The Gift of Not Being Needed

Finding freedom in surrender and leadership beyond ego

I woke up with a strange heat in my body—an inner signal that something was off, though I couldn't yet place it. For a moment, I remained still beneath the heavy blanket, trying to discern what I was feeling. I was warm and cold at the same time.

Eventually, I got up and stumbled to the bathroom. My head was thick with fog. The tile was cold beneath my feet. I fumbled through the cabinet, found the thermometer, slipped it beneath my tongue, and waited.

The numbers ticked upward—96…98…99…100…

When it finally beeped—101—I felt a sudden drop, a tightening deep in my stomach.

I opened the hallway closet, pulled out a COVID test, ran the swab around my nose, and set it on the bathroom sink.

I didn't even have time to look away. The second line appeared almost instantly.

Positive.

The room felt suddenly still and airless. My mind darted to the day ahead: our long-anticipated team off-site. The entire team had flown in from across the country. We'd been planning it for months. I had booked an Airbnb, gone shopping, curated the agenda with intention and care—woven strategy sessions with space for bonding, nature, and inner work.

Gone.

Then, in a deeper, more panicked breath, I thought of the Downshift retreat—on Tuesday, just five days away. The cornerstone of our work. The sacred container I had poured myself into, shaped and reshaped over several years. The experience that gives me life, that reminds me why I do this work at all.

Within minutes, I moved into quarantine in our guest bedroom, separated from my team and my family. I kept the shades half drawn and cracked the windows, just enough to feel the cool air drift in, to hear the rustle of trees outside. A small but vital thread connecting me to the world beyond the walls.

For the first few hours, I stayed busy. Texting updates. Shuffling logistics. Trying to convince myself that maybe this would pass quickly. Maybe I'd bounce back in time.

But as the hours passed and my health declined, reality began to sink in.

I would have to Zoom into the off-site and miss the bonding, the side conversations, the hugs, the laughter on the trail. Two days of hikes, shared meals, and deep strategy—reduced to a mosaic of digital pixels.

Part of me wanted to resist, to fight against what was unfolding, but another part already knew: this was out of my hands.

I could try to relax into it, to trust the unfolding, but there was also a vulnerable, childlike part of me that was just heartbroken to miss it all. Saddened to not be there. Disappointed to feel so far from the team I had been craving connection with.

And the next morning, I admitted to myself what my body had already known. I likely wouldn't make the retreat. I was still down and out.

Emotional Undertow

I drifted in and out of sleep, waking to the stillness of the house, the filtered light through half-drawn shades. At one point, restless and aching for connection, I reached for my phone and began scrolling through texts. And there it was—a photo of the team without me. Smiling on a trail. Arms wrapped around each other. Together.

That's when the breakdown came.

I was sick. Powerless. My team was together, still moving forward, preparing for the retreat—without me. The program I had created, nurtured, and protected as if it were my own child.

I could feel the sadness begin to wash over me. A heaviness settled in my chest, like a weight pressing down at the very center of my being, pinning me into the bed. I didn't resist it. I let it come.

And then it arrived—rising from somewhere deep inside me, moving up through my belly, into my throat, toward my eyes. Tears surfaced. And I sobbed.

Not just one wave of sadness, but many. Each with its own texture, its own rhythm, its own somatic fingerprint.

The first wave was pure heartbreak. I had poured so much of myself into this retreat—the months of shaping, promoting, refining—and now it was slipping through my fingers.

The second wave was the sting of absence. My team was gathered, and I wasn't there. They sent updates, voice notes, reflections. I was glad they were finding clarity—but I also felt, acutely, like an outsider in the company I founded.

The third wave was longing. These moments of in-person connection are rare, special. So much of my work is remote, lived through screens and Zoom. I had craved this: the warmth of shared meals, the spark of live collaboration, the inside jokes, the ease of being in each other's presence.

The final wave was grief—the kind that sits below words. A hollow ache. The weight of anticipation dissolving into sheer disappointment.

I cried for a long time.

Not as a performance, not to process or to move through—just to be with what was.

And when the tears finally began to fade, something subtler emerged—a quiet trembling in my belly.

This sensation awakened a memory deep in my body and psyche—a medicine journey where my ego had dissolved into nothingness. In that sacred space beyond words, a truth had been revealed: nothing was actually mine to possess. Not my work. Not my body. Not even my family. Everything belonged to something larger. My purpose was simply to serve the unfolding.

