On Loss

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So listen, I'm not trying to prove anything at all here
But don't you think that maybe, this time, you were wrong?

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from "Maybe, This Time" by OK Go

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I'm processing a relationship loss. Not a big one. Not a chaotic one. Not a defined one. Not one that warrants a lengthy analogy about fallen trees. Not even one that anyone around can really notice if I didn’t say anything about it. But it's a loss nevertheless and it's one I've, for better or for worse, had much practice with during my 20s. What makes this one meaningful, though, is that for the first time in my life, I finally may be handling it in a way that I will be content with. It’s not necessarily the loss itself, but what it’s revealing about how I’ve grown emotionally over the last few years, that I find worthy of consideration here.

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There's lots of ways to think about losing a relationship. But while there's often focus on breakups, complete severances of relationships, there's such little focus (and such little experience for me) in more amorphous relationship changes. I’ve been trying to figure out how one handles a relationship reducing, atrophying, contracting in on itself, drifting, but not entirely ending, especially when it's an unexpected change. It's easier, in my mind, to handle what happens when it breaks apart completely and swiftly, when they walk away, when it's clear what happened, who decided what, and what's going to happen next. The story's easier to tell. "We fell out." “She ghosted her.” "I broke up with him." "They don't talk anymore." But it's much harder when there's not really a clean answer when someone asks "what happened?"

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What I used to do was fight and clamor and resist. I would use up all the brain cells in this darling head of mine to figure out how I can stop the bleeding, how I can get back what was, how unfair it feels, how I can fix it. Not because fixing the relationship was good for me, but because I just didn’t want it to be broken. Because if this relationship is broken, then what did that say about me?

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But after lots of reflection, prayer, therapy, and just plain old time, I began to learn that some things I thought had a major impact on my self-image, actually didn’t matter that much. I learned how to process the feelings of rejection when someone distances themselves from you in a way that feels sudden and unfair. I learned that the desire for control, to fix everything and prevent loss in any relationship, would only ever leave me far more hurt than I needed to be. I learned that some things break for a reason and don’t need to be fixed at all. That the alternative to resisting was not giving up or holding resentment, but old fashioned healthy communication in place of assumption. And if the conversation doesn’t lead to resolution, then the right move is to let go. No claw marks left behind. No long paragraphs. No big dramatic scene. No grudges. No setting the record straight or speaking my piece. Just release, soft, quiet, gentle, graceful.

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What I'm learning about relationships, or at least the way I want to experience relationships, is that letting go with grace is loving. Of both yourself and the other person/people. Letting people go when they want to go, living life with open hands, not clenched fists, allowing things, people, feelings, opportunities to come and go as they please without needing to control that movement or the outcome. Even if it doesn’t feel good all the time. Even if that doesn’t come with an apology, an explanation, or any sense of accountability, fairness, or justice. It’s important to let go anyway.

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"I don't want to be your friend anymore." It's the last thing anyone wants to hear and the last thing anyone ever actually has the gall to say out loud. For me, it's a process, navigating relational atrophy. I have to talk through it with trusted friends, make sure I'm not trippin, journal about it, and pay close attention to what I want to do and what I should do. I have to notice when my instincts to cling, beg, defend, or panic light up to prevent the loss. I must know how to combat those instincts with thoughtfulness, clarity, and decisiveness. What I’ve discerned recently? This is not a loss I have to fight. This time, I can let go, because I know I'll be okay. I can acknowledge what makes me uncomfortable and know that just because I feel something doesn't mean that it's true. I am capable of investigating my feelings and experience and using wisdom to take action that aligns with my values.

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Then that pushes me to ask myself: what are my values? What's important to me? What kind of woman do I want to be? A forgiving one. A loving one. A sensible one. A woman that can in fact handle nuances, who does not falter in the face of relational complexity. One that understands that loving and letting go are not mutually exclusive. One that sees loss as an opportunity and takes her time to process it with grace, not grit. One that does not grin and bear it. One that doesn’t go off, either. One that clearly and respectfully communicates what's wrong, but is not one to repeat herself. One that does not plea and beg and barter, nor does she shuck and jive. One that knows who she is, whose she is, and what she has. One who does not ignore what she has so she can focus on what she doesn't. One who can rejoice in contentment, knowing that she already has everything she needs. One who doesn't have to pretend everything's okay, because she knows, at the end of the day, it will be.

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