There’s a kind of bravery that doesn’t look like fire but looks like finally setting something down.
It’s the moment you realize peace isn’t found in holding on, but in unclenching your fists and taking a deep breath.
Letting go isn’t glamorous. It’s quiet.
It’s grief, relief, exhaustion, and freedom tangled together.
It’s standing in the middle of a life you outgrew, whispering,
“Thank you… but I need to go now.”
People romanticize resilience, but I’m learning that softness is just as strong.
Softness says "I can end things without burning down who I am."
Softness says "I can still believe in magic, even when my heart feels heavy."
I’ve spent so long pouring myself into spaces that weren’t built to hold me.
And maybe the greatest spell I’ve ever cast is deciding I deserve gentler soil.
So here’s to the slow exits.
The messy tears.
The new rituals waiting in the quiet.
This time, I’m not chasing light but becoming it.
If you’re standing in a moment of letting go too, consider this your permission to pause.
You don’t have to rebuild right away.
Rest is part of resistance.
And softness, your softness, is still power.
The Weight of Letting Go
