Letting Go

Grace burst into tears.

Her hamster, Biscuit, bit her.

She would hold him every chance she got—before school, after school, while watching TV. I’d ask her to put him away, and she’d become visibly upset before reluctantly placing him back in his cage.

He didn’t start off biting us. He was the cutest, chubby-cheeked hamster we’d ever seen, but eventually, he turned pretty mean.

“If you keep holding onto him too often, he’s going to want to escape your hands and be free to roam as he wishes,” I told her over and over again.

And yet, she personalized every interaction as if she were the problem.

Eventually, we were forced to surrender Biscuit back to PetSmart. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Grace more upset.

She simply couldn’t let go of her furry friend long enough to let him breathe without her.

She still believes he didn’t like her because he bit her.

I don’t believe that.

And maybe that’s because I understand her.

I hold on too tight for too long, too.

And when I am let go of, I feel helpless—as if I’m free-falling with nothing underneath me.

If I like you, I want to hold onto you, even after I find out you don’t like me anymore.

It’s not because I’m some damsel in distress or because I can’t survive without you. It’s because I somehow convince myself that I did something reversible. Something I could fix. Something I could undo that would make you change your mind again.

I’m seeing it in my daughter, too.

She holds our sixteen-pound Rio like she’s clinging to a life raft in the deep end of the pool—or the middle of the ocean—as if her entire life depends on his acceptance.

And that scares me.

Because if that kitty cat decides he’s had enough and takes off, she will somehow make it her fault that he left.

Some people, animals, relationships, and experiences aren’t meant for us for the rest of our lives.

Some are here for a season.

And then they flee.

I wish I could accept that.

I stay long, long, long past the expiration date.

I stay until the men get so sick of me they can’t stand me anymore—the sight of me, the sound of me, my texts, my reach-outs, my attempts to reconnect.

It reminds me of that image of someone holding onto a rope for so long that their hands begin to bleed.

It hurts.

You know it hurts.

But somehow, you’d rather keep gripping that rope than let go and experience the free fall.

As if that teeny-tiny kinda-ish connection is somehow better than being alone.

As if holding onto something painful is safer than holding onto nothing at all.

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Mama, why won’t Rio let me hold him while I’m going to sleep? Did I do something wrong?”

“Baby, some animals aren’t meant to be held so tightly, and they certainly shouldn’t be forced to stay. Let him go. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

Funny.

I believe that about animals.

I struggle to believe it about people.

People don’t always reappear for me.

They don’t always come back.

Sometimes they flee as if I’m some kind of disease they need to get as far away from as possible.

And yes, I know all the lines.

They were the wrong person.

If they leave, it wasn’t meant to be.

What’s meant for you won’t pass you by.

I can spit that bullshit cliché shit with the best of them. I can find an Instagram meme or Facebook quote that perfectly captures how I’m supposed to feel.

But the reality?

It fucking hurts.

I’ve been ghosted again, and dating is beginning to feel dangerous.

Sometimes even showing the smallest inkling of interest feels dangerous because the fallout can be so painful—sometimes unbearable.

There are moments when I think I would rather be alone than ever attempt to connect again because the risk feels too high.

I’ve always been a romantic.

Always.

I’ve always believed in the fairy tale, even after having my heart annihilated.

But I’m beginning to believe maybe we need more time than we realize to heal after the marriage, the relationship, the death of it, the resurrection of it, and everything that happens in between.

Maybe we need time to reset.

Recalibrate.

Pivot.

Find ourselves again.

After my divorce, I didn’t do that.

I just kept going.

One foot in front of the other.

Relationship after relationship. Connection after connection. Distraction after distraction.

Without ever really stopping to check in with myself.

I want to learn how to let go more easily.

And when someone shows you they are a piece of shit—aka garbage—take that shit out and dump it.

Do not jump back into the garbage to see “what good” might still be buried underneath everything else.

You and I both know there ain’t nothing worth hopping into a dumpster for unless it’s your retainer from sixth grade.

Once it’s over, it’s over.

We aren’t “finding the good.”

We aren’t “maybe it wasn’t that bad”-ing ourselves back into situations that hurt us.

Garbage is garbage.

We have to start holding people accountable for their behavior.

Ghosting is unacceptable.

Manipulation is unacceptable.

Control and criticism?

Nope.

Your intuition and your nervous system are barometers. When they start sounding the alarm, listen.

As for me, I’m working on letting go of what I cannot control and focusing on what I can.

I can tell you how I feel.

I can hold you.

I can love on you.

I can be honest about what I want.

But if you aren’t feeling it—and you’re too much of a pussy to actually say so—it becomes my responsibility to remove myself from something that is no longer serving me.

And when I say remove myself, I mean actually remove myself.

No endless second chances.

Not at my old age.

Once blocked, stay blocked.

Once unfriended, stay unfriended.

No climbing back into the dumpster looking for one salvageable piece of garbage.

And Grace?

She’s learning, too.

She’s learning to love our animals deeply while also putting them down when they’ve had enough.

She’s learning that Rio walking away doesn’t mean she did something wrong.

His desire not to be held isn’t a reflection of her worth.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her.

It doesn’t mean she wasn’t enough.

Sometimes animals need space.

Sometimes people do, too.

And maybe the hardest lesson for both of us is learning that loving something doesn’t always mean holding onto it.

Sometimes love looks like opening your hands.

And letting it go.