Letting Go, Holding On
written by Julie Southard
The weight of love is both a gift and a burden, something I had carried for years. From the moment Jimmy was born, my life had revolved around his needs, his joys, his struggles. And yet, no matter how much I wanted to protect him, there came a day when I realized that love wasn’t enough—it wasn’t enough to keep him safe, wasn’t enough to keep me safe.
Jimmy is 44 years old. A strong, tall man with the body of an adult but the mind of a child. For as long as I can remember, he’s been caught in the space between—aware of his limitations but powerless to change them. And while I had always empathized with his frustrations, it wasn’t until that moment, on that particular day, that I truly felt the weight of reality pressing in.
I had invited Jimmy to stay with me for a couple of days. It had always been a joy to have him close, even though it took patience and careful management. I knew his habits, his routines, the way his mind worked—especially his strange compulsion to flush things down the toilet. It was something he'd done since childhood, a seemingly harmless fascination that, over time, had resulted in broken septic systems and costly repairs.
At first, I thought it was just curiosity—the way children are mesmerized by water swirling down the drain, a small act of wonder that would fade as he grew older. But it never did. Instead, it became an obsession, a habit ingrained so deeply that no amount of reasoning could unravel it. Whether it was a hair clip, pocket bible, dirty sock, or something else he'd quietly slipped into his pocket throughout the day, if given the chance, it would find its way into the water and disappear. I had learned long ago that vigilance was the only safeguard against his quiet determination.
So, like I had done countless times before, I insisted on accompanying him to the public restroom, knowing that he needed supervision. But this time, he wasn’t just irritated, he was angry. A grown man, faced with his childlike limitations. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. His hands, usually so gentle, balled into fists at his sides as his body tensed with frustration.
And then, before I had a chance to calm him, he grabbed my shoulders. His grasp was hard, unyielding, and startlingly strong, stronger than I had ever felt before. It wasn’t just the physical force that shook me; it was the raw, unfiltered emotion behind it. For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, as the weight of his strength and his struggle pressed down on me. It wasn’t anger directed at me, not truly. It was the frustration of a man trapped in a mind that couldn’t match his body, a silent cry for control in a world that often felt beyond his reach.
For the first time, I felt fear. Fear that I was no longer capable of managing his needs, fear that my presence was no longer enough to soothe him.
And in that moment, I knew. Knew that love alone couldn’t protect us. Knew that Jimmy needed more than what I could provide. Knew that placing him in full-time care hadn’t been abandoning him, it had been saving us both.
The guilt never fully disappears, of course. It creeps in during quiet moments, whispers in the back of my mind, asking if I’ve done enough. But then I remind myself: love isn’t measured by how much we can physically carry. Love is knowing when to step back so someone else can step in.
Jimmy is cared for, supported, and surrounded by professionals who understand his needs. And I am still his mother. Still his constant visitor, his biggest advocate, his fiercest protector.
Letting go didn’t mean losing him. It meant making sure he was never truly lost.
(L): Julie | (R): Julie’s kids Jimmy and Jenn
Spending much of her life in the wild beauty of remote Alaska, Julie devoted decades to advocating for her son, who, for many years, was the only student with profound disabilities in his small community school. Driven by a mother’s fierce love and determination, she became deeply involved in his education, working at the school and even serving as the town’s mayor to ensure that every voice, especially the most vulnerable, was heard. After her son transitioned to assisted living, Julie embraced a new chapter as a staff member for an Alaska state senator, continuing her lifelong commitment to service and advocacy. Now retired, she lives on the Oregon coast, where she finds peace walking the shoreline, collecting driftwood, and carving inspirational messages into the wood—quiet testaments to resilience, faith, and hope.
