6.26.25
Grief is such a strange companion — familiar, unwelcome, persistent. I’ve lived with it for so long, in so many forms, that it feels woven into my DNA. But today, I’m acknowledging something important: even though grief may stay, it doesn’t have to direct.
Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting what mattered. It means releasing the version of me that kept hoping for a different ending — one that never came. I’ve carried reminders of people and relationships that shaped me, broke me, and built me. And I’ve held on to a physical object that tethered me to all of it. Not just because I couldn’t move on — but because I didn’t want to forget. Without even realizing it, I wanted to punish myself for not being able to fix what was lost.
But last weekend, I made a decision: it’s time. Time to let go. Not to throw it away, just to store it away. It no longer stirs the ache of “what if.” Now, it just sits there. And I don’t need that daily reminder anymore.
I’m learning to give myself grace. After forty-four years of practicing avoidance and dismissiveness, it won’t dissolve overnight. But I am learning to sit with my feelings without shame. To stop rushing the process. To stop demanding that healing look a certain way. I’m learning to be here — in the now — with honesty.
I want to live in the present and shape a future that feels full: of peace, of joy, of truth. That’s what I’m building now. That’s the life I’m choosing.
Letting go is hard. But staying stuck is harder.
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