This is Why Letting You Go is So Easy
Letting you go is easy when I make my bed every morning before I go to work, when I change my bedsheet routinely and so it’s always clean and smells of goodness. Today, it entices my senses with a trace of lavender, of luxury, of self-care, of patience and wholesomeness. I put my four pillows back in place, smiling at the coziness and just the right amount of morning light falling on my embroidered duvet. This duvet was given to me by my sister when I first moved out to rent my own place. It fits with the minimalistic style and light colour palette of the room. Only black, white, grey, wood brown of Whiskey, and now and then a pop of summer hot. I love my space. I love waking up in my bed. I love coming back to my well-made bed and orderly messy room.
Letting you go is easy when I keep fresh flowers on my nightstand. And on my desk and the top of my wardrobe. I’ve been buying cut flowers often ever since I discovered the therapeutic art of flower arrangements. From choosing the flowers to displaying them in the little glass vases, it gives me the peace of mind just like a good meditation session would. I used to think roses are such a cheesy cliché but I’ve started falling in love with them now. They look perfect next to my perfumes and framed prints, sending me the calm and feminine energy I find enriching. They tell me every day I’m beautiful, I’m adored, I’m loved. They remind me that I’m totally capable of making my life fabulous, with or without you. Do you think a girl with fresh flowers next to her bed would really have trouble letting you go? I don’t think so.
Letting you go is so easy when I go to the gym every week, when I eat well, sleep early, when I look into the mirror and see a beautiful optimistic girl who makes progress day after day. Letting you go is no brainer when I think about how my mother would hand-wash all my clothes whenever I visit home. She’s in her fifties and she would still hand-wash every piece of my clothes. She would still try to grant me my every wish to the best of her humanly magic. Everywhere I go in the neighbourhood, people would immediately recognise me and it thanks to the proud tales my mother had relentlessly told them of her daughters’ successes. I’m the youngest daughter in the family. Even her youngest daughter is already fully independent, thriving in a far, far away land. Her youngest daughter makes good decisions. Her youngest daughter knows what’s good for herself. And she trusts me right. I know what’s good for myself and the first item on that list is letting someone who isn’t sure about me go. So easy.
Letting you go is so easy when my pain threshold was once pushed to a new limit, when my heart was wrenched at the hand of the one I fell for the hardest, at a level that’s way beyond your touch on me. I was ready to give my all but he distinguished my fire at the height of my heat. We were thousands of miles away from home, locked in a hotel room with a safe full of cash and two irrelevant passports, which for a minute had seemed like a paradise but turned out to be my rock bottom. The pain was unimaginable. I had to pick up my every broken piece and glue it back to my body, using up all my remaining strength to hold myself together while blood and tears were dripping down my toes, sometimes still. Letting you go is easy when I realise life goes on no matter how much it hurts, when I understand there’s no one that can really watch out for me but myself, especially when I’ve already had to let go of the love that meant to me the most.
Letting you go is so easy when I accept true love into my life. The wonderful thing is, the moment I do this, I see it everywhere. I’m not alone. I’m loved and supported and relied on by many and I have every right to ask for a love that treats me well. And who are you? And you say you’re not ready? And you can’t show up for me? Letting you go is easy when I’m taught again what love means in actions, when I discard the tiring narrative that I’m troubled, I’m insignificant, I have no paternal figure guiding me and that’s why I’m so lost. I know now it’s not true. I’ve always been so loved and cared for by the important men in my life that whether to let you go becomes nothing short of an insult, a very unfunny joke. See, my father would stay awake all night to drive me to the airport at 5 o’clock after a long day of labour. My hot-headed father would openly tell me he loved me and I could see in his eyes his love and his pride in me. And you think you could hurt my feelings? You think you could treat me whatever? Stop making me laugh.
Letting you go is so easy because I’m a grown woman and I really have no time for this shit.
