Goodbye

    I’ve said goodbye to many people in my life. Some because they’ve walked away from this plane of existence, and others because, for countless reasons, our paths had to diverge. I can also clearly point to the times I’ve run away from things. I tell my daughter often that the person I’ve been running from all along has been me. But this move to Vermont is different. It’s the first time I’m not running from a person, a place, or even myself. This time, I’m walking toward something; I’m making choices with clarity, not desperation; I’ve got my head held high while something deeply, innately me is calling.

    There are many types of goodbyes and I've said too many of them. I’ve often thought about writing a book as one long goodbye to all the people I’ve had to leave behind in one form or another. I could fill the book with the pain, the people, the lessons, and the ways I’ve shifted into a new version of myself each time. The people I say goodbye to stay in my mind as totems to remind myself of who I used to be. Thinking of them, brings me back to who I was then.

    I once had to say goodbye to someone I loved, but neither of us truly loved who the other actually was. We loved the idealized versions we needed at that time in our lives. Every time we reconnected; we ended up in the same place and facing the same truth. It was heartbreaking. Maybe the heartbreak wasn't just in losing each other, but in realizing I was never her, and he couldn't be him. 

    I once had to say goodbye to the place I grew up in; the place that helped shape who I thought I was, the foundation of my first identity. It was where I made friends and lost friends, where I stood on solid ground for things I believed in. But just like a plant outgrowing its tiny pot, my roots reached for more space, and my leaves longed for brighter sunlight. I’ll always be fond of that house, that town, that school, and those faces I can barely recall now... just totems of who I used to be.

    I once had to say goodbye to a version of myself that no longer served me. There came a point when I realized that who I thought I was, was just a response to the world around me. A mask shaped by expectation and fear. She was no longer necessary, but it still felt like saying goodbye to a friend that had been there to help me survive. Her totem is a reminder to always be true to myself. 

I once had to deal with the acceptance of not being able to say goodbye. In that kind of pain, without closure, you learn what it means to hold on to only the potential of something. The conversations you don't get to have, the understandings you'll never reach, the lost apology. That grief can haunt you, not just because they're gone, but because there's no hope for reconciliation. It's a song that never resolves its final note and saying goodbye means learning to live in that silence, while you gently tell your brain not to linger there.

Even when we know a goodbye is necessary, it still hurts. Sometimes with the denial of pain, we drag it out, while we hope for something to shift. Other times, we spit out our goodbyes like we rip off our bandages, and it doesn’t help ease the pain either. That grief stays with us, even if it softens over time, and even as we hold the knowledge that the person or place wasn’t good for us.

I used to think that leaving certain situations made me incredibly selfish. That saying no, choosing myself, meant that I had failed and was abandoning something noble or virtuous. But over time, I’ve learned that walking away can be one of the most loving things you can do, for ourselves and for the people we can no longer hold without losing ourselves.

I want my daughter to know that change doesn’t have to be about escape, it can be about alignment. About walking toward the life that feels right, rather than away from what hurts.

Each goodbye has carved space for something new and something closer to the truth of who I am. And while goodbyes are rarely easy, I’ve come to see them not just as endings, but as openings. Goodbyes don't torment me any longer, they affirm my capacity to love others fully and deeply.

To the people who used to know me: I remember you. I love you. I carry every totem, every lesson, every memory as a building block for who I’m meant to be.

And now I must say goodbye again; to people, to places, and to versions of myself that I’ve outgrown.

Goodbye, I carry you with me, always.