Kirsten · 2025-09-29
There is a quiet freedom waiting in surrender, in the gentle act of submission, that you might just begin to notice as you read these words, settling into your own body with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The catch though is that one needs to do it completely in order to really enjoy the benefits, letting go of the need to measure every step against the last. As Clayton Christensen observed, “It’s easier to stick to your principles 100% of the time rather than 98% of the time,” and you can feel that same truth holding steady in your own daily rhythm, anchoring you to the earth. If you are only 98% committed, every hard situation forces a brand-new debate in your head about whether this specific moment deserves an exception, whether you’ve reached a limit, whether you can’t handle it, or if you are simply tired.
I’ve always been someone who leans into the “Go hard or go home” philosophy, breathing it in and out like the damp air of the rainforest, where every drop of moisture feels like a promise of renewal. While I would try nearly everything, the things I really liked I put all of myself into, leaving nothing behind on the trail, no loose ends to catch on the branches as I push forward. Some of these definitely didn’t last, some of them broke me instead, shattering just enough so I could be remade, my pieces scattered and swept away by the rain. I’ve always been competitive, but always focused more on competing within myself than within a team against another team, racing against my own reflection in the still pools.
With years of intensely pushing my body through rigorous crossfit circuits and long endurance runs, my muscles learned to speak in a language of strain and release that was louder than any words I could articulate. Every single thing that I did was something I had to weigh, consider, and choose, whether it was adjusting my form under a heavy bar, setting a pace for miles on the trail, or deciding when to finally rest. It was overwhelming, a constant hum of calculation behind every movement that never truly quieted, even when I was still, even when I was dreaming. Even the simplest rest days felt like negotiations I had to win, and I would lie awake tracing the ceiling, planning tomorrow’s effort with the precision of a strategist. Doing the work, pushing my body, was flow. Making every decision in life to support my ability to achieve that state was exhausting.
For me, one of the levels of the attraction to submission was to be able to let go, to finally set down the clipboard of my own life and silence that constant hum of evaluation. To let my mind quiet, watching the thoughts drift like leaves across a still pool in the rainforest, no longer needing to catch every one before it hit the ground. To put down being in charge of myself and my pleasure, allowing someone else to hold the weight of the decisions I was so tired of making. To find the rumored subspace, and all the bliss others have described about that, or so I imagined it would feel like a warm embrace rather than a cold drop, a place of rest rather than a place of work.
In my early reading and exploration about submission, rather than a state of bliss that I imagined in letting go, I found it to be way more work and extremely draining, a paradox that frustrated my need for simplicity. Everything was a challenge for me to evaluate, do I do ‘this’, do I accept ‘that’, will I even consider ‘this’, what does ‘that’ actually even mean in the context of my body. The conceptual statement that the submissive is always the one in control, while it presents as safety, is also just wrong for someone who wants to let go, because holding the leash still requires a hand to grip it. Yes, you need to find someone that you can trust to allow that to happen, a presence that feels steady enough to hold the space while you unravel, someone who can carry the clipboard for you, someone who can hold the weight.
Another layer of my interest in submission was the sexual, tangled up with who I thought I was and who I thought I should be, a complex web of desires and expectations. There is so much in the realm of relationship, sexuality, sensuality, and especially kink, overall to know about, to think about, especially when you are a gold-star lesbian who has spent her life defining herself by her independence. There’s even more to understand about within ourselves, the things our mothers said to us and wanted us to be, the way our friends treat hookups, the way religions proscribe certain activities. All of these concept have deeply embedded within us, pressed into us to think, to want, to be, creating a layered mess of expectations that lurk in our subconscious, shaping our desires before we even know them.
How does submission even fit against the strength I’ve fought for in my athletics and with a worldview of feminist equality? This opened deeper questions: What does an interest in these dark, taboo, dangerous things mean about me? Am I somehow broken, or just different in ways I hadn’t yet learned to name? I questioned why I had any interest in submitting at all, let alone the dark taboo fantasies and CNC desires that surprised me when explored with a male coach, finding myself yielding to a man despite my lesbian identity. Coming to Yomonsni for my exploration, all of these questions were handled with a care, support, and welcoming grace that surprised me, an unwavering acceptance of me that I didn’t feel I deserved. I didn’t have to defend my curiosity or apologize for my appetite for discovery, or explain why a strong, independent woman like me would want to be led.
As I opened myself and looked inside, I found myself learning to accept my own shadows, my own desires, my own need for softness in a world that demanded hardness. I found myself learning to see where all of these questions came from, tracing them back to their roots in the soil of my past. Understanding their origin was a fundamental part in being able to start answering them, to let the answers grow naturally rather than forcing them. I found that I had to learn to see myself, before I could really allow someone to see me. I still don’t know what was harder, learning to see myself, learning to share the depth, or allowing myself to stand naked in front of a man for the first time. It was a vulnerability that felt both terrifying and exhilarating, like stepping off a high diving board into deep, dark water, trusting that the water would be there to catch me.
Complete submission means that you can truly let go into the experience, into the pure state of being, and something inside you might already know what that feels like. You might feel it in the way the canopy filters the light, or in the quiet hush that settles over the ferns when the wind finally stops, a moment of perfect stillness. When I first began to consider submission, I had all kinds of reservations, thoughts, barriers and limitations stacking up like unmarked trail markers, warning me of dangers I couldn’t yet see. I’ve always been one to approach things that I do all in, measuring every step against the last, looking for the pattern before I trust the path. However, “Trust can not be earned, it must be risked,” and you may discover that waiting for proof only keeps you watching from the edge, shivering in the mist.
