Fighting the good fight.

My sweet brother whose patience for my constant physical attachment to him knew no bounds.

The frustrating thing about self-introspection and “doing the work” is that, little by little, everything starts to lead back to you. Honestly, it would be so much more convenient if the areas of life in need of healing had been blocked by someone else. They could take the blame. But the deeper one digs, the more we uncover our own responsibility for recurring patterns. Like the baby elephant raised on a chain who, in adulthood, doesn’t realize it has the power to break free with a single tug. Over the last few weeks, I made a significant discovery of something I had felt chained to for years.

It came while I was texting with a friend. I caught myself writing “I’d rather be fought for than fight.” Where was this coming from? Why was I writing this? I have fought plenty of battles in my life, never backed down from one, and intend to keep continue doing so. I was aptly named Mathilde which actually means “strong in battle.”

When I reflected on it, the battle I’ve had a much harder time fighting was one I needed to have with myself. Despite self-describing as very loving, there is always a part of my heart that was always kept closed and protected from the rest of the world. One that cannot be touched by anyone. I call it my 20%. It is the part which was shattered when my brother died. And because I was eight, I thought mourning meant moving on, forgetting him. So I kept that part safely tucked away, like a festering wound. Most of us have these: a childhood pain, a limp you learn to integrate in your walk so no one notices. It becomes part of your style, of who you are. But as I pondered the words “I’d rather be fought for than fight.”, what I was asking was for someone else to stick their foot in the door where I hid my 20%. To keep me from closing it all the way. Remind me that the instinct to run, to retreat, to shut off isn’t necessarily the wisest response, even if it’s the most familiar. But that is no one else’s job. That battle is inside of me, and with myself. Those words came from the 20%: it wanted to be fought for so it could be free and heal.

So I took the self-introspection book off the shelf again and peered inside. While reading Buddhist and Adlerian texts, I questioned whether holding on to past pain had secretly become a subtle kind of self-indulgence. A sorrow I’d grown used to revisiting. Yes, there was tragedy. Yes, there was deep attachment. And yes, the pain was real, and it broke something in me. Yet, I was also the one who kept holding on. Not because I wanted to suffer, but because I was taught, directly or not, that letting go meant letting go of my brother, letting go of love. So I made that grief a defining moment. One that I held on to instead of flowing with life, desperately trying to grasp the banks of the stream, trying to control outcomes, avoid pain, and feel only the good things.

So earlier this week, I fought with myself to properly mourn and nurse that wound like never before. I visited the pain. It was intense, it was muddy and sticky. But since then, something has softened. I feel less attached to the grief, more attuned to the warmth of connection that once was, not the ache that clenched my insides even decades later. I would say I have gained back 12% of the 20%.

Letting go of the suffering we were taught to carry or held on to, that is the real liberation. And choosing how much attachment we give anything, that’s power. Letting it be what it was. No more, no less. So whether it is a reminder or news to you: to mourn is not to forget. To release is not to betray someone you loved or yourself. And to open the heart fully is not weakness, it’s the truest kind of strength. The kind that snaps the chain when you decide to take that step forward.