldn’t understand how anyone could leave behind a life by the beach and the comfort of a thriving business to start over in the “unknown”. The idea of trading comfort and success for the unknown felt completely beyond me at the time.
I think about that moment often; especially during my graduation year, when everything felt uncertain and full of pressure to choose the “right” path. My friend got a job offer to work in Paris with L’Oréal. It was everything she said she wanted, but she almost didn’t go. She was scared to leave her apartment, her friends, her boyfriend in New York.
It made me realize how often comfort disguises itself as safety. And how easy it is to stay still, even when something better is calling.
But a few months later, she packed up and left. And Paris became “the best decision she ever made.”
Diane’s choice taught me that the life you dream of is often waiting on the other side of fear. That day, we agreed I would help with the temple. Over time, our conversations deepened, and I became an apprentice.
I started coming back every week. We’d practiced meditation and Tai Chi in the mornings : slow, deliberate movements that pulled me into my body. There was no rush, no goal. Just movement and breath. Tai Chi taught me how to let go without force, how to lead from my center and move with presence. It corrected my posture, calmed my mind, and reminded me to move freely throughout life.
There was another monk too : Kim from North Korea, soft-spoken and always tending to the garden. She didn’t speak English, and I didn’t speak Korean. But somehow, in that silence, I learned more than words could’ve taught me. She moved through the garden like it was a living extension of her spirit. I watched her water slowly, pausing between each pour, paying attention to how the soil responded. I watched her hands move through the soil like she had all the time in the world, and slowly I started to see how care rooted in patience leads to growth.
I started to realize what the garden was teaching me. It wasn’t just about tending to plants. It was about learning to let go. Nothing held on to what it had been. Flowers bloomed fully, then let their petals fall when the time came. Worms moved through the soil, breaking things down so richer ground could take shape. Leaves dropped in the colder months and came back changed, never needing to be what they were before. Even the vegetables—perilla, napa cabbage, sesame leaves—took their time. They didn’t rush toward ripeness. They showed me that renewal doesn’t come from force. It comes from stillness, from staying rooted, from giving space to begin again.
My hands were always in the dirt. Fingernails packed with soil, palms darkened from pulling roots and gathering herbs. There was something steadying about that daily rhythm of returning to the earth, waiting without expectation, and learning to move in time with nature itself. I pulled radishes and clipped scallions we had let rest through the winter. The soil reminded me that real nourishment never hurries. It forms slowly, in silence, through unseen layers of care and time. And as the seasons shifted, so did I. I began to move slower, listen deeper, and gently set down what I no longer needed to carry.
In the afternoons, we cooked with whatever the garden gave us. Kim taught me how to roll kimbap. We brewed burdock root for clarity, simmered mugwort in broths that eased the body, and added kimchi & cabbage into our meals. Perilla leaves cooled the heat of long summer days. Everything had a purpose, even if it wasn’t obvious at first.
As the steam lifted and the scent of fermented bean paste filled the room, I began to understand: the way they prepared food mirrored the way they lived : rooted, deliberate, and present. In Won-Buddhism, one teaching says, “Let the mind be like a mirror—clear and reflecting, not grasping or pushing away.”
The more I practiced, the more familiar it felt —not because I’d been there before, but because it brought me closer to myself.
