We’ve been made to believe there should be. That we should caress bittersweet memories as wine flows into our empty stomachs and our hearts break with loss and we write words on paper to process the grief that consumes us.
We are made to believe letting go is poignant, mystifying, haunting. An expression to be glorified, that we should find beauty in this pain of ours, as if it’s a slow dance under cherry blossom trees on a still night while petals loosen from clear skies and land on dewy grass around our feet.
But there is nothing romantic about letting go.
We let go because it’s time. It’s pragmatic, rational. One day we just know. To hold onto what is no longer good for us will only continue to cause us to suffer. It will only beat down our fragile hearts and waste away our delicate souls. One day we just do it. We stumble upon the courage we have lacked. And we stand and brush the dust off our war-torn spirits. We walk away and don’t look back.
And though at first our steps may blunder, we soon gain strength, speed, momentum. We find ourselves upon a familiar path. The path we used to walk, before we carried around the pain of others, until, heavy laden, we were no longer able to hold ourselves up.
Because in their pain, they told us who they thought we were. And we believed them. We let their opinions and judgments sear themselves on our hearts. We let them change us. But they were so wrong, precious ones. They were so wrong.
We know who we are. We’ve always known.
And as the path ahead becomes clearer once again we feel our hearts rise. We no longer fear our freedom but hasten toward it. With each step, we are renewed and transformed.
And here, in our transformation, this is where the romance is found. This is beauty. This is magic. This is life.
And this is where we will dance under cherry blossom trees on a still night while petals loosen from clear skies and land on dewy grass around our feet.