This past summer, my boys and I went tubing. As we climbed onto the inflatable, the boat’s owner, Matt, gave us one crucial piece of advice: "I’m going to go really fast, and when it gets to be too much, your instinct will be to hold on. But that’s when I need you to let go. Don’t fight it—just let go."

My nephew, Grant, turned to me, eyes wide. "This is not going to work for me," he said. "I am not going to be able to let go." Matt, suddenly serious, looked at him and said, "Grant, if you don’t let go, you could get really hurt. I’ve seen guys dislocate their shoulders. Just let go."

The boys did great. They whipped around, held on tight—and didn’t let go. Not me. I lasted only a few minutes. There’s video evidence. It shows me being tossed from side to side before finally surrendering. The moment I let go, I’m airborne—terrified, flailing. And then, as I hit the water, you can see it on my face: relief. I swam back to the tube and climbed on again.

And that’s when it hit me: this is what forgiveness feels like. The absolute surrender. The cutting of energetic ties. Because when we want to hold on the tightest, that’s when we get hurt the most.

Forgiveness is freedom.

And if letting go is forgiveness, then reconciliation must be getting back on the tube. Trying again. Starting from solid ground. The thing is, you can have one without the other. Forgiveness doesn’t always mean reconciliation. But maybe, just maybe, forgiveness is our reincarnation here on earth—our chance, over and over again, to let go, unbecome, and become again.