Life After Letting Go

Part 2: When the Quiet Starts to Heal You

After the waves of grief and the heartbreak of letting go, I started to notice something else begin to happen: something quieter, gentler, but just as powerful.

Grief is strange. One moment, it swallows you whole, and the next, you catch yourself breathing without effort. That’s what happened one day when I went for a walk. I heard the birds. I noticed the breeze. I felt the sun on my skin. And then it hit me- I wasn’t crying. My brow wasn’t furrowed. My breath came easily.

Something had shifted.

I whispered a quiet thank you to God for that moment of peace. It felt sacred. Like a tiny crack of light breaking through months of darkness.

And from there, the healing took form, not just emotionally, but physically. I started taking care of things around the house that I had long wanted to change. These weren’t major renovations, but they were significant to me. Simple shifts: rearranging furniture, organizing, and freshening up spaces, which made the house reflect more of me. I also began tackling the projects the house needed: little repairs and updates that had been overlooked or pushed off for far too long. And honestly? It felt good. It felt empowering to take ownership of that space, to tend to it with love and care.

For so long, I had hesitated to ask for changes or to do them on my own because every time I did, I was put off. He’d say it wasn’t the right time, or that we’d get to it later. There was always a reason to wait. I eventually stopped asking. It became easier not to ask at all.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the morning person I once was. Another subtle but powerful change I hadn’t even realized had happened.

So, I started reclaiming those pieces of myself. I woke up early again. I went to bed early. I honored the version of me that had been buried under compromise and quiet sacrifice.

Slowly, my home began to feel like my sanctuary, not just a space I lived in, but a space that truly held me.

But I won’t pretend it was all peace and progress.

There were moments when I’d look at something I had changed or accomplished and feel that deep pang, because I couldn’t share it with him. I would talk to him out loud. I know how that might sound, but it helped. The silence in the house was sometimes too loud. I missed his voice, his presence. So, I let myself speak to him. And yes, I’d cry afterward. But again: grace. Always grace.

The people who love me wanted to see me smile again. They tried to pull me back into the world. One night, they took me out to dinner and, to lighten the mood, started chatting up the waiter about how I was newly single. They described what I “needed” in someone new. And just like that, a tidal wave hit me. Images of him—his smile, his laugh, the way he walked. I broke. Ugly crying. Right there in the middle of the evening.

And while I know their intentions came from love, that moment reminded me of something deeper: my grief made others uncomfortable. People want to help, to fix, to cheer you up. Especially when you’re the strong one. But grief doesn’t always want to be fixed—it just wants to be felt. And what many don’t realize is that divorce is a grief experience too. It may not come with funeral services or sympathy cards, but it is a profound loss. It’s the loss of a future you planned, of routines, of identity, of shared language and inside jokes. And just like any grief, it deserves space.

Eventually, something else started to shift. I found myself no longer talking to him in the house. The silence no longer hurt the same way. I began to feel bold. Empowered. The things I’d been putting off? I started doing them.

See, when I used to ask for something in the relationship, I was often told, “We’ll get to that in quarter four.” Later. Someday. After everything else.But now? I decide when.Not in quarter four. Not “maybe next year.” If it matters to me, it happens now.

And that small shift has meant everything.

So, I kept walking. Kept breathing. Kept choosing me.