Letting Go

I should have noticed it sooner—

shaving my head to free myself of trauma

was the second sign of my unhappiness.

The first was self-isolation,

a cocoon of silence I wrapped myself in,

mistaking withdrawal for reflection.

I had expected isolation

to be part of stepping into a stepmother role.

It felt natural to dim my light

for the sake of blending in,

to carry the weight of expectations

that weren’t mine to bear.

And yet, even as I forgave,

even as I forgot,

I noticed her shadow—

his ex-wife who remains his wife,

a name unfiled, a bond unbroken.

She would always come first.

I should have seen that love,

true love,

cannot be sustained in a space where

I am always second.

But I held on,

telling myself that love was patience,

that love was sacrifice,

until patience turned into self-abandonment,

and sacrifice left me hollow.

Now, I see the truth:

the memories I cling to are anchors,

pulling me under waters

I should never have entered.

This chapter, though it shaped me,

no longer exists.

I am erasing it,

not with anger but with resolve.

There is nothing left to forgive

because I owe nothing

to the echoes of what was.

I release it all—

the hurt, the hope, the hollow promises.

It is part of my story, yes,

but I no longer need to tell it.

In silence, it dissolves.

Letting go is not forgetting,

but choosing freedom

over the weight of what was.

And now, I choose freedom.