Trust, Legacy, and the Quiet Distance Between Us
- Miroslava Tomasko
- Aug 4
- 4 min read
On the courage to stop fixing — and let the next right thing come to you
There’s a moment I’ll never forget.
I was sitting in the front seat of a glider.
And my son — the child I once carried — was flying us.
No engine. Just wind and sky.
And his steady, capable hands on the controls.
I didn’t expect to cry.
But I did. Quietly. In the air.
Because in that moment, something clicked in me — and maybe even cracked.
He was carrying me.
And I was letting him.
This is what legacy looks like.
Not a lesson. Not a speech. Not a strategy.
But a quiet reversal of roles.
A moment where trust outweighs control.
Where you release the need to steer — and simply let life rise beneath you.
But here’s the thing no one tells you:
It’s not easy to let go.
Even when you want to.
Even when you know you need to.
What trust, legacy, and letting go really ask of us
There’s a part of me — the leader, the mother, the fixer — that’s always been wired to try a little harder.
Make it better.
Hold everyone.
Keep the peace.
Make sure nothing breaks.
But that day in the glider, I didn’t do any of that.
I didn’t micromanage.
I didn’t protect.
I didn’t explain.
I just trusted him.
And I trusted life.
And that… was the bravest thing I’ve done all year.
Why is it so hard to stop fixing?
Because fixing gives us a sense of control.
Because effort is familiar.
Because we’ve been taught that trust is naive — and productivity is power.
Because part of us believes that if we don’t hold it all, everything will fall apart.
But here’s what I’m starting to understand:
There’s a moment when enough effort is enough.
When pushing more won’t help — it will distort.
When fixing becomes another form of fear.
When the bravest thing you can do is feel what’s already true.
That you’re no longer the one who has to carry everything.
That something — or someone — is already rising to meet you.
That it’s safe to loosen your grip.
That it’s time.
The quiet distance between us
Later that same day, something else happened.
I tried to share the joy — and was met with tension instead.
My husband pulled away.
There was a moment I wanted to capture: him and our son, standing there after the flight.
But when I lifted my phone, he snapped.
Said I had “strange energy.” That I crossed a boundary.
That I take up space that isn’t mine.
And just like that… joy became ache.
I’m not writing this to blame. I’m writing it because it’s true.
Because I know I’m not the only one who’s lived this:
Moments where pride and grief sit right next to each other.
Moments where you can’t even share what’s sacred — because not everyone can meet you there.
This, too, is part of legacy.
Learning to hold your joy even when it goes unseen.
Trusting your path even when it’s not mirrored.
Letting go of the need to be understood — so you can stay true to what you know is real.
A moment I’ll carry with me forever
Just before the flight, something quietly extraordinary happened.
My son — a youth leader in his aeroclub — didn’t just take charge of my flight.
He gave one of the flight students the opportunity to lead my security briefing.
I watched from the cockpit as this student, slightly nervous, walked me through emergency instructions.
And I watched my son support him — calmly, attentively, holding the field.
He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t correct. He simply created space.
It was leadership in motion.
Not about showing power — but sharing it.
And somehow, that may have been the most moving part of all.
What if the next right thing… doesn’t come from more effort?
What if it comes from trust?
From surrender. From softness. From listening.
From doing nothing — except staying open.
Right now, I’m walking through this lesson in every part of my life:
In motherhood: letting go of control and letting them fly.
In partnership: grieving the distance while still choosing clarity.
In business: growing 15% a year without pushing, chasing, or proving anything.
I’m learning that legacy isn’t loud.
It doesn’t need applause.
It’s the invisible field you hold — that others quietly grow inside.
A question for you
Where are you still trying to fix — when what’s really needed is trust?
What would happen if you stopped pushing —
and let the next right thing come to you?
Could you let it be easy — even just for one moment?
Could you let yourself be carried?
Go deeper
If this touched something in you — if you’re walking your own quiet rite of passage — I created a reflection card to hold this space with you.
They were never yours to hold forever.
Receive my weekly letter, Beneath the Noise, where I share sacred insights, field notes, and quiet disruptions.
And if you take one thing with you today, let it be this:
The moment you stop carrying everything… might be the moment your legacy truly begins.
If you’re in a season of trusting more, controlling less, or quietly letting someone else rise —
I’d be honored to walk beside you.
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