Tao Te Ching – Chapter Twenty-Four
Written by Lao-tzu – From a translation by S. Mitchell
He who stands on tiptoe,
doesn't stand firm.
He who rushes ahead,
doesn't go far.
He who tries to shine,
dims his own light.
He who defines himself,
can't know who he really is.
He who has power over others,
can't empower himself.
He who clings to his work,
will create nothing that endures.
If you want to accord with the Tao,
just do your job, then let go.
How I Read This Chapter
Trying to stand taller,
makes me more unsteady.
Trying to race ahead,
leaves me lost sooner.
Trying to shine,
casts a shadow on my soul.
The Way doesn’t reward performance,
it flows through presence.
The more I cling,
the more I lose.
The more I force,
the more I fracture.
If I want to walk the Way,
I do what needs doing,
and then I release it.
Let go.
Let be.
Let the Way carry what remains.
What This Means To Me
This chapter speaks directly to a tension I’ve felt in my own recovery—especially when I first began writing. At the start, it felt natural and freeing, like something was finally moving through me after years of being stuck. But then, not long after, doubt crept in: Was this just my ego again? Was I trying to be seen, to be special, to shine?
So I stopped for a while. I pulled back, unsure of my motives. That old fear came rushing in—the fear of being too much, or not enough. The fear of being exposed. The fear that self-expression was just another form of self-centredness.
But something deeper was happening. I’d spent over 35 years bottling up what I felt—through fear, through shame, through silence. I’d hidden myself in addiction, in perfectionism, in pretending. And now that fear is being lifted, the words are flowing—not from a place of ego, but from the soul. Writing isn’t about standing on tiptoe or trying to shine. It’s about grounding myself in truth. It’s about connecting.
“He who stands on tiptoe doesn’t stand firm. He who rushes ahead doesn’t go far.” These lines remind me that recovery can’t be hurried. I’ve tried to fast-track healing before—to rush through the Steps, to chase spiritual experiences, to “fix” myself so I could finally rest. But every time I’ve forced my way forward, I’ve found myself unsteady, even more disconnected. Now, I try to stay rooted—one day at a time, one breath at a time. Standing firm means being honest about where I really am, not where I think I should be.
“He who tries to shine dims his own light.” This line really made me reflect. In active addiction, so much of my life was about performance—trying to appear okay, successful, likeable, even spiritual, at times. I polished my image while my inner world was crumbling. Even in recovery, I can fall back into that habit: trying to be wise, trying to “say the right thing,” even in meetings. But the Tao reminds me: real light doesn’t need to try. It just shines by being true. When I stop trying to impress, something quiet and genuine begins to glow.
“He who defines himself can’t know who he really is.” In the early days with AA, I was desperate to know who I was. I thought if I could just figure it out—my identity, my purpose—I’d feel safe. But recovery has taught me that I’m not a fixed definition. I’m a living process. I don’t need to name myself to know myself. In fact, the more I let go of rigid labels—alcoholic, failure, overthinker, even “writer”—the more space there is for truth to emerge. The Tao invites me to loosen my grip on identity and let life show me who I really am.
“He who has power over others can’t empower himself.” I used to think I had to manage others—fix them, guide them, influence how they saw me. I believed control was strength. But that never left me feeling strong—it left me exhausted. The moment I stopped trying to control other people’s journeys, something shifted. I began to reclaim my own. In recovery, I’ve learned that true power isn’t about dominance—it’s about alignment. I don’t need to lead anyone. I just need to walk my path with integrity.
“He who clings to his work will create nothing that endures.” This hits home. I’ve clung to projects, relationships, even “spiritual work” in ways that subtly fed my ego. I wanted validation. I wanted to feel useful. But clinging only brought anxiety and resentment. The things that have lasted—writing, service, connection—are the ones I’ve released into the world with open hands. The more I let go, the more freely the work flows through me. And in that letting go, something enduring begins to take root.
“If you want to accord with the Tao, just do your job, then let go.” This is the heart of it. Show up. Be present. Do the work. And then release it. No gripping, no chasing, no trying to control what happens next. I’m learning that surrender isn’t giving up—it’s stepping aside so that something greater can move. This is what Step Eleven means to me: conscious contact, followed by quiet trust. Do your part. Let go. Let God.
When I allow the words to come without grasping at their meaning or impact, I feel free.
When I write without trying to impress or define myself, I feel peace.
It becomes a form of meditation. A quiet act of love. A way back to who I really am.
So today, I let go of the need to justify why I write. I no longer question if it’s “too much.”
I do my work—my real, inner work— and then I let it go.
That’s the Tao.
That’s recovery.
And that’s why I’ll keep writing.
