Nothing Truly Belongs to You: A Witch’s Reflection on Trust, Time, and Impermanence

“Try to learn to let what is simply be.” — Rumi¹

It doesn’t always come with lightning or grief.
Sometimes this truth arrives like a whisper.
In the stillness after something ends.
In the pause between wanting and releasing.
In the long exhale of a spell you no longer need to hold.

Nothing truly belongs to you.

Not your things.
Not your time.
Not even the parts of yourself you’ve clung to the longest.

Because everything—every identity, season, object, and opinion—is temporary.
Passing through.
Changing form.

And surprisingly… that truth isn’t hollow.
It’s spacious.

Because when nothing is yours to keep, you’re free to be here now.
To savor. To soften.
To let go—without disappearing.

What Does It Mean That Nothing Belongs to Us?

This doesn’t mean nothing matters. It means we don’t own the things we interact with—not in the spiritual sense.

We don’t truly possess our time, our relationships, our labels, our reputations. Not even our bodies forever.

We experience them.
We care for them.
We learn through them.
But we don’t get to keep them.

And that’s not a failure of life—it’s the nature of life. Change is the nature of life.

When we say nothing belongs to us, we’re not just talking about the physical.
We’re letting go of the illusion of control over how others see us, what stays the same, and what the future brings.

This truth can feel like loss. But beneath it? Freedom.
Because you don’t have to cling. You don’t have to prove. You don’t have to keep holding everything forever.

Echoes of Impermanence in Spiritual and Philosophical Traditions

Witches aren’t the only ones who work with impermanence. Across spiritual lineages and philosophical schools alike, this truth shows up again and again: what you have is only ever borrowed.

Whether through sacred texts or existential reflections, the message repeats itself: nothing is truly yours to keep—not your things, your roles, or even your identity.

• Buddhism teaches that clinging leads to suffering. Even the self is not fixed. “Attachment is the root of all suffering,” the teachings say—not as punishment, but as a reminder that everything changes.²
• Islam describes all possessions and even life itself as amanah—a trust. You are a caretaker, not an owner. The Qur’an says: “To Allah belongs whatever is in the heavens and the Earth.”³
• Christianity echoes this in quiet parables: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy.”⁴
• Hinduism reminds us that all worldly things are maya—a divine illusion. Liberation comes not through possession, but through remembering that the soul is already whole.⁵
• Taoism whispers this through nature: “The sage does not hoard.”⁶ To flow with the Tao is to loosen your grip on form and become part of the pattern itself.
• Indigenous and animist traditions speak of Earth not as property, but as kin. Land, tools, even names are not owned—they are honored, shared, and tended across generations.⁷
• The Stoic philosopher Epictetus taught that, “You are not your body or your possessions, but your choices.”⁸
• Marcus Aurelius, Roman emperor and Stoic thinker, reflected: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.”⁹
• Jean-Paul Sartre argued that we are “condemned to be free.” Identity isn’t something we own—it’s something we enact, one choice at a time.¹⁰

None of these paths are exactly the same, but they meet at the same riverbank: the wisdom that what passes through your life is not yours. It is part of you for a time. Then, like water or wind, it moves on.

Letting Go is a Kind of Magick

This truth can feel disorienting—especially in a world that teaches us to define ourselves by what we hold: job titles, followers, goals, belongings. We are taught to grip tightly. To gather proof of our worth in things.

But magick is full of surrender. Wax melts. Smoke curls and disappears. Moon phases shift and vanish. Everything sacred is in motion. The power doesn’t come from keeping. It comes from being in right relationship while it lasts.

Letting go isn’t always an ending. Sometimes it’s a spell in itself. Sometimes it’s how you make space for the next breath, the next version of you, the next lesson.

Impermanence Is Intimacy

When we accept that nothing is truly ours, we begin to treat each moment like it matters. Not because we can control it. But because we can’t.

This is what makes a child’s laughter holy. This is what makes a shared meal sacred. This is what makes even an ordinary walk feel enchanted when the light hits the leaves just right.

Not clinging doesn’t mean not caring. It means loving without possession. Holding gently. Trusting deeply. Letting every experience pass through you like a breeze through open curtains—felt, honored, and free to move on.

You Are Not Your Labels, Either

If nothing belongs to you, that includes the labels you wear. Witch. Healer. Parent. Neurodivergent. Survivor. Success story. Failure. These aren’t prisons—but they aren’t your essence, either.

Your identity is a garden, not a statue. Things bloom. Things go dormant. Things compost and become something else.

