There are some things I keep with me because the thought of letting go is like dying.
Some things I carry in my chest like stones and every heartbeat reminds me they’re there.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking that I have finally let go but then the memories come quietly and I lie there shivering, wishing to be able to take back the past.
Letting go isn’t about forgetting.
It’s not about pretending it never mattered.
To be honest, It’s not even about moving on.
It’s about surviving the situation while my heart still bleeds.
It’s about learning to live with the sound of someone or something that will never be the same again.
I’ve held on too long.
I’ve begged silently, prayed silently, screamed silently.
I’ve tried to trap what was slipping through my fingers and every attempt only hurt more.
After that, I came to the conclusion that letting go is not giving up.
It is not failure.
It is strength.
The strength to realize that I cannot keep some things with me
It’s messy.
It’s crying in the bathroom when nobody’s there.
It’s shaking my head at myself for caring too much.
It’s screaming into pillows, into nights, into empty streets and wondering if anyone will ever understand the weight I carry.
Letting go is remembering every laugh every word and still knowing I have to walk forward.
It’s loving someone without needing them to love me back.
It is keeping the scar while the world acts as if nothing happened.
It is swallowing the hurt and still coming the next day even when I feel like my soul is torn apart.
Some nights, it feels like the chest will break.
Some nights, the tears won’t stop and every thought reminds me that I can’t fix it.
I can’t change it, I can’t bring it back.
But somehow, the heart survives. Somehow it keeps beating.
Perhaps that is all that letting go really means
To be a heart that keeps breathing even when it is too painful to breathe.
The art of letting go is not a lesson I learn once.
It’s a thousand tiny deaths.
A thousand tiny moments when I think I’ll fall apart and yet I don’t.
It’s ugly. It’s heavy. It’s endless.
But it’s real.
And in that realness, there’s something sacred.
A reminder that even broken hearts can keep moving forward.
And maybe,
May be one day, the burden will not seem that heavy anymore.
Maybe one day, the memory won't be that sharp.
Maybe one day, the nights will not be that lonely.
Maybe one day, letting go will finally feel like breathing again.
And,
I don’t know if I’m good at it.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be.
I’m not good at letting go.
I stumble, I break, I falter.
Sometimes, just surviving the hurt
is the only victory I can claim.
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