Lost and Found: Letting Go and What Returns

A journey through loss, surrender, and unexpected return

A few years ago, while traveling in Peru, I lost my phone during a long and unforgettable day visiting Machu Picchu. Along with my phone went my driver’s license and credit cards, all kept together in the back of the case.

Getting to Machu Picchu is not a straight line. Our group traveled by van, then transferred to a train, then boarded a bus, followed by the hike itself. At the end of the day, we retraced those same steps in reverse. Van to train. Train to bus. Bus to van. Somewhere along that chain, my phone disappeared.

I had put my phone on airplane mode to avoid international roaming charges, which meant there was no way to locate it. By the time I realized it was missing, we were already far removed from where it could have been left. Friends helped me search bags and retrace steps as best we could, and the hotel staff made calls to drivers, tour operators and even the police.

The loss quickly began to take over my experience. I was distracted, anxious and frustrated. Instead of being present in a place I had dreamed of visiting, my mind kept looping back to what I had lost and how I was going to deal with it. The situation was starting to color the entire trip, and I knew I had to accept that the phone was probably gone.

The following night while sitting at the bonfire, something shifted in me. I could feel how tightly I was gripping the outcome, replaying the story in my head and resisting what was already true. I made a conscious decision to let go. Not to give up, but to stop letting the loss dominate my experience. If the phone was gone, I would figure it out.

I’ve noticed this pattern before. Often, it is only when we truly surrender our attachment to an outcome, not in defeat but in trust, that things begin to move.

 Xiomara and I at the airport after she returned my phone.

Late that evening, I received a message. A woman named Xiomara had found my phone with all of my credit cards and license. She had been trying to reach me and eventually tracked me down through my son on Instagram. She lives in Peru and insisted on meeting me at the airport the next day so she could return everything in person.

I didn’t just get my phone back. I met a beautiful person who reminded me of the quiet power of kindness, persistence and trust.

More recently, I faced a very different kind of loss. My social media accounts were suddenly and wrongfully disabled. These platforms are where I stay connected with friends and family, share my work and build Living in the Light. The lockout meant postponing one of my events and navigating accusations that were confusing, upsetting, and entirely out of my control.

After 6 weeks in limbo, all of my accounts were finally restored through persistence, advocacy and the help of a Channel 7 producer who connected directly with a contact at Meta. The situation required ongoing persistence, without any guarantee of resolution.

Throughout both experiences, I kept returning to a story I have leaned on many times over the years, the story of the Chinese Farmer. When something happens, we rush to label it as good or bad, lucky or unlucky. The farmer simply responds, “Maybe yes. Maybe no. We’ll see.”

There is a concept in yoga philosophy often described as right effort. It is the balance between showing up fully and knowing when to release control. We take action. We make the calls. We ask for help. And then we let go of the need to decide what the outcome means.

Both experiences reminded me that letting go is not passive. It is not resignation. It is an active choice to participate without gripping, to trust without certainty, and to allow life to unfold on its own terms. Sometimes what we release returns. Sometimes it does not. But when we loosen our hold, we make room to meet whatever comes next with clarity and presence.

If you’d like to read more about the story of the Chinese Farmer and why it continues to resonate with me, you can find that reflection here.