The Night I Let Go

I can still hear the nurse’s voice telling us, once we take her off the kidney medicine, she won’t really know you’re here. My heart sank. My family started talking about hospice and where to move her, but I couldn’t shake what the nurse said. She’s still aware right now. She’s still here. So I asked if Gam could make the choice herself. The nurse said yes.

I looked at my mom and uncles and said, then I think we need to let Gam decide. They all kind of smiled, maybe a little surprised, and agreed. My mom came back a few minutes later and said, Jodi, come in with us. You have a way of calming Mom. I can’t even describe what that meant to me, to be seen that way, to be invited into that space.

When we walked into Gam’s room, my mom asked her where she wanted to go. Gam said, I want to go home. My uncle thought she meant the old house where she raised her seven kids, the house he still lives in today. My mom thought she meant her current place. But I knew different.

Because I had spent weeks at the hospital with her. We talked about everything. About her husband, Ginger, my grandpa, who died when I was three. About how she couldn’t wait to see him again. She told me how they didn’t have much money, but she hoped I never felt poor. I told her I never did.

And the weeks we spent together are forever in my heart. We actually had a lot of laughs. One day she said, My darling granddaughter, will you please hand me that bag in the bathroom that has underwear in it. I brought it out and she said, are there any clean panties in the bag. I said, I don’t know. She said, smell them. I looked at her and said, I love you dearly, but I am not going to smell your underwear. And we both started laughing so hard. A moment that still makes me smile.

So when she said she wanted to go home, I knew she meant she wanted to go home to Ginger. She didn’t want to ride in another ambulance. She was ready.

We kept her at the hospital. And that night, after they stopped the medicine, I sat there holding her hand. Her eyes would open, but she was already somewhere else.

After a while, I walked out into the hallway and just broke down. I cried for what felt like forever. Not just because she was leaving, but because I was realizing how far off track my own life had gotten. I was about a year and a half sober, but I was still fighting to hang onto everything I had worked so hard for. I was holding on to two houses, in Georgia and Kentucky, trying to keep from losing everything after the financial crisis. My credit was destroyed. I couldn’t even finance a quarter if I put fifty cents down. I felt so much shame.

And then something shifted. I started thinking about how Gam lived her life. How she never cared about what she didn’t have. How she loved people. How she made everyone feel safe.

Standing in that hospital hallway, I realized I was fighting for all the wrong things. The houses, the money, the image of having it together — it was all pride. And pride was killing the peace I was trying to find.

That was the night I finally let go. I filed bankruptcy soon after, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like a failure. I felt free.

Because here’s the truth I learned that night — when we die, no one’s going to say, if only she had an 850 credit score, or if only she had this or that. They’re going to remember how we made them feel. Were we kind? Were we loving? Did we show up?

That’s what mattered to Gam. That’s what she showed me until her very last breath.

At her funeral, I was utterly amazed at the turnout. She was 90 years old, and you would think it would have been a small service for someone that age. Wrong. They had to open up two extra rooms so people could watch and listen to the service on the TVs. OMG, the lives she touched. People who knew my Gam through her kids, grandkids, and even their friends — they all showed up to pay their respects.

I remember standing there looking around and thinking, Damn. This is the kind of person I aspire to be. A person filled with good. A person who shows love and kindness, no matter what.

That hallway became my let go. be. moment. It was the pause I needed to stop fighting life and start living it.

And that pause is where GRIT showed up.
Growth meant accepting that letting go wasn’t failure — it was freedom.
Resilience was standing in that hallway, feeling the pain, but choosing not to run from it.
Integrity was my words finally matching my actions — saying I wanted peace, and then doing what it took to find it.
And Tenacity was waking up the next day, still sober, still showing up, even when everything in me wanted to hide.

That’s what GRIT really is. It’s not a slogan. It’s how we rise from the moments that break us.

Peace doesn’t come when life gets quiet.
It comes when we do.

Thank you, Gam, for teaching me what love, humility, laughter, and grace look like in motion. Thank you for showing me the path back home to myself.

Reflection:
What are you still holding onto that’s keeping you from being free?

If you’ve been holding on too tightly — to control, success, or expectations — this is your reminder that peace isn’t found in the grip, but in the release.
Begin again with the free 5-Day GRIT Challenge and Unshakable Grit book.