Let It Unravel

Some things are meant to break.

This is not a failure of will or love or effort. It is not proof that we did not try hard enough or care deeply enough. It is simply the truth of impermanence, the quiet law that governs everything we touch.

Still, we resist it with a ferocity that leaves us bruised and bleeding. We kneel before what is already ruined, convinced that devotion alone can resurrect what has passed its final breath. We press our hands into sharp edges, slicing ourselves open as if pain might somehow stitch the pieces back together.

We tell ourselves that endurance is virtue, that suffering is noble, that holding on is always the right thing to do.

But there is a cruelty in this devotion. A violence we commit against ourselves when we refuse to acknowledge what is already gone.

Some things decay no matter how fiercely we try to preserve them.

I have spent years trying to keep dead things alive. Relationships. Versions of myself. Dreams that no longer fit the shape of who I had become. I mistook attachment for loyalty and endurance for strength. I believed that letting go meant admitting defeat.

No one taught me how to leave what was hurting me. I was taught to endure. To stay. To fix. To make it work at any cost.

Ruin has its own inevitability. Some things will fall apart no matter how desperately we try to hold them together.

Let them fall apart. Let them rot.

“There is violence in clinging.”

We have been taught that loss is synonymous with failure. That to watch something slip through our fingers is proof that we were not enough. So we cling harder. We bargain. We romanticize pain.

But what if the bravest thing is not the holding, but the release?

Let them misunderstand you.

Let them twist your name into something unrecognizable. Let them decide who you are without ever truly knowing you.

You do not have to correct them. You do not have to perform clarity for those committed to misunderstanding you.

I wasted years trying to defend myself to people who were never listening. I thought the right words would save me. I did not realize some people are waiting only to confirm what they already believe.

Let them turn away. Their absence will not break you.

“Their judgments are not verdicts. They are mirrors.”

Then there is the fear of emptiness. The hollow ache of what comes after something finally leaves.

What now?

Emptiness is not the enemy. Emptiness is space. It is the clearing where something new can grow.

The universe does not take without giving. It does not strip us bare without offering something in return. Sometimes what it offers is not comfort, but possibility.

We suffer because we resist the natural order of things. We insist on permanence in a world built on change.

We must learn to trust the unraveling.

Trust that what falls apart is making room. Trust that endings are not punishments. Trust that collapse is not condemnation.

The collapse is not the enemy. It is the doorway.

The best is not behind you. It is not buried in what has already ended. It is ahead, waiting for you to loosen your grip.

There is still joy. Still love. Still purpose. But you must be willing to make space for it.

Ask yourself honestly.

What am I holding onto that is holding me back?

And when you find the answer, let it rot.

Something better is already on its way.