That same energy returned now as I lay feverish in bed, crying—gentle but unmistakable, washing over me despite my weakened state.

I lay there, eyes closed, and let the memory and feeling move through me. Deep vibrations in my belly. Shaking.

Then I began to think of my team—Tracy, David, and Andy.

I thought of how much each of them brought to Downshift. Tracy's intuition and optimism. David's steadiness and thoughtfulness. Andy's creativity and genius. The curriculum we'd shaped together through debate and discovery. The late-night audio messages shared over Slack. The countless hours they had poured into this work. Not out of obligation, but out of belief. The way each of them had stepped forward not as support, but as leaders, as true partners.

As I held these realizations, something began to soften.

My body settled deeper into the mattress. The clenching in my chest began to release. The tears began to ease. A warmth spread through my torso—not a feeling, exactly, but a presence.

Gratitude. Appreciation. Genuine love and respect.

And then, without fanfare or announcement, a quiet truth landed in the center of my being:

Downshift doesn't need me.

Not in the way I had once believed. Not to be the guru. Not to facilitate every workshop. Not to obsess over every detail. Not to sit in every meeting or approve every decision. Not to be the face of every launch or the fixer of every challenge.

And somehow, that didn't feel like a loss. It felt like a gift.

The Gift of Letting Go

It wasn’t a flash of insight or a single defining sentence—just a slow, steady recognition that something I had helped birth had grown strong enough to stand on its own.

There was no need to push. No need to strive. No need to be in every discussion or decision. No need to control. No need to feed my ego or make it about me.

And in that moment, something even deeper surfaced:

Maybe this is the mark of real leadership—not being the one everyone depends on, not holding the weight of the whole thing on your shoulders, but quietly creating the conditions for others to rise. It's not about being central, or irreplaceable, or always available to swoop in and solve things. It's about cultivating enough clarity, structure, and trust that others feel empowered to step forward—not out of obligation, but from a genuine sense of ownership and care.

It's about building something that doesn't collapse in your absence. Something with roots. Something with integrity and coherence that lives beyond your personality or presence. Something that can stand on its own, not because you're no longer needed, but because you've created the kind of foundation that allows others to help carry it forward.

There's a strange beauty in that—a mix of grief and grace—as you realize the very thing you poured yourself into no longer relies on you in the same way.

It also means not needing to hold it all—not being the one who answers every question, fixes every issue, or carries every burden. That’s been a deep shift for me. I’m no longer a solopreneur, willing this thing into existence alone while my family sleeps. I have a team now—a real one. And part of my work is learning to trust them. To let go of the subtle compulsions to over-function, to rescue, to insert myself just to feel useful.

It's now about trusting others to carry the fire. Not just to keep it lit, but to tend it in their own way—to bring their own wood, their own rituals, their own steady hands and discerning hearts. There's something humbling about stepping back and watching that happen, about seeing the warmth and light of the thing you helped ignite continue to radiate without needing to stand beside it.

And maybe that's the deeper invitation—not to disappear, not to disengage, but to loosen the grip. To shift from being the sole source of the fire to becoming one of many who tend it, each of us adding something essential, none of us holding it alone.

Tending the Fire, Together

The fire stayed lit. The circle held.

A few days later, I made it to the retreat. I arrived a day late, masked and distanced, but grateful to step once more into the work I so dearly love—and to feel the trust of both the team and the participants. I didn’t arrive with FOMO. I didn’t need a play-by-play of what I had missed. I knew my team. I trusted them. And I could feel, in the space, that they had carried it beautifully.

The retreat was deeply nourishing—not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, grounded rhythm that felt true. The space held a kind of ease. The energy was steady and spacious. The group dropped in deep, layer by layer, and the team held it all with grace, clarity, and care. Nothing felt forced. The work unfolded naturally, in its own timing, as if the guides and the group knew what was needed.

But the real transformation—the one I’ll carry with me—didn’t happen at the retreat.

It happened earlier, in that quiet room, all alone, on Sunday afternoon.

I hadn’t seen the threshold until I was already crossing it—hadn’t recognized the lesson I was being offered until I had fully surrendered to what was.

That was the moment something deep began to shift.

The moment I felt—less as a thought and more as a knowing in my body—that true leadership isn’t about being central, or in control, or even responsible for every outcome.

It’s about trust.
It’s about service.
It’s about the quiet, ongoing practice of supporting something greater than yourself—especially when you’re not the one in the room.

And maybe that’s when it matters most.