It is okay to grieve something that was never meant to be—or at least, something that never fully materialized. It’s okay to grieve not just what was, but what could have been: the life that danced just out of reach, the potential you imagined, the story that never got its pages.
You see, sometimes we meet people in ways that are fast, fleeting, and impossibly intense. The connection is electric, stirring, the kind that leaves footprints on your heart even if it doesn’t last. And sometimes, letting go is the most loving, most selfless thing you can do—not because the feelings aren’t real, but because love alone isn’t always enough to make it work.
You can care for someone with every fiber of your being. You can cheer for them, support them, and wish the universe would bend in your favor. But if staying would slowly erode the parts of yourself that you hold sacred, then releasing is the bravest act you can take. Even when it’s excruciating. Especially when it hurts. It feels dramatic, almost unbearable—but in that surrender lies freedom: freedom for both of you to live fully, without the weight of what wasn’t meant to be.
Grieving something that was never truly yours doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you loved fully. And in that love, even if the story didn’t unfold the way you hoped, there are lessons that remain. You learn about your capacity for connection, your strength in letting go, and your resilience in continuing to show up for yourself.
Someone once told me to trust in the timing of my life.
And I think that’s the hardest lesson: to stop steering so tightly, to stop scripting every act and outcome, to stop believing that if I try hard enough, I can force life to align perfectly. For years, I tried to manufacture outcomes, to control the narrative, to shield myself from pain. I thought that was strength.
But real strength—true alignment—comes from surrender. From letting go of the illusion that you must control every detail. As long as you’re still showing up fully every day, doing your best with what you have, you have to trust that God, or whatever force you believe in—will orchestrate what needs to unfold. And when you release the reins, that’s when magic can quietly, unpredictably unfold.
Letting go is not defeat. It’s grace. It’s love.
Letting go doesn’t mean failure. It means courage. It means making space—for you, for them, for life to show up in ways you can’t yet see.
It’s believing in the unseen beauty of what your life is still capable of becoming. And perhaps, somewhere along the way, you realize: the space you’ve given yourself by letting go is not emptiness—it’s possibility. It’s room for joy, for growth, for other connections that are meant to stay. For dreams that are ready to bloom in their own time.
Because sometimes, the hardest thing is also the most beautiful: knowing when to hold on, and knowing, with every trembling heartbeat, when to finally set it free.
