The Grief That Comes with Letting Someone Go

When we get into these marriages believing that we will grow old with our spouse but one day realize our bodies are failing us, our mind is not in a good place, our hearts are broken daily, and we are basically living in a world of darkness and lies, and being abused — it's time to let go.Your well-being is the most important thing to prioritize. They were supposed to be your safe place, your leader, your partner, your family. But they were not equally yoked.I am proud of you my sisters, and I know the journey is not an easy one. But you will make it through.

What no one tells you is that grief doesn’t always follow death. Sometimes it follows a decision. A conscious, painful, gut-wrenching decision to walk away from someone who still breathes, still exists, but can no longer be allowed access to your life. That kind of grief is silent, complicated. It’s the kind you can’t always explain, because from the outside, it might look like freedom — and it is — but that freedom came at a cost.

You may find yourself mourning the idea of who they were supposed to be more than the reality of who they actually were. That image you clung to — the one built on promises, hopes, dreams, and your own deep capacity to love — that’s what dies when you walk away. You grieve the future that will never happen. The version of your life you prayed over for years. The home, the laughter, the peace you kept fighting to create in a war you didn’t start.

Some days, the grief will come in waves. You’ll hear a song, or see a couple holding hands, or smell something familiar, and suddenly your chest will tighten. Not because you miss them, but because you miss who you thought they were — who you needed them to be. And that’s okay. Let yourself feel that. Let yourself cry for that.

It doesn’t mean you made the wrong decision. It means you’re human.

Standing firm in a decision to cut someone off — especially someone you once loved deeply — requires immense strength. It takes courage to choose yourself after years of choosing someone else, especially when you were conditioned to believe that loving someone means enduring anything. But there’s a difference between enduring and being destroyed. Love should never come at the cost of your sanity, safety, or soul.

And I know how hard it is when people don’t understand. When they say things like “but he was such a good man,” or “every relationship has its ups and downs,” or “marriage is about sacrifice.” I want to tell you something: you are not crazy for leaving. You are not selfish. You are not weak. You are not a failure.

You are someone who decided that surviving wasn’t enough — you want to live. You want peace. You want wholeness. And there is no shame in that.

Healing from this kind of grief won’t happen overnight. Some days you will feel liberated, empowered, light. Other days, you’ll feel lost, numb, or angry. That’s normal. That’s part of the process. Don’t rush it. Don’t judge yourself for having bad days. The path to healing is not linear — it's a winding, messy road full of setbacks and breakthroughs.

But with every step you take away from that broken space, you are rebuilding yourself. You are reclaiming your identity. You are rediscovering the parts of you that were silenced or buried under years of chaos. You are finding your voice again.

And eventually, you’ll stop second-guessing. You’ll stop looking back. The memories will still exist, but they won’t control you. The grief will still visit, but it won’t paralyze you. The love you once had will still matter, but it won’t define your future.

You’ll start to see that what you lost was not greater than what you gained: yourself. Your clarity. Your peace. Your self-respect.

You didn’t walk away because you stopped loving them. You walked away because you finally started loving you.

To my sisters still in the storm — I see you. I know how hard it is to make that decision, to take that step, to sit in the silence afterward. But I promise you, silence is better than screaming. Peace is better than walking on eggshells. Solitude is better than pretending. And freedom — real, soul-deep freedom — is worth every tear you’ve cried.

You are not alone. There is a sisterhood of survivors walking with you, holding space for you, cheering for you. Your story is not over. In fact, this is just the beginning.

Your bravery is not in the leaving — it’s in the staying gone. Your strength is not in never breaking — it’s in choosing to heal anyway. Your beauty is not in what you endured — it's in who you’re becoming.

And you, dear sister, are becoming whole.