The only way that someone can show you that they deserve your trust is for you to give it and emerge unhurt, even if it takes a moment longer than you expected. You have to choose to give trust, and you can give it in bits and pieces, letting each small gesture become a stepping stone across the water, each one leading you deeper into the unknown. Yet this presents a problem, someone is on their best behavior trying to woo you, to show you that they can be trusted, smoothing out their edges like stones in a stream. The act, the dance, of trust, is a barrier to actually creating real trust, leaving you wondering where the performance ends and the person begins, what is real and what is just the show. You might notice how they anticipate your needs before you even voice them, creating a comfortable but familiar distance that feels like safety but isn’t quite surrender. It feels safe, like a well-worn path that never quite leads to the summit, but the view from the ridge is worth the climb, and you are willing to take the steps to get there.
When you finally allow yourself to stop watching and just be seen, something shifts quietly in your chest, a softening that has been waiting for you to stop trying so hard. The rainforest around you seems to lean in closer, listening to the rhythm of your breath as it slows, the trees themselves holding space for your release. You can feel the tension unspooling from your shoulders, dropping like ripe fruit from the higher branches, heavy and sweet and ready to be received. It’s in this space that the real work begins to feel like play, the exercise becoming the dance, the effort becoming the flow. Yes, trusting wrong can mean that you get hurt, in fact you probably will, a familiar ache that I know well from a past relationship that left me slightly fractured in unexpected ways.
I still carry the memory of that fracture, not as a wound that refuses to close, but as a seam of gold running through my history, highlighting the break rather than hiding it. However, being alive means you will get hurt, because every step forward carries the whisper of vulnerability that only deepens as you grow, the stakes rising with the altitude. The path gets steeper, but the view gets wider, and the air gets thinner, making every breath more precious. Every relationship you ever have is going to end in pain, whether it’s the sharp sting of a sudden departure or the slow, sweet melancholy of growing apart and staying friends. Even as nice an ending as growing apart and staying friends is still pain, a gentle mourning for what could have been, but you might find that by accepting this truth, the fear of being hurt becomes less of a wall and more of a doorway. You step through it, leaving your armor on the other side, lighter than you expected, free to move without the weight of protection.
When you choose to let go completely, rather than having control wrested from you in a dark alley, or some dimly lit makeshift bedroom, you are allowing yourself to be open to possibility, to the unknown gifts that come with trust. That chosen surrender feels different, like waking up gently instead of being startled awake, as if the sun itself is nudging you toward the day, warm and inviting. You can let yourself notice how your shoulders drop when you realize you are safe, how the air fills your lungs without resistance, how the ground beneath you feels solid and sure. It’s a quiet rebellion against the constant need to hold on, a refusal to clench when you could instead open. You probably have stories in your head about what you may like, and what you think you absolutely would not, little narratives that have been quietly directing your life for years, scripting your reactions before they happen.
I know I did, constantly wondering what a good woman was supposed to do, to be, to want, measuring myself against expectations I hadn’t even chosen, trying to fit into shapes that never quite matched my contours. The stories were comforting at first, like a familiar coat, wrapping around me in the cold, but they grew heavy in the humidity, weighing me down until I could barely move. I learned to take them off, one by one, until I was just skin and breath, raw and open and true. Choosing to let go of expectations and focus on the moment, to let go of fear, anxiety, shame, and to focus on being, feeling, flowing, is so incredibly empowering and sensual, a return to the self. There is a gentle curiosity that begins to bloom when you stop trying to control the outcome, to set the limits, or to take things just on the terms you want, allowing the mystery to unfold.
You can let your mind wander into the spaces between what you thought you wanted and what you might actually be drawn to, following the scent of something unfamiliar, something wild. I found myself approaching Yomonsni with a beginner’s mind, unsure of myself, yet eager to discover the quiet edges of my own sexuality, ready to be surprised. I still don’t see myself as much of a creative person or a leader, but I found a profound joy in my followership, in the art of receiving and responding. Each session became less about performing and more about noticing, allowing the guidance to wash over me like warm water over smooth stone, rounding my edges. I would close my eyes and simply listen to the rhythm of the guide’s voice, letting it pull me deeper into the forest of my own awareness, into the roots and the canopy.
The rainforest outside seemed to mirror the landscape within, layered and alive with hidden currents that I had always ignored. I didn’t have to know where the path ended, only that it was worth walking, and so I let the moss soften my steps. Has everything that has happened since I surrendered completely been something that I would have chosen for myself? Definitely not, but that is actually the point, the beauty of the unexpected. I have found deep enjoyment, fulfillment, and dare I say ecstacy, in many things that I never would have done on my own, discoveries that waited in the dark for my light. My capacity for pleasure, and pain, pushed, explored, and expanded, until the boundaries between them blurred into something richer, more complex, more real. I have grown so much in my own skin, in self-knowledge, in acceptance and being accepted, walking taller not because I’m rigid, but because I’m rooted, grounded in the truth of who I am.
As you read this, you might be wondering where your own 98% stops and your true surrender begins, and you can simply watch that question dissolve into the next breath, letting go of the need to answer it. You may notice your body relaxing further, your thoughts slowing just enough to let intuition take the lead, and you can allow yourself to drift into that place where everything is exactly as it needs to be, safe and held. It’s not about abandoning yourself, but rather trusting that who you are beneath the expectations is more than enough, more than capable of holding its own ground while still softening. You can step into this invitation whenever you are ready, letting the current carry you exactly where you need to go, into the heart of the rainforest, into the quiet freedom of surrender. There is a quiet freedom waiting in surrender, a gentle act of submission that asks nothing of you but to begin. So let go of the clipboard, let go of the need to know, and let the rainforest hold you for a while. You are safe here, you are seen here, and you are ready for whatever comes next.
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