You are not lost when you change. You are returning to the truth that you were never a fixed point to begin with.

If you’ve ever struggled with feeling “too much” or “not consistent enough,” you’re not broken—you’re simply living in rhythms that weren’t built for ownership. Your presence is enough.

Let the Universe Carry What You Can’t

You don’t have to carry everything. In fact, you can’t. You were never meant to.

Let the moon hold what you can’t name yet. Let your ancestors carry the stories you’re still healing. Let the Divine, the Earth, or whatever higher current you trust—hold the rest.

That includes the mental spirals.
The what-ifs.
The trying-too-hard.
The guilt for not doing more.
The anxiety over how things will turn out.
All of it.

Letting go isn’t the same as giving up.
It’s giving back what was never yours to hold alone.

There is no magick in overthinking.
No clarity in clinging.
No transformation in trying to force timing, outcomes, or approval.

When you let the universe carry what you can’t, you return to your role: not as the one who must control, but the one who listens. Trusts. Responds with presence.

That’s the quiet miracle behind this truth. Nothing belongs to you—but everything is shared with you, for a time. That’s more than enough. That’s more than safe. That’s beautiful.

We Leave Impressions, Not Items

You can’t take anything with you when you die.
Not the candle collection.
Not the books.
Not the carefully saved spells or souvenirs.

And that’s not tragic.
It’s sacred.

Because the most meaningful things don’t get packed into a box or buried in the Earth. They echo.

The laugh you shared with someone who was having the worst day.
The permission you gave a friend to stop performing and just rest.
The way you lived your values in quiet, unphotographed moments.

That’s what remains.
Not ownership, but impact.
Not things, but tenderness.
Not legacy in the grandiose sense—but the subtle impression of your presence on the people who got to see you live. Be kind. Try. Learn. Mess up. Begin again.

Why the Stuff Was Never the Point

We pour so much energy into gathering.
The perfect decor. The right crystals. The wardrobe that matches the version of ourselves we want to be.
We scroll. We save. We buy. We organize.
And yet… how often does it really make us feel full?

It’s not that material things are evil. They can be useful, beautiful, comforting.
But when we start chasing them like proof of worth or safety or identity, they drain more than they give.

And it’s not just the stuff.
We chase approval, too.
We gather compliments. Titles. Followers. Roles.
We cling to the version of ourselves that we think others admire.
We try to own our reputation like a possession—curated, displayed, protected.

But just like objects, those things change.
People forget. Opinions shift. Identities evolve.
And if our peace is built on being liked or understood or validated… then it’s not really peace at all.
It’s dependency wrapped in glitter.

Every identity, every perception, even every era of your life… it’s all a phase, not a possession.

And even the things we treasure—those special items we’ve held, saved, or built meaning around—don’t stay with us.
One day, someone else will decide where they go.
Maybe they’ll be sold. Donated. Tossed. Misunderstood. Or maybe they’ll be cherished in a way we never imagined.
But once we’re gone, we don’t get to choose.

That’s not cruel—it’s just part of the release.
It’s the soul’s reminder that meaning lives in the moment, not in the object.
And that what we offer through presence will always outlast what we leave behind in things.

But your presence?
Your care?
The way you meet the world—not perform for it?
That’s the real magick.

You are not what you own.
You are not what they say.
You are what you show up for—and how.
In honesty. In humility. In devotion to something deeper than appearances.

And you’ll never find your soul in a box—or a bio.
It’s already in your breath.

Trust Is What Remains

If nothing belongs to you, and everything is in motion—what do you hold onto?

You hold onto trust.

Not blind optimism.
Not spiritual bypassing.
But the kind of trust that lives in your bones.
The knowing that you are part of something larger than what you can control.

Trust is what fills the space when you stop gripping.
It’s what rises when you release the timelines, the expectations, the stories you’ve outgrown.
It’s what remains when everything else moves on.

This isn’t about trusting that everything will turn out exactly how you want.
It’s about trusting that you can meet whatever unfolds.
That you will still be you—even if the plan dissolves.
That you’ll still have magick—even if the container breaks.

Because in the end, trust is not a promise of outcomes.
It’s the sacred muscle that lets you stay open.

You Still Belong

Even if nothing is yours to hold forever, you still belong.

You belong to the stars that made you.
To the breath that moves through you.
To the unfolding that continues whether you hold on or not.

And if you feel untethered, floating, uncertain—that’s not failure.
That’s flight.

Be here. Be present.
And when the time comes… let go.
The universe will catch you.