On Letting Go

Everyone tells you to "just let go," like it's something you can do on a Tuesday between meetings. Like your grip on an old hurt is a jar lid that's only stuck because you haven't tried the hot water trick.

I've been trying to let go of things for years. Old plans. Old versions of myself. A future I'd already decorated in my head, down to the throw pillows. And here's what nobody warns you about: you don't let go once. You let go about four hundred times, and you pick it back up about three hundred and ninety-nine.

Take relationships. Letting go of someone you loved is its own special brand of awful. You can know it's over. You can have the reasons lined up like evidence in a courtroom drama. And your heart will still stand up and say, "Objection!" You delete the photos, then dig through the recently deleted folder "just to check." You mute their name, then somehow know what they had for lunch. You tell yourself you're moving on, while your thumb has other plans at 1 a.m.

Then there's the harder, quieter kind: letting go of people who don't serve you. The friend who only calls when she needs something. The person who makes you feel small and calls it "just being honest." The ones you've stayed loyal to for years, out of habit or guilt or the hope that they'll change. Nobody tells you that walking away from someone who isn't good for you can still feel like a loss. You can grieve someone who hurt you. Both things are allowed to be true. (Annoying, I know.)

And just when you think you're done, a song comes on at the grocery store and suddenly you're standing in the cereal aisle, clutching a box of Cheerios and quietly falling apart in front of a stranger named Gary.

That's the part the quotes on sunset photos leave out. Letting go isn't a moment. It's a slow leak. You don't notice the day it stops hurting. You just notice, weeks later, that you went a whole afternoon without thinking about it, and you feel almost guilty, like you forgot someone's birthday.

Here's what I've learned, mostly by doing it badly:

Letting go doesn't mean you stop caring. It means you stop white-knuckling something that's already gone.

Protecting your peace isn't selfish. Some people are a chapter, not the whole book. You can thank them for what they taught you and still close the door.

You're allowed to be messy about it. Nobody hands out gold stars for grieving gracefully. If you need to rage-clean your kitchen at 11 p.m., do it. Your counters will be spotless and so will your conscience.

Holding on feels safe, but it's heavy. It's like carrying a bag you forgot you were holding. Set it down and you can finally breathe. Also your arms will hurt, because they've been clenched for so long. That's normal. Give it a minute.

I don't have a neat ending, because I'm still in the middle of it. But the things and people I was so scared to lose? I lost them. And I'm still here, still making questionable snack choices, still laughing at my own jokes.

So if you're standing in your own cereal aisle right now, be gentle with yourself. Put the Honey Bunches of Oats down and realize Letting Go Is Not a Personality Trait (I Checked).

You don't have to let go all at once. Just loosen your grip and move